by Maggie Riley
I was surprised to hear from Nancy Sinclair. Part of me had assumed her interest in my work and the art of macramé had been a little more than small talk, but it turned out it was very real and very genuine. And she ended up being the distraction I so desperately needed.
It had been several days since I sent the book to Jack and I had heard nothing. I cried about it some more and then told myself to stop wallowing. It wasn’t a very good pep talk and I cried for a few more days, and then Nancy called. She still wanted to go to the Museum of Arts and Design if I was interested.
I was definitely interested in finding an excuse to shower and leave my apartment, so I readily accepted her invitation. It was a wonderful day, the two of us exploring the incredible exhibits, with Nancy talking a mile a minute. It kept my mind occupied, and distracted, and by the time we left the museum and headed to what turned out to be our shared favorite coffee shop, I realized I had barely thought about Jack all day long.
But then, of course, I was thinking about him again.
For a brief moment, as we sat down at a table, I thought about pouring my extremely hot coffee over my hand so I could focus on the pain there instead of the pain I felt in my heart.
“Are you alright, my dear?” Nancy asked me once we had settled down.
“Hmm?” I blinked at her. “Oh, yes. Just a little distracted, I guess.”
“Mmhmm.” She gave me a knowing look. “It’s about Jack, isn’t it?”
Fantastic. I just happened to be on a coffee date with the most intuitive socialite in Manhattan. And one of the few people who knew that something had happened between me and Jack.
“It’s nothing,” I told her, hoping I could brush it aside and move onto another topic.
I had no such luck.
“I know that look.” Nancy pointed a finger at me. “That’s a look that says ‘man trouble.’”
“It’s not a big deal,” I tried again, but I didn’t even sound convincing to myself.
Nancy’s face was sympathetic. “Oh dear,” she sighed. “Did something happen between you and Jack?”
“You could say that,” I muttered, before straightening and looking at Nancy straight on. I was tired of lying. Of keeping secrets. What was the point? They just made you feel lonely. At least, they made me feel lonely.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but Jack and I might have fibbed to you during that dinner,” I told her. “We weren’t dating.”
“Oh, I know,” Nancy said, surprising me.
“You knew?”
“Of course,” Nancy smiled. “You two clearly liked each other, but I didn’t buy that you were in a relationship for a second. There was something going on, but I can tell when people have been together for a while. Or when they’re about to be together for the first time. You two were very cute the way you were trying not to look at each other. The mutual attraction was so strong it practically knocked me off my feet. But that kind of feeling is the sign of something to come, rather than something that already is.” Nancy tapped the side of her nose. “Trust me, I can sense it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why would I?” Nancy tilted her head, smiling. “It was too much fun watching you two circle each other, both of you clearly wanting the same thing.”
I blushed, feeling a little embarrassed about how obvious it had been. But then again, hiding my feelings had never really been my strong suit.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Nancy asked kindly.
I did, but I didn’t. A part of me felt that if I kept talking about it, maybe I’d find a solution or I’d get so sick of talking about Jack that I’d get over him. But the other part of me knew that such thoughts were just wishful thinking. There wasn’t a solution, and the only way I’d get over Jack was time. And maybe more ice cream and wine. Or ice cream wine. That was a thing, wasn’t it?
I opened my mouth, about to thank Nancy for her friendship and her offer of a sympathetic ear, but she was staring past me, her eyes wide. Turning around, I saw exactly what had given her that expression of shock and surprise.
It was Jack. Standing in the doorway of the coffee shop, his motorcycle helmet under his arm, his hair looking windblown and sexy, his broad chest barely contained beneath a tight black t-shirt and a pair of jeans that hugged his muscular thighs. I bit my lip before I could sigh.
His eyes caught mine, and I couldn’t help myself. My sigh echoed through the coffee shop, which seemed to have gone deathly quiet. Without taking his gaze off of me, Jack strode across the room, his long legs eating up the distance between us.
“Jack,” Nancy said needlessly. “Won’t you join us?”
“If you don’t mind,” he was still looking at me as if waiting for me to answer. To give him permission to sit.
Somehow I nodded. Beneath the table my knees were knocking so I pressed them together and laced my trembling hands together. Seeing him was like being given a glass of water in the desert. I just wanted to drink him in. I realized I was staring, but I couldn’t help it. Who knew when I’d get to see him again?
He was close enough that I could smell that perfect combination of sweat and motor oil. That scent that was all Jack. I wanted to lean forward and bury my face in his shirt and take a deep whiff. I wanted to bottle him and pour it all over my body. I wanted to bathe in it.
I was pretty sure I looked like a psycho, staring – openly drooling – over Jack Willis. Then again, all the women (and even some of the men) in the coffee shop were doing the same. Even Nancy looked a little flustered by all that was just-stepped-off-of-the-back-of-my-badass-motorcycle Jack, AKA incredibly hot Jack. But if he thought it was weird, Jack’s expression gave no indication. He seemed to be watching me as intently as I was watching him.
