by Cate Lawley
Twice I’d gone through it. Once with my high school best friend and once with a boyfriend who I thought had been serious. So Annabeth and I had a lengthy friendship founded on some lies. Such was life as a leprechaun in the mortal world.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself? A five-year secret? Really?” Annabeth took a second long pull from her beer.
If I waited long enough, maybe she’d get drunk and forget what we’d been talking about. Since she was chugging the second half of the bottle while I dithered and wasn’t looking the slightest bit affected, I guessed that wasn’t gonna happen.
So I stuck with the advice she’d given me only moments before: give the truth, just the very specific truth that lead to a false conclusion. And omit. Omission was key to success. “I wouldn’t say secret. I just keep different parts of my life separate. You know that. And I’ve mentioned him to you, just not specifically what he looks like. And none of that matters, because now that you guys have met, you’ll know who I’m talking about when I say ‘my techie friend.’”
“Hm.” Annabeth gave me a suspicious look. I knew it already, but this was yet more proof: I sucked as a leprechaun. We were supposed to be slippery and clever. Finally, her squint disappeared and she said, “Speaking of the gorgeous Mr. Fletcher, he mentioned something about a favor, some charity thing he has for work. He needs someone to kidnap.”
Alarm bells rang. That couldn’t be good. Kidnap and leprechauns did not go well together. “Did he explain?”
“Nope. You were freaking out, so I did you a solid and got him gone.”
I grinned at Annabeth. Maybe I could count on her to be a grown-up, a discreet, non-interfering grown-up.
Then she belched.
I couldn’t help it: I just laughed.
“What? I just chugged a beer. Besides, better out than in. Who wants indigestion from drinking beer? That spoils all the fun.”
“Sure it does. Speaking of…” I grabbed another beer from the fridge for her.
After she’d opened hers, she clinked her bottle against mine and said, “To girls’ night.”
I repeated the toast—and promptly forgot all about charities and favors and kidnapping.
CHAPTER THREE: In Which Our (Hungover) Heroine Suffers Prodigiously
My phone rang the next morning, waking me up with that panicked feeling that I’d overslept my alarm and was late to work.
I racked my brain, trying to figure out how I’d overslept. Saturday—today was Saturday. And I hadn’t overslept; I’d over-imbibed. Relief flooded through me.
Except my phone was still ringing. What nut job was calling me at—I squinted at my Hello Kitty wall clock—ten o’clock. Not obscenely early, but still…
I smacked the nightstand three or four times until my hand landed on my phone. But the ringing stopped.
I’d just about fallen asleep when it started up again. I was going to murder someone this morning, and why not start with whoever was calling? That sounded good to me.
I answered sharply, “What?”
“Did someone drink too much beer last night?” Jackson’s deep, mellow voice cut through my cranky morning fog and made my insides go all melty.
I sat up in bed. “Not at all. We just had a late night.” The stars on the edge of my vision put a lie to my words—but I wasn’t about to admit I’d drunk as much as a sailor on leave. In a foreign country. A foreign country with cheap booze.
“Oh, I hate to hear that. I was hoping you could do me a favor this morning.”
I swallowed a pained groan and begged the thudding in my head to subside. Jackson never asked for favors. And he’d done plenty for me: set up my wireless router, retrieved that work document I thought my computer had eaten, helped me set up a website for a charity I volunteered with. I squeezed my eyes shut and rated my headache on a scale of one to five. Three-point-seven. Three-point-nine, and I was venturing into carsickness territory—but three-point-seven should be unpleasantly manageable. “Will there be caffeine and ibuprofen?”
“I can absolutely make that happen. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”
I rubbed my eyes and then realized he meant he’d be here, at my house, expecting me to look normal, in twenty minutes. “Whoa! Wait—”
But he’d already hung up.
I hurried—sort of. I could only move so fast while my head pounded, and I had to stop to hydrate every few minutes. Not any great surprise, then, that I still had damp hair and no makeup on when Jackson showed up twenty minutes later.
I opened the front door to find him filling it—he was well over six feet—and looking adorably apologetic.
“At least you had the decency to bring my caffeine fix with you.” I took the iced coffee he offered me and ignored as best I could the way his fitted navy T-shirt stretched tight across his chest as he handed it to me. I spun around to lock the door.
“That’s why I needed twenty minutes. I figured the line at the coffee shop would be epic on Saturday. Also, there was that time when you got locked out of your house—remember? Two, three years ago?”
I turned the key in the lock, swallowing a groan. How could I forget? “In my defense, I was not only caffeine deprived, it was six o’clock in the morning. No one is nice at six in the morning.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t remember yelling at you when you tapped on my bedroom window in the wee hours asking for help.”
No cell phone, no keys, wearing barely any clothes and no shoes, and locked out of my house. Of course I’d been grumpy when the only option I had was a guy I’d met maybe a dozen times over the preceding years. But a dozen was about ten more than I’d met my other neighbors, so I’d sucked it up and hit him up for help.
And he’d been a doll.
