by Jenny Jacobs
Finally, the caterer bid him goodnight, and she heard Ian shut and lock the front door. She rubbed her arms with her hands, moving towards the fireplace. He came back into the room and she lifted her head. A cold lump of misery started in her chest. This was going to be hard — and awful.
Ian walked across the room and dropped a kiss on her cheek. She flinched but didn’t turn to look at him.
“Greta, I — ”
“Don’t start,” she said bitterly.
“Start what?” he asked.
“I saw you looking at me,” she said. “Every time I talked to a man, you were there, staring at me across the room. No, I wasn’t flirting with any of them. No, I’m not going to — ”
“Greta, you can flirt with the whole neighborhood if you want,” he said.
“I — what?” she said, swinging around to face him.
“Well, maybe not the whole neighborhood. The dogs and kids, you’d probably need to leave them out.”
“I — you don’t — I don’t understand. I thought you wanted us to — ?”
“Sure.”
Understanding dawned and her breath came easily for the first time all evening. “You’re not jealous.”
“Of what? If you don’t want to be with me, then what good does thumping my chest about it do? You’re not the kind of woman who’ll cheat on a man she makes a commitment to.” He shrugged as if that said it all.
She stared at him. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, could it? Did he really believe that? It was true, of course, but that didn’t mean he believed it.
“I just — you kept watching me,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “And you kept creeping up behind me like you were trying to catch me doing or saying something I shouldn’t. Or to show that I was with you and everyone needed to keep their hands off.”
“Creeping up behind you?” Ian raised a brow. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were taking it that way.” He shrugged again. “I like being near you, Greta. That’s all. I’m not your first husband.”
“My only husband,” Greta said. “Fortunately now my ex-husband.”
Ian grinned. “I referred to him as your first husband because I plan on being your second one.”
Greta’s jaw dropped.
“Right. Insufferable, arrogant, taking a lot for granted,” he said, even though she hadn’t responded. “We can discuss the wedding date later.”
“We can, can we?” Greta asked icily, though she couldn’t help the glow of warmth that started in the pit of her stomach.
“Sure. Found the woman I want finally, so I think it’s time I settled down.”
“It is, is it?” she said.
His slipped his arms around her waist. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him. His gray eyes approved of her; they always had. This was Ian, not the figure she had made up out of fear and doubt. This Ian would never let her down.
“Look, Greta. I love you. I trust that you’ll do the right thing — for yourself and for us.” He smiled and said, “I was staring at you all night because you’re beautiful and I love you. You have any idea how those two facts can focus a man’s attention on a woman?”
“That’s it? You’ve been staring at me and breathing down my neck all night because you love me?”
“Yes, ma’am. You gave me a Barcalounger. And you’re surprised I want to marry you?”
“I haven’t said yes yet,” she reminded him.
“You will. You know you love me.”
“And how do you know that?”
“You let me keep the Barcalounger,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her.
About the Author
Jenny Jacobs, a writer living in the Midwest, is still kissing frogs, but likes to write about people finding their happily ever after — even if they have to go through some difficulties to get there. Her previous titles for Crimson Romance include The Winter Promise and Sadie’s Story. Find out more about her at www.jennyjacobsbooks.com.
More From This Author
(From Sadie’s Story)
Sadie Rose Perkins stared at the rain twisting down the plate-glass front window of the bookstore and sighed. It had been raining for three days straight, monotonous and gray and dreary, and neither the forecast nor the sky gave any indication that it was going to let up soon. Springtime in Cedar Valley, Ohio. She’d only had three customers today and it was already after lunch.
She propped her chin in her hand and forced herself to set the glossy travel brochure aside, all blue skies and smiling families. Apparently it never rained in the Greek Isles. If it did, it would be Mediterranean rain, and that had to be better than Midwestern rain. Or at least different.
She put the Webster’s unabridged dictionary on top of the brochure to forestall temptation and got back to work, turning to the book catalog from Caterina’s Closet that Bob (the mailman) had delivered yesterday. Caterina’s Closet sold only very sexy romances and at first, Sadie hadn’t been sure about ordering any. But she was a businessperson, and businesspersons had to look after the bottom line, so she’d bought just a few and put them discreetly behind the counter, hoping she wouldn’t end up being an agenda item at the next city council meeting. Willing to endure the storm if it came to that, she’d written a coy little note on purple paper and pasted it on a shelf in the romance section — and had been astonished to find that reading very sexy romances was the favorite pastime of the ladies and gentlemen who lived in the retirement home on the edge of town.
