That makes me laugh. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Maybe because it seems so ridiculous. I’ve seen his Twitter feed—the constant parade of women. He’s as charming as the fucking devil, and I have no idea if he’s any more trustworthy.
Still, I can’t think of anything but him either.
***
Saturday morning, I stop by my dad’s house. He’s about to leave for a fishing trip. He’ll be gone for a week, maybe ten days, and I like to check in with him before he leaves, when I can. He assures me his back is holding up fine—he tends to have pain these days—and I can tell he isn’t lying. So I wish him well, give him his customary kiss on the cheek for good luck, and head home.
I turn onto my street and see a car parked out in front of my house. To be fair, “car” hardly seems like the right word. I have no idea what it is—I don’t recognize the logo. Bugatti? I’ve never heard of it, but it’s the hottest car I’ve ever seen. And I know instantly who it is.
My belly tumbles with a sudden case of madly flying butterflies. I almost drive my truck right by without stopping. How long has he been here? I glance at my phone. He hasn’t texted. At the last second, I turn up the driveway and pull into my garage. I let the garage door close behind me and go inside. I need a second to catch my breath.
The knock comes as I set my purse down on a side table. I swallow hard and my heart beats so furiously I’m sure it will echo. The curtains on the front window are closed, so I can’t see him. I walk to the door, my hands trembling. Why am I so nervous?
Should I count the reasons?
I open the door and there he is. He looks incredible, dressed in a cream button-down shirt with the top two buttons decadently undone, and a pair of sleek gray slacks. Piercing blue eyes, his jaw covered in stubble, his lips parting over his perfect teeth in a smile. He looks like he stepped out of a fucking magazine. Which he kind of has; I saw his Seattle Weekly cover.
“Hi, Melissa,” he says.
I glance down at my own clothes. Jeans—at least they aren’t ripped—and a slim black tank top. My feet are bare; I kicked off my sandals when I came inside.
“Hi,” I say. His eyes bore into me, like he’s going to make no effort to look away. I meet his gaze and my tummy does another flip-flop. “This is a surprise.”
“Do you like surprises?” he asks. “I guess I should have asked that.”
I do, actually. I’m stunned, but also thrilled. “Yeah, surprises are good. Sorry, I’m just still trying to process the fact that you’re standing on my doorstep.”
“I know, I am too.”
Let him in, dumbass! “Oh, god, sorry. Do you want to come in?”
“Thank you.”
He slips through the door, coming so close I can smell him. His scent almost makes my eyes roll back. It’s subtle, but so rich and masculine. I barely resist the urge to run my hand across his chest as he walks by me.
He puts his hands in his pockets and glances around. “Cute place.”
“Thanks,” I say. Shit, what am I supposed to do now? Offer him a drink? It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Ask him to sit down? See if he wants me to rip his clothes off? “Um, do you want some coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” he says.
I go into the kitchen and stand there for a moment, not seeing anything. Is Jackson Bennett actually in my house? This is too strange for words. I blink hard to rouse myself from my stupor and put on some coffee. Suddenly, I wish I had a Keurig or something that would make coffee faster. I fidget, twirling my fingers while I wait for it to brew.
I pour two mugs, fill a little pitcher with cream, and add my grandma’s old sugar bowl, all on a wood tray. I bring it out to the living room to find Jackson leaning back on my couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, his arms stretched across the back cushions.
“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to go to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” I say, putting the tray on the coffee table.
He takes one of the mugs and pours in some cream, then offers to pour mine. I hold out my mug for him, then add a little sugar. The act of doing something so mundane as making coffee with a man who looks like a fucking model is insane.
I sit down, my legs angled toward him. He takes a sip of his coffee, his posture so relaxed it’s like he does this every Saturday morning. His nonchalance puts me at ease, and I tuck my legs up and settle back into the cushions, cupping my mug in my hands.
“So, how was the drive?” I ask.
“Long,” he says. “I woke up early this morning and decided, you know what, fuck it, I’m going.”
“You decided to come down here just this morning?” I ask.
He looks at me with that ridiculous smirk. “Yep.”
“Wow. Well, I guess it’s a little early for Scotch.”
“That’s all right,” he says. “I don’t have anything on my schedule.”
Just as I’m about to ask if he considered whether I might have anything on my schedule, he speaks up again.
“What about you? Am I interrupting a busy day?”
“No, not really,” I say.
“Good,” he says, his grin widening. “I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you again. Our last meeting was too short.”
“Well someone came on a little strong,” I say.
“I know. I can’t remember the last time someone told me what I should order at a bar.”
I give him a playful smack on the shoulder. “Okay, captain.”
He puts his coffee down and adjusts so he’s facing me. “I love it when you call me that.”
Oh, fuck yes. Here we go. My belly flips again and my fingers tingle. I want to touch him, but I’m afraid to move.
“It seems like it suits you,” I say. “I take it you’re used to being the boss.”
“I am,” he says.