I’d even gotten a nice eyeful of him in his boxers. Actually, that was probably when I’d started to fall for him. I’d mouthed “help,” and he’d shown up at his front door ready to save me. Granted, he’d only had to call the locksmith and let me hang out in his kitchen for fifteen minutes—but he was much more pleasant about the whole thing than I’d been.
“Yeah, you’re a decent guy, Jackson.”
He opened the car door for me. “So you keep telling me.”
And he was modest. Or had a hard time accepting nice things being said about him. I wasn’t sure which.
After I’d stashed my purse and buckled my seatbelt, I watched him come around the front of the car. He was wearing shorts that left plenty of well-muscled leg for me to eyeball. First his chest, now his legs…I should not be exposed to handsome men before I’d had caffeine. Especially this handsome man, because he was supposed to be my friend. One did not ogle one’s friends.
Once he was in the driver’s seat, I said, “I do have a question for you. Is there some pressing emergency this morning?”
He looked confused. “The charity thing started an hour ago, but not an emergency, no. Why?”
I took a breath. “You know, I had to shower. And find something to wear. And blow-dry my hair. Not to mention that I didn’t even have near enough time to start putting on my makeup.”
“Your hair’s still wet.” I would have read him the riot act, but then he said, “And you look great without makeup.”
Awww. What every woman wants to hear. I pulled out my makeup bag. “Since I doubt that’s entirely true, I’m gonna go ahead and finish getting ready.” I pointed at him. “No potholes.”
“I got it—one smooth ride coming up.” I blinked, but he didn’t seem to follow the somewhat dirty direction my mind had taken at that statement, because he said, “I’m guessing the moral of this story is always give a woman more than twenty minutes to get ready.”
I couldn’t help a grin. He always seemed to take mental notes when I gave him the inside scoop on women, as if we were some great mystery to him. “Especially if you wake her up after a night of beer-drinking and massive carb and dairy consumption.”
“Carbs and dairy?” He shot me a sideway
s glance. “What exactly did you guys do last night? Oh, and I almost forgot.” He reached across my lap to open the glove box, and produced a small bottle of ibuprofen. “Your ibuprofen, as ordered.”
I clutched the bottle close to my heart. “My hero.” After I downed two tablets, I said, “As to what we did last night… We ate pizza, drank beer, and topped it all off with ice cream and cookies. I think that’s it. Oh, and we watched all the Bourne movies.”
“Bourne, huh? I didn’t know that’s what women were into.” And there he was, making another of those mental notes. Then he glanced at me and said, “I have no idea how you can eat like that. I used to when, ah”—the tips of his ears turned pink—“when I was younger. But then I realized I couldn’t eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, if I didn’t want to feel hungover or like I was two seconds away from getting the flu.”
He was so adorable when he blushed. His towering height and rocking bod made him lust-worthy, but his fair skin, dark hair, and an aw-shucks attitude made him incredibly appealing on a different level. Unfortunately, not only to me. I knew at least two other women on the block who were completely gaga over Jackson, and I was pretty sure he was dating someone. Probably. We didn’t exactly talk about his love life.
“Any particular reason you’re blushing?” I couldn’t resist poking.
Surely he wasn’t embarrassed about the way he’d looked back then? Long before we were ever friends, back when he’d first moved into the neighborhood, he’d looked more linebacker than quarterback—but either version of Jackson was easy on the eyes.
He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and continued to avoid eye contact. Or he was just busy driving, and I was paranoid.
I flicked the visor down and opened the little vanity mirror there. After a few wobbly starts, I managed to get my eyeliner and mascara applied without poking myself in the eye. Not bad.
He kept glancing at me. He seemed fascinated. I must have looked curious, because he said, “Sorry. I just haven’t ever seen a woman do that before.”
“Put on makeup in the car? I thought we already covered this—twenty minutes is insufficient get-ready time. No judging allowed.”
“No. The eyeliner and mascara…” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. First blushing, now fidgeting. Something was up. There was a story there.
“You’ve never seen a girl put on eye makeup? How old are you?”
He looked even more uncomfortable. Which made me feel terrible, because I’d just called him juvenile while drinking the coffee he’d thoughtfully stood in line for. Oh, and my headache was muted to a dull throb, because of the ibuprofen he’d remembered to bring. Bad me, bad.
I wrinkled my nose. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. I’m old enough to have seen a woman complete her toilette, that’s for sure.”
And then he would say funny things like that and sound about as old as my dad—who was really old.
I almost didn’t ask, but my curiosity was overwhelming. “Does your girlfriend never touch up her makeup when you’re around?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He sounded surprised. “Actually, you’re the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a woman.” He looked like he’d take those words back if he could. “Uh, I mean, you know, we’ve been friends for several years—”
“It’s fine. I get it.” And I did. We were good friends. After the whole early morning lock-out incident, he’d come by with a really cool hide-a-key for me, one that didn’t look like every other fake rock hide-a-key, and we’d struck up a conversation that had led to our current friendship.
It was scary to think of risking that for the possibility of more. So I didn’t.
The other reason I hadn’t taken the chance—a close second to risking our friendship—was that I didn’t think Jackson got all hot and bothered by my five feet and a little, red-headed, freckled self. I might feel a zip-zing, get-in-his-pants-now chemistry anytime he glanced in my direction, but he seemed completely immune to my A-cup charms.
