Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  “She should!”

  His brows hiked and eyes darkened. “She’s my bitch. She should never feel a threat is near me.”

  My mouth dropped at that implication…or threat. Jackson was bonded with this beast and I couldn’t acquaint myself with her; she was…bestial.

  She whimpered again, as though comprehending my hesitation.

  “Let’s go back to your room, Love. She’s not quite ready.”

  “Neither will I ever be!” screamed in my head as she walked in reverse before Jackson turned her to head down a hall and led her into a room. I let go of a breath when he closed the door and started a graceful gait toward me.

  “May I take your jacket?”

  I removed my blazer and handed it to him. When I did, I noticed Jackson paid inventory to my person. His piercing eyes trailed a fire from my feet to my neck as he took me in, scorching me. But his eyes never met mine.

  “What’s that?”

  Still coming down from my startle, I glanced down at my hands. “Oh, wine.” I shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d have any in stock and with the day I’ve had, I could use an evening relaxant. And now, having met your teratosaurus, I need a damn sedative.”

  With one brow peaked, Jackson quipped, “You call that wine?”

  Absent-mindedly glancing back down, I returned, “Said the non-drinker. It’s not like you can do better.”

  “I actually can. I know you indulge. Follow me.”

  I followed on Jackson’s heels and caught the contemporary décor of his high rise apartment. Earthy tones filled the room with a relaxing glow. The floor-to-ceiling windows, presenting the illustrious eastside view of Central Park alone was alluring. The vista presented an airy feel with plush furniture spread out. In the section just off the living room was a large pool table in the center, reminding me of Jackson’s bachelor status. It was becoming of him. No shade. His walls were neatly dressed with captivating abstract bold acrylic paintings.

  His place was hugely elegant yet by no means as palatial as his home in Long Island. But who would buy such a space for their eighteen-year-old child? What’s more, who would buy their eighteen-year-old son an apartment in Trump International Tower?

  That Quincy Hunter is becoming more and more of an enigma.

  When we passed the room where his pet beast was, I heard small barking, reminding me of her presence.

  Jackson tossed a glance over his shoulder, smirking. “You should have at least let her smell you. She’s just as desperate to taste you as I am.”

  My steps faltered at that and I tripped over my feet. Jackson chuckled as he faced ahead, continuing down the corridor. I felt the warm pooling in my panties.

  Damn him.

  When we cornered for the kitchen I stammered. Hearing the slow of the clicking of my heels, Jackson turned, tossing me a dubious gaze. A salivating-inducing aroma was far more potent. The lights were bright, giving a sharp illuminating view to every facet of the room. The stove was on, sound of pots boiling, steam billowing in the air—all the makings of a functional kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh… Nothing.” I didn’t sound convincing even to myself. “I thought we’d be alone. No biggie.”

  Wrinkling his forehead, Jackson muttered, “We are.”

  “Where’s the cook?”

  “Cook?” He glided over to the stove, picked up a spoon and began stirring the contents of a small stainless steel sauce pan.

  “Yeah.” My eyes gestured to the various appliances at work. “In a place like this I’m sure you have a maid and a cook.”

  “No. I don’t have a cook.” His tone filled with cynicism.

  I snorted. “Get the hell out of here, Jackson.”

  He mirrored my amusement. “No. Really, Elle. I can feed myself.”

  I paid another regard at the stainless steel cookware, the subzero refrigerator, double glass wall stove and marble countertops neatly topped with cookbooks, herbs, seasoning and fancy gold-lined dinnerware.

  Shit! The man can cook!

  But he was only twenty-six years old for crying out loud! My thirty-five-year-old ass couldn’t flip a pancake.

  I turned and leaped in my heels, startled when I saw Jackson inches away, handing me a glass of white wine.

  He chuckled quietly. “2006 Egon Muller Scharzhofberger Riesling Auslese.” Jackson referred to the wine. “You look spooked. What’s that about?”

  I shook off my stupor. “You cook.”