Now she brought each month’s order to the retirement home library herself and they’d be lined up five and six deep, waiting for her arrival on the appointed day. They enjoyed their fantasy lives every bit as much as Sadie did hers, though by comparison her dreams of adventure beyond the confines of this small town were modest and retiring.
While she had a special affection for the seniors, she liked all of her customers, even the nose-in-the-air ones from the university who furtively bought hard-boiled mysteries and hid them under the artistic book covers Aunt Gertrude quilted for her to sell at the shop. Pages: A Bookstore, as the sign out front said. (Gran had named it Pages, and Gramps had added the qualifier, so as to prevent confusion.) Sadie squinted out the window. You could hardly see the sign in this rain. But everyone in town already knew where the bookstore was. Not that she expected anyone else would be coming in today, not with the rain coming down like that.
She picked up her pen and turned back to the Caterina’s Closet catalog, making a tick against the title of a pirate romance. She would never be the haughty princess abducted by the swashbuckling pirate — she’d learned all about reality when she was a kid — but it was fun to imagine. She might not be the haughty princess, but she was going to be ready for her adventure when it came. She was sure it would, just as she was sure she would find The One, the missteps she’d had with the Allens and Marcuses of the world notwithstanding. They’d just been part of getting ready.
She turned a page of the catalog. Today may be the day he walks in the door. He would know it and she would know it and they would walk hand-in-hand into the future together. Maybe they would have an adventure first. If she was going to dream, she might as well dream about having it all. You never know. Wasn’t that what Gran had always said, smiling and patting her hand? You never know.
The bell above the shop door jangled and Sadie looked up, her breath catching. But it was only Bob, with the mail, dripping on the mat by the door as she came around to collect the envelopes.
• • •
Jordan Blaise shot his arm out and glanced at his watch. The university chancellor had gone on and on … a breakfast meeting that had lasted until lunchtime. These academic types had no idea how much the wasted time cost. After all of the mind-numbing and self-congratulatory talk, the chancellor had decided he couldn’t agree to c
ertain terms that Jordan had believed final — leaving him back where he had started a month ago, only more frustrated.
And now this. He listened on his smartphone as Paula, his girlfriend, told him bitterly and in no uncertain terms that if his work was that important to him, he could just marry it.
“I told you I had to be out of town,” he began, but she was in no mood to hear it.
“I don’t care if you told me,” she said. “That’s not the point. I care that you’re never here. And if you’re never here, then why are we even dating?”
“I’m sorry,” he said but obviously not apologetically enough because she slammed the phone down in his ear. He sighed and pushed the off button. He was convinced the only reason she maintained a landline instead of relying solely on her iPhone was so she could slam the phone down in his ear.
Possibly he was becoming cynical, a character failing his mother gently chided him for from time to time. Well, if anyone had paid a price for cynicism, it was she. She should have held out for a hero.
He put the phone away and leaned his head against the leather headrest as Peter steered the town car through the rain. A headache was threatening, the result of listening to Paula’s high-pitched lecture immediately on the heels of having refrained from saying what he was thinking to the chancellor — a restraint he had been required to exercise for hours on end. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if his self-restraint failed. But so far it never had.
Paula would come around — she always did — but in the meantime there would be drama, and if he didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding a new girlfriend, or the annoyance of spending the next few months experiencing celibacy, and he was pretty sure he didn’t, he’d have to play his part in the production of reconciliation. But not just now. Later, he would figure out which combination of cajolery and gifts would win him back into her good graces.
Before he had a chance to take a calm, relaxing breath — his administrative assistant had once encouraged him to take up yoga, and he’d gone twice a week for an entire six-week session, so he knew the importance of breathing — Peter spoke up, glancing in the rearview mirror to catch Jordan’s eye even though Jordan had stressed on many occasions that a driver should keep his attention on the road. And his nose out of Jordan’s business. “Today’s your mother’s birthday.”