I looked down at my breasts. Generous A-cup, bordering on smallish B-cup.
When I looked up again—and thankfully found I hadn’t been caught ogling my own boobs—it dawned on me that we’d left the central part of town and were headed to the ‘burbs. “Where exactly are we going?”
“That charity thing I told Annabeth about.”
Except I didn’t exactly (at all) remember Annabeth telling me about a charity event. I looked down at my sundress and sandals. “Hopefully a sundress works for this shindig. And you can add that to your notes for your book. Tell a girl where she’s going ahead of time so she knows how to dress.”
“My book?” Jackson looked at me like I was crazy.
“Yeah. Your book or whatever it is you’re always taking notes for.”
“I don’t take notes. I mean, I pay attention, because I’d like to be better at…uh…” And there he went with the squirming again. “You know, to treat women better.”
Weird. First, most men who didn’t treat women well seemed oblivious to it. Second, he actually did treat women—or me, at least—just fine. “Do you have some freaky history you’re not telling me about? An undisclosed past of a little old lady killer? Five dead ex-wives buried in your backyard?”
He raised an eyebrow at my silly questions and then pointed to the right. “That’s it, over there. My company gets permission to use the community center every year. I think one of the VPs lives in this neighborhood.”
“Uh-huh.” And I was pretty proud of myself for not calling him out on the obvious avoidance of my question.
Jackson had a past. One he was not only ashamed of, but that he was consciously seeking to make amends for.
And maybe if I was a normal human, I’d poke and prod and let my curiosity lead me by the nose. But I had my own secret to protect, so I sealed my lips. Of course, I would obsess about what that secret might be for days—weeks, maybe. I might even do a little internet research—of the superficial, non-stalkerish variety.
But I wouldn’t ask. Because if he didn’t want to offer it up on his own, I wasn’t about to make him lie. I knew exactly how terrible that felt.
He pulled into the community center and parked in the middle of the lot. All of the closer spots were filled.
“Looks like the attendance is pretty good. What is this benefitting again?” I asked.
“A youth program for music, theater, and art. It’s a pretty cool program. I usually write a check every year, but a few of my work buddies were giving me a hard time about being a bad sport, and then you said you’d do me a favor…”
As we walked, I noticed a few women being carried by their boyfriends. There was a young kid riding piggyback and a teen slung over a big, burly guy’s shoulder. There were also a few cheerful “prisoners” in handcuffs. I wasn’t sure how all of this tied in to fundraising.
A woman who was leading in an older guy in cuffs—maybe her dad?—hollered in our direction, “Hey, Jackson, no cheating!”
Jackson waved at her, and then turned to me. “No cuffs, so do you mind?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, and before I could figure it out, he scooped me up. Held by his strong arms, pressed against his muscular chest, and inhaling his heavenly scent—I might have swooned.
CHAPTER FOUR: In Which Our Heroine is Distracted by a Yummy-Smelling Man
Okay, I didn’t swoon. But it had been a while since I’d had any action, and here I was, snuggled against the chest of the hottest guy of my acquaintance. Who could blame me for savoring the moment? Those bulging biceps felt good wrapped around me. I was pretty cozy. I didn’t remember doing it, but at some point I’d twined my arms around his neck. Sooo cozy. I swallowed a sigh of pure bliss.
“I appreciate you doing this.” Pressed so close, I could feel the rumble of his voice as he spoke.
“Sure,” I said, too lustfully happy to think much about what exactly I was doing. But about a split second before all of th
e blood in my brain rushed to my nether regions, I managed to ask, “What am I doing?”
“Thanks,” he said to the guy who held open the door for him. He turned to the side so my feet would clear the doorframe. “It reminds me of those bachelor auctions a little. I thought Annabeth told you?”
If she had, I’d consumed too many beers since then to remember the details.
I thought back, trying to remember, but then inhaled the clean soap smell of Jackson. Yum. Who could blame me? My nose was close; he smelled good. Circumstances were against me. I had to scrub some inappropriate images from my brain before I could focus again—but even then, all I could come up with was Annabeth mentioning a favor for Jackson.
Just as I started to register that we were in a hallway, Jackson turned into a room. I had to tuck my feet in close, so I was preoccupied as we entered. Once certain my ankles and toes were safe, I looked up and saw…a bunch of people in an improvised jail cell. Whoa.
One lady had on a homemade jailbird costume with black and white horizontal stripes.
I stiffened. “Um, wait a sec—”
But Jackson had walked into the fake cell and deposited me before I could explain that this probably wasn’t a good idea. In fact, it might be a very bad idea. I took a breath. It wasn’t a problem—not so long as I could leave.
A fake jailor let Jackson out and shut the door behind him.
“Wait a second—” And then I saw it. There was an actual lock on the gate. With a key. In all their charitable enthusiasm and a desire to make the experience more “fun,” the organizers had put a real lock on the door. As quickly as I could, I said, “I volunteered. I came willingly. I wasn’t coerced or tricked.” But I knew as I said the words that it wasn’t enough.
The jailor gave me an odd look as he snapped the lock shut.