  “Yes, Elle, I can cook,” he repeated over a chortle. Then he watched enraptured as I took my first sip. The Riesling hit my palate with a lively, crisp splash. It was floral, fruity and with the perfect balance of acidity. I swallowed and sighed contently. Delish. When my eyes opened, I caught Jackson’s gape. Breaking the awkward moment he continued, “I was taught by a chef de cuisine, who owns Tobe’s in Greenwich Village. Her daughter and I are old friends.”

  “Free?” I blurted.

  Jackson nodded humbly.

  “Those benefits must’ve been out of this world to receive free cooking lessons by her mother who’s a big time chef,” I jeered.

  Jackson’s neck swayed. “What does that mean?”

  After swallowing more wine, I gushed, not understanding my embarrassment. “Oh, Jackson please! You can’t tell me you weren’t sleeping with that “old friend.” Her mom gave you free lessons.”

  His face sobered. “Are you insinuating I slept with Tabitha?”

  “You did!”

  “I didn’t; my dad did. I actually slept with her mother.”

  My face dropped. I hadn’t seen that coming at all.

  What in the world…

  “So,” he called out, heading back over to the stove with plates in his hands. “I want to give you the news on the Southern Gentlemen’s tour. Apparently, the venue has been named for the kickoff.”

  Jackson’s eyes shifted over to mine. I had to close my mouth, still askew from his admittance to irreligious conduct. “O-oh! Wow. When?”

  With swift speed and skilled maneuvering, he plated our food. “Two weeks from Friday.”

  “Whoa,” I breathed with animated eyes, processing the news. “So, we’ve really pulled this off…and in no time at all. This is virtually unheard of.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t surprise me much. Those cats are young, but about their money. Your pitch had them meditating on money in no time. They get the business side of the game, as they should. There have been too many examples of capitalizing off self-branding for them not to get it.”

  He was right. This was a win/win for all. What great news to receive after the day I’d had.

  “So, how close is your stage designer to finishing the trimmings?” He gestured with his head for me to follow him to the table there in the kitchen.

  That thought deflated my celebratory balloon. I found my eyes rolling to the back of my head as I followed him and sat down near the massive window, overlooking the city.

  “That reminds me of another source of frustration while you were away.” I could sense the question in his gaze. “Patience hasn’t been happy with the stage layout for Dale. I’ve been trying to appease her with the nearly half dozen proposals from the designer.”

  “Well, did you?” Jackson asked, but his attention was also someplace else.

  His eyes kept going between my plate and my face. He wanted me to try his food.

  Shit!

  I forked risotto from my plate and couldn’t help the flutter of my lids. I’ve had the dish several times and had mixed feelings about it. It had been mushy, crunchy from being under a heating lamp too long, and flavorless. This was exceptional.

  “Good, huhn?” he implied, not questioned with a reserved smile.

  I nodded without enthusiasm. His ass knew I was taken. The roasted shrimp was just as delectable—not too chewy, seasoned with precision—and the asparagus was cooked well, succulent.

  “You a’ight.” I informed dryly. Jackson snorted and shook
his head while drawing his fork to start digging in himself. “As far as Patience, we’ve finally found a happy medium, but it took loads of placating on my part.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re in the business of doing, unfortunately.” Jackson’s words were delivered with an amenable tone, but I felt the reproach.

  Things got quiet for a while as we were feasting. The wine settled into my blood stream pretty strongly, blissfully.

  “I was concerned with what to feed you tonight.” His voice caught my attention. “You seem to be health conscious. You’re extremely lean.” His eyes had finally ascended. “It’s good to see you eat a hearty meal.”

  I went back to my food to divert my attention. I was slender. I’d lost sixty pounds since my college years. Depression took the first twenty or so, then moving to New York, picking up new habits, a slight addiction to exercising took off the rest. It had been excessive, but it kept my mind free of rather secular habits I’d lost myself in as an adolescent. I didn’t cook and eating wasn’t a fascinating exercise, so I did it mildly. I did get out with Clarice on occasion, but I didn’t over-indulge in that, preferring my solitude.