Jordan sat up, swearing softly. He’d forgotten it in the flurry of activity that had occupied the last few days. He could have stayed in Manhattan and wished her a happy birthday in person for all the good this trip had done. Of course, appearing in person would mean having to deal with his stepfather, not something he ever looked forward to.
He turned his phone back on, and, rubbing his throbbing temple with his free hand, punched in the number he knew best and had the most mixed feelings about. As usual, it was answered on the first ring. Phones did not go unattended at that house.
“Matthews residence.”
“Daniel?” That was Randall’s aide, a man who treated employment with Randall as if it were the same as being in the service of royalty. Rubbing shoulders with power, wealth, status or at least celebrity. Perhaps it was the same as being in the service of royalty. It almost certainly paid better.
Randall never answered his own phone, not even his personal cell phone. Not that Jordan ever called him on his personal cell phone. He just happened to know it was true. “It’s Jordan. May I speak with my mother?”
“Oh, sir, I left a message with your office.”
Daniel’s shocked voice made it all too clear that the message wasn’t good. Jordan’s lurking headache roared to full strength. The part of him that didn’t want to know made him reluctant to ask but he did it anyway. “What message?”
“Your mother, sir. She’s back in the hospital.”
The world shifted and Jordan gripped the phone tighter. “Dammit.” He’d believed she was getting better. She’d seemed frail but recovering the last time he’d seen her, and he hadn’t expected this news. Had she known it was possible and just hadn’t warned him? She sometimes thought she was protecting him by not telling him everything, and he often wondered what she thought she was protecting him from, and why she thought she needed to. He wasn’t the small boy he’d once been, lost and bewildered after his father’s unexpected death, but she didn’t seem to realize that. He wouldn’t have gone on this timewasting trip if he’d guessed she might end up back in the hospital. The university chancellor would always be there, one way or another. His mother wouldn’t.
The vise of tension, not satisfied with giving him a headache, now gripped his shoulders, working its way down his spine. Why hadn’t the message been conveyed to him before now? He tamped down his impatience — whoever had failed, it wasn’t Daniel, so there was no point in taking his frustrations out on the one person who’d tried to do the right thing. Jordan had no problem assigning blame, but he tried to do it fairly. He said, still not sure he wanted to know the answer, “What happened? Is she very bad?” If only it could be something like a broken leg, unfortunate but not insupportable —
“I don’t know all of the details, sir.” Daniel hesitated. “I believe she’s very ill.”
Jordan closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he said tightly, and hung up. Peter didn’t, thankfully, ask any questions and kept his attention carefully on the road. For once.
Jordan’s elegant, worn-out mother deserved so much better than anything puffed-up Randall Matthews could give her. Love and laughter and joy — that was what she should have, should always have had. When he was small, after his father had died, he’d hugged her fiercely and promised he would take care of her. She’d laughed and hugged him back and said she would take care of him first. That had resulted in Randall.
Jordan stared out the car window, not taking in anything, the slashing rain a perfect match for his mood. I just want to see you happy, she’d told him last year, when the cancer was first diagnosed. Then, smiling mischievously, and I wouldn’t mind seeing my grandchildren.
If only he could convince his mother that he was happy and that he was working on the grandbabies. It might help her fight one more battle … and if not, at least she could go peacefully, thinking he had found what she wanted for him.
If only —
As much as he might wish to give her that gift for her birthday, he wasn’t going to be able to do it. Especially considering Paula’s most recent explosion. Still, he’d have to figure out something special to give to his mother. Something that would remind her that despite everything (such as Randall), he treasured their relationship.
A memory flitted through his mind, of her leaning near, her Chanel No. 5 a vague scent on the air around him, reading to him from a book of poems. He would have been very young then because she hadn’t tried to share poetry with him in more years than he could count. He wished he could have found it in him to like the poetry, or at least pretend he did. But he’d been too young then.
If he couldn’t bring her the promise of grandchildren, he could at least bring her some poetry.
The name of a shop flashed by, hard to read in the pouring rain but clear enough for him to guess what it was, and he leaned forward and said urgently, “Stop the car, Peter. We just passed a bookstore. I want to go in.”
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