His eyes rove up and down. How can he just stare at me like that? He’s so intense, but his eyes positively dance. Is he imagining what he wants to do to me? I hope he’ll start acting on it soon. My blood is pumping, and my panties are getting wetter by the second.
“You know what,” he says. “I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“What are you doing this week?”
I blink at him in confusion. “This week? Like, what am I doing every day?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Do you have plans this week? Anything you can’t get out of?”
“No, not really,” I say. “I’m off work for the summer.”
“That’s perfect,” he says. His mischievous smile grows and he pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and holds it up to his ear. “Hey, Tammi. Yeah, good. Listen, clear my schedule for the week. Yes, the entire week. I’m taking off and I won’t be reachable. No, they’ll have to reschedule. That one, hmm … no, I can cancel that. It won’t matter in the long run. Yes, I know that will be a tight deadline, but you have everything you need from me already, don’t you? I thought so. Okay, so we’re good, then. Perfect.”
He hangs up and smiles at me again. He looks like a kid who just found out his parents are leaving him alone for the weekend.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Come away with me,” he says. “Just for a week. We can go anywhere. The sky’s the limit. Let me take you on an adventure. It will be amazing, I promise.”
I gape at him. Just when I think he can’t be any more surprising. “Are you serious? Why would I do that?”
He leans closer. “Let’s be honest with each other. No bullshit. I think you’re fucking incredible and I can’t stop thinking about you. And I know you can’t stop thinking about me. Let’s just be crazy. Let’s take off and leave the real world behind for a while. It’s just a week. I’ve been dying, wanting to see you again. Give me a week, then I’ll bring you home.”
“Honest? No bullshit?” I say.
He nods.
“You’re right. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. But thi
s is … this is crazy.”
“Yep.” He keeps smiling at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Just a week?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll bring me home?”
“Exactly.”
“No strings?”
“Not a one,” he says. “We’ll go, have fun, come back. Life goes on.”
This isn’t just crazy. It’s absolute insanity. I can’t just run off with Jackson at a moment’s notice.
Or can I?
I’m single, and I don’t have to go to work. I’ve been complaining that my life is boring. This is the polar opposite of boring. And Jackson—holy hell, he’s delicious. I can already taste him. What do I have to lose?
“Fuck it,” I say. “I’m in.”
He gives me that panty-melting smile again and I almost die.
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
“Wait, we’re not leaving right this second, are we?” I ask.
He stands by the door, one hand on the doorknob. “Yeah. Why not?”
“I haven’t packed or anything.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just grab your purse or whatever. You don’t need anything else.”
“But—”
“Melissa,” he says. His voice is soft, but there’s an unmistakable air of command. The playfulness is suddenly gone and he’s all business. “We’re going. Right now.”
I cast my eyes around, trying to think of anything I shouldn’t forget. I’m mid-cycle, so hygiene products won’t be necessary. I’m not on birth control, and my barren sex life over the last year means I don’t have anything on hand. I’ll have to make sure Jackson takes care of that, if that’s where this is going.
Of course that’s where this is going, dumbass. He’s about to take you on a fucking sexcation!
I grab my purse, my phone, a light gray hoodie, and slip sandals on my feet. I lock the door behind me and follow Jackson out to his car, feeling like I’m floating.
He holds the car door open for me. I sink into the seat and draw in a quick breath. It is literally the most comfortable fucking thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Screw the sexcation, I can just sit in this car forever and never get out.
“This car is … I don’t know if I have the vocabulary,” I say when he gets in on the driver’s side.
“Yeah, it’s sexy as fuck, isn’t it?” he asks. “It’s fast as hell, too, but I try to keep it mellow. I can probably outrun anyone on the road, but who needs that kind of drama? I think I’m the only person in the state who has one, so it’s not like they wouldn’t be able to track me down.”
He points his phone at me and then types something.
“Are you tweeting this?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says. “If you don’t want me to show your face, I can crop it out. That’s kind of hot, anyway. Makes you seem mysterious.”
Before I can answer, he puts his phone down and starts the car. It purrs. It absolutely, motherfucking purrs. He pulls out onto the road and it feels like we’re gliding across ice, rather than driving on pavement.
I start a text to Nicole. What do I even say to her? She’ll kill me if I don’t tell her, but she’ll probably kill me for going. Before I finish typing, my phone bings with a text from her.
Is that you in his car?
Is she stalking his Twitter feed? Um, yes? How did you see that so fast?
What do you mean, um, yes?
I laugh. Yes, I’m in his car. He picked me up. I’ll see you in a week.
A week?!?!?!?!?! WTF, Melissa!
Overreact much?
It takes a minute for Nicole’s next text to come, so I know it’s going to be a good one. I am NOT overreacting. Where are you going that you will be gone for a week? What do you even know about this guy? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you know what you’re doing?
I don’t know. Enough that I’m doing this. Yes, I’m sure. Maybe.
“Let me guess,” Jackson says. “Sister, or best friend.”
“Best friend,” I say. “I don’t have a sister.”
“Tell her she has nothing to worry about,” Jackson says. “I’m going to take excellent care of you.”