  I could have been offended by Jackson’s observation, but he had a way of issuing it without malice. So, I simply nodded my acknowledgement.

  “So, on to other business,” his tenor rose just slightly. “I owe you an apology for my temper over the past sixteen hours or so.”

  I stuffed my mouth with another tender shrimp. “You don’t say…”

  “I apologize.” He lowered his chin in response to my dry tone. “You have to understand that I have a history in this industry. And with that, you know the posers, the clowns, the true talent that doesn’t know how to handle their emotions and Shirez has been known to be all of those. I knew the bullshit we were facing when I learned he strong-armed his way into a meeting with you. I felt like I put you at risk because I knew the potential shit storm he’s known to cause. I was more frustrated with myself for sleeping on him. I vetted Erika before assembling my team. I knew the baggage she came with. Shirez was a risk.” Jackson shook his head. “Things had been going seamlessly and it crept up on me. And I shouldn’t have snapped on you because I’d forgotten all about that hazard.”

  I took a sip of my drink, absorbing his words, appreciative of his disclosure.

  “But, Elle, you’ve got to keep me in the loop when shit gets thick. You must use me as a resource. That’s what this business is made of: collecting and wisely using resources to advance your agenda. I know your clients personally, which is why I’m not lead on their files. There needs to be that separation of professionalism to ensure success: theirs and mine. That’s where you come in. And when you get stumped, it affects me. Dynamic Branding is on my shoulders. My partners aren’t exactly vested in this venture. I have something to prove. When things pop off the way that they did earlier, their faith in my father’s vision ebbs.”

  Jackson took a sip of his water. He was giving me lots to think about and reminding me that this was his father’s legacy. I could quickly forget about the weight mounted his shoulders. Not only was he leading up our burgeoning team, but Jackson was also a fulltime partner at J.G., Wizer and Hunter among his side enterprises. That had to be a stressful balance for one man—one young man.

  “No apologies needed, but I appreciate the humility,” I replied with honesty. I was a big girl with thick skin and could keep going with the best of them. “The question is now what do we do because we did fire off some threats to Erika that we may have to make good on because I don’t see her coming back from that.”

  “She will.” I watched as Jackson chewed and swallowed his food at a casual pace. “I got a call from her on my way home. She apologized for not being able to separate business from her personal life.” He went for his water.

  What?

  “She noted how she owes you a debt of gratitude because you forced her to start viewing relationships differently and start taking control of her life. She felt she needed that. So, I told her the offer is still available, but she needs to get back to me soon.” Jackson extended his lips downward, similar to the gesture of shrugging his shoulders. “She asked that we not give up on her.”

  As I finished my plate, I noted, “That’s good, but I think we still need to develop a plan B.”

  Jackson’s eyes ascended, issuing a quizzical glare. “Why?”

  “Because Erika is a wife. You don’t undercut your husband. It’s not a common move made by women like her.”

  “How is she?”

  “You know,” I shrieked, losing my patience. Jackson’s eyes widened demanding more. “She’s in that euphoric stage, drowning in the mendacity—as you’ve put it—of love. All she sees, feels and desires revolves around an egotistical man. To her, he can do no wrong. For her, his word is Bible. She’s one of them.” I took a nip of my wine, loving the cloud it was bringing me to float on.

  “One of who?”

  Oh, come on!

  My face straightened. “One of the foolish masses of women in our culture who believe happiness, joy and some crazy sense of completion can all be found in a mere man.” I placed the empty glass on the table making it ring against the surface and cocked my head to the side.

  After regarding me intensely for minutes long, Jackson snorted while shaking his head.

  “More wine?” he asked with a grin playing at the corners of his lips—those lips—while gathering our plates.

  “Sure,” I replied, my tone silvery while he turned for the sink.

  Ten minutes later, Jackson was putting the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. I’d offered several times to help but, he insisted on practicing hospitality on my first visit to his home. So, I looked on as we talked about an art show he attended in Atlanta last week. He was considering bringing on the artist as a client. His pitch and promotional ideas were compelling.

  Jackson wiped his hands on a towel and sauntered over to the refrigerator displaying full confidence in his broad athletic shoulders and tapered waist. He was definitely comfortable in his kitchen, totally dispelling any doubts of his culinary skills. Jackson looked damn sexy with the ease in his patient glide as he pulled out an ivory scalloped cake pedestal with some sort of bakery topped with fresh raspberries with a chocolate crumb crust that had my mouth salivating at mere sight.

  “Please tell me you have room for dessert.” He placed it on the island near where I rested my hip. Then, before I could answer, he lifted me onto the top of his counter. I couldn’t help the shiver down my spine at his touch and proximity. “I hope you like my dessert. It’s a little fattening,” he teased.

  “What’s this?” I asked as he pulled out a large spoon from the drawer between my legs.

  “You’re in for a treat. And you better like it. I ran home early, right after my lunch date, in fact, to make it.”

  I didn’t want to be reminded of Jackson’s lunch date with the well-aged, soon-to-expire Bernadette. So far, Jackson had magically mastered suspending the stressors I’d shown to his doorstep with.

  “It’s a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake. I’ve only made it once, but wanted to give it another try for mastery.”

  As I took a swig of my wine, he spooned a piece.

  Oh, no! Is he going to feed me?

  But Jackson nipped the spoon, having the first taste of his creation. His eyes drifted into the distance while he considered his appraisal. His lids batted and face tightened ruminatively.

  “Hmmmmm… Not bad at all.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to share some with your guest?” I trilled, suddenly open to eating from the same spoon that had the pleasure of Jackson’s mouth.

  “Oh.” Jackson’s knowing grin appeared, letting me know he was ribbing me. It worked.

  He scooped more and brought it to my mouth and I quickly obliged.

  “Mmmmmm…” I cried.

  When I peered over to Jackson, the grin had faded, his eyes had tightened, and he shook hi
s head softly, communicating something other than my appreciation for his baking skills.

  As he went for more, he muttered, “It goes well with the Riesling. That brings us to the next order of business.”

  “Business? The only business I want is more of that cheesecake!”

  “Really? You want more of my cheesecake?”

  He brought the spoon to his mouth and slowly closed his lips over it before pulling it out empty.

  “Oh, that is sooooo foul, Jackson!” I breathed out, honestly irritated by his selfishness. My inebriation had me going.

  “It’s my damn cake. You’re my employee, in my damn house, demanding something of my creation.” His brow was peaked.

  “Please, Jackson.” I couldn’t help the petulant trill.

  “Are you now asking for my damn cheesecake, in my damn house, while rudely sitting your pretty ass on my damn counter?” He feigned aghast.

  I nodded with enthusiasm. His ass had better be glad that I was blissfully tipsy.

  Jackson then straightened. “Under one condition,” he growled.

  My nipples tautened and pulse raced at the sudden change in his tenor. Then I felt flushed with the dollop of gel hitting my panties.

  What the hell was that?

  “Wh-what?” I stammered.

  Jackson brought the spoon to my face, his pensive eyes on the content instead of me. Then he stopped, midair, just inches from my mouth, finally revealing his hooded eyes.

  I could still taste the sweet creaminess from the cheesecake, the tart from the raspberry and faint spice of the Riesling. That’s when it hit me: I was being seduced.

  Before I could call him on it, he abruptly announced, “I want to have you raw.”

  I opened my mouth to answer without a reply ready, but before I could utter a word, the spoon was smoothly dashed into my agape mouth and cream hit my palate.

  Jackson leaned in between my legs and his deep chords rumbled, “You were so good last night. I know I’ve pushed you…would admit to being a greedy bastard when it comes to your body, but I can’t think of one thing I’d want more than filling your core with no barriers.”