He says he’s going to take excellent care of me and you have nothing to worry about.
You’re insane. Fine, but we need a code word. If you’re in trouble, just call or text and say cocker spaniel. That’s how I’ll know you need help.
I laugh out loud. Nicole is the sweetest. Cocker spaniel? Really?
Why else would you ever say that to me? It’s perfect.
And she thinks I’m the one who’s insane. Okay, deal. Nic, don’t worry about me. This is crazy, but I think I need a little crazy in my life right now. I’ll text you all week.
All right. If you’re sure. Love you, girl.
Love you too.
I glance over at Jackson. His eyes stay on the road, his hands on the sleek steering wheel. Fancy hasn’t ever been a big temptation for me, but even I have to admit this car is unreal.
“So, is this when you tell me where we’re going?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, just turns the corners of his mouth up in a sly grin.
This is getting ridiculous. I know the point of this little jaunt is to be spontaneous and a little bit crazy, but we hopped in his car without any luggage. Where is he taking me?
“Where have you already been?” he asks. “How much have you traveled?”
“Not much,” I say with a shrug. “I went camping a lot as a kid. Nicole’s family took us to Disneyland when we were twelve, and I went to Cabo with friends once in college.”
“Good,” Jackson says. “That keeps our options open.”
“Options?” I say. “I thought you already knew where we’re going.”
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
My mouth falls open. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Completely fucking serious,” he says.
Oh god, that voice. It’s almost like he’s growling at me. The man positively radiates sex, but he hasn’t so much as touched me yet. The anticipation is killing me.
“So, what, we’re just driving?” I ask.
“No, I know where we’re going in the car,” he says. “After that—well, that remains to be seen.”
I have no idea what to say to that, so I watch out the window. I know we’re heading north, but that could mean anything. What does he mean by after that?
For the next two hours, I try to ask questions, but he deftly deflects my attempts to find out more. We pull off at a town along the freeway to get lunch, and he takes a few pictures of me.
“You’re a little Twitter-obsessed, you know that, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, my followers are going nuts,” he says. “They’re commenting with suggestions on where we should go.”
“What, are you serious?” I ask. I think about opening Twitter on my phone, but it’s too weird. I don’t want to see what people are saying about us.
“Everyone wants to know who my mystery girl is,” he says, flashing me that smile.
“The faceless girl. How lovely.”
He just winks at me.
After lunch, we get back on the freeway and keep driving. We’re less than an hour away from Seattle. I wonder if he’ll take me to his house first. Where does a man like Jackson Bennett live? He said Queen Anne, which is one of the hill neighborhoods in Seattle. I don’t know much about it—I’ve never lived in the city—but it must be nice. Judging by the car, it’s probably a hell of a lot more than “nice.”
“When did you move to Seattle?” I ask. If he won’t tell me where we’re going, maybe he’ll tell me more about himself.
“After college,” he says. “Mostly I moved out here to piss off my dad, but I loved it, so I stayed.”
“What’s he like?”
“My dad?” he asks. “He’s a typical rich asshole. I don’t talk to my parents very much.”
“That’s too bad,” I say.
“Not really,” he says. “I take it you’re close with your family, but we were never close, not even when I was a kid. I had nannies and went to boarding school.”
Wow. That’s … kind of sad. “Brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“Okay, so we’re doing the get-to-know-you thing,” he says. “I have an older brother, Davis. He’s the heir to the Bennett family throne. He works alongside my dad in Chicago. He’s arguably a bigger asshole than my father. I have an older sister, too. Lindsay married some dude with old money and lives out in Boston. I haven’t seen her in a few years.”
“Wow, that’s awful,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s too bad that your family is so distant. I guess it’s hard for me to relate. I don’t have a big family—it was always just me and my dad—but we’ve always been close.”
“What about your mom?” he asks.
I look down at my hands. It’s hard to tell people about my mother. “She died when I was four.”
“Oh, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he says. The concern in his voice is so genuine.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I mean, it is sad. But I don’t remember her, or remember being sad about losing her. Not really. It was much harder on my dad.”
“So your fisherman daddy raised you in Jetty Beach, all by himself,” Jackson says.
“That he did.”
“Is that why you still live there?” he asks. “To be close to your dad?”
“Partly,” I say. “It’s home.”
“I’ve never had a place like that,” he says. “I grew up in Chicago, but it never felt like home to me. I got out of there as soon as I could. I can’t imagine going back.”
“What about Seattle?” I ask.
“I like living there,” he says. “What the fuck do I know? I have a penthouse condo with a view of the entire city. It’s pretty amazing. I’d say that’s a damn good home.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I say. “Now will you tell me where we’re going?”
“No.”
My jaw drops when he takes the exit to the airport. The thought crossed my mind, but I dismissed the idea outright. He can’t be taking me to get on a plane. We didn’t bring anything with us. I have my ID on me, but only because I grabbed my purse. Other than that, I have a few bucks in cash, some lip gloss, a hair tie, and whatever miscellaneous things I left in my handbag over the last few months.
Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) Page 4