“Well,” Nancy said, and I could hear the humor in her voice. “I think I’ll get another coffee. Can I get you anything, Jack?”
His eyes still fixated on mine, he gave a firm shake of his head.
“I’ll just be over there then,” Nancy got up from the table and walked away.
Even though we were in the middle of a crowded coffee shop in Manhattan, it felt like it was just the two of us. Trapped in a bubble of our own making. A bubble I never wanted to pop.
I held my breath, not sure what Jack was doing here. And I couldn’t allow myself to hope. Because if I did, and he disappointed, who knew when I’d be able to recover from that?
“You look good,” Jack finally said.
I looked down at myself, breaking eye contact. He was lying, of course. I looked terrible. Black leggings and an oversized tunic that I usually saved for laundry day. Or wallowing in my heartbreak while visiting museums day.
“What do you want, Jack?” I asked, surprising myself with a directness and bravery I didn’t think I had.
The side of his mouth quirked up in a smile. I told myself not to be charmed, and crossed my arms over my chest as if that could protect me. That it could be a barrier, just like his desk had been in his office.
“I wanted to give you something,” he told me.
It was then that I noticed that in addition to his helmet, he had something else tucked under his arm. A brown wrapped parcel with a pink, satin ribbon. I raised an eyebrow at the choice of decoration.
“I had some help wrapping it,” he told me. “The person on the phone. The one I said ‘I love you’ to?” He took a breath. “That was my daughter. Ella. She’s six.”
I was stunned. Out of all the things I had expected him to say, telling me that he had a six-year-old daughter wasn’t anywhere near the possibilities I had considered.
“You have a daughter,” I repeated.
He nodded. “Very few people know about her,” he confirmed. “It’s one of the reasons I keep my private life so, well, private. I want to do everything I can to keep her out of the spotlight. At least until she’s old enough to decide whether or not she wants it focused on her.”
“And her mother?” I asked tentatively.
“We’re divorced,” Jack said, his eyes fixated on mine again. “We met in college. It was never a good match.” He smiled slightly. “But I got Ella out of it, so I can’t really complain.”
“A daughter,” I said again, sounding a little like an echo.
“She’s amazing,” Jack told me.
Suddenly things began to make sense. “Elsa,” I said, a small laugh bubbling out of me. “That’s why your car is named Elsa.”
He nodded, his own smile growing. “You try saying no to Ella.”
“She must be as stubborn as her father,” I observed.
“More,” he informed me.
“I can’t imagine that’s possible,” I found myself teasing him.
“You’ll just have to judge for yourself,” Jack said.
I froze. What did he mean? Did he mean what I thought he meant? What did I even think he meant? My heart stuttered to a stop, at the same time my brain did, and I was pretty sure the entire world seemed to freeze around me. Time stood still.
“I will?” I asked.
Jack reached across the table and took my hand.
“I was a moron,” he told me.
All I could do was nod, and he laughed. The sound made time move again. I blinked at him.
“What are you saying?” I asked, calling on some of that newly discovered courage. I couldn’t take the anticipation. I couldn’t wait for him to get to the point.
“Why don’t you open your present,” he said instead of obliging.
It was impossible to be annoyed or even mad at him when he stared at me with those piercing eyes and that lock of hair brushed across his forehead. God, I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch him.
Instead I took the package from him. It wasn’t the best wrapping job, but I loved it because I could tell that Jack had done it himself. Even the bow looked like the attempt of a man with fingers too large to handle something so delicate as a pink ribbon.
I carefully unwrapped it even though I wanted to rip the paper to shreds and find out what he had given me. But I would have looked crazy. Crazier.
Jack watched me patiently, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands on the table. For a moment I was distracted by the wide spread of his fingers. Of fingers he’d had on my skin. Fingers he’d had inside of me.
I gulped, not sure that I could handle what was in the package he had given me. I had barely survived his last package.
But when I looked down at my hands, at the gift I had finally unwrapped, I discovered something I wasn’t expecting at all. It was a book. Specifically it was the book. The book I had written about Jack.
There was a gorgeous photo of Jack on the back, but it was the same photo that was always used in publicity images. My stomach dropped a little. But when I turned the book over, I was confronted with a picture that I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t recent by any means, and without the sign for Tom’s Bike Shop hanging behind him, I never would have recognized the kid.
It was Jack. A really young Jack, wearing a big smile and coveralls practically drenched in oil. His hands were black too, up to the elbows, and there were even some smudges on his cheeks but he looked ecstatic. It didn’t take long for me to realize why. Once my eyes left his image, I saw that he was standing next to a bike. Clearly one that he had just finished repairing.
Above the photo was the title of the book. A LABOR OF LOVE. I stared at it, surprised. They had kept my title. And then my eyes went to the bottom of the front cover and there was my name: Libby Hanson.
I had never been credited for my work before. And I had never really minded.
But now my eyes filled with tears. This was a book – a book that I had written, that I was proud of – with my name on it. I could claim it. I had never dared to dream of something so wonderful. It was a gift more precious than I could have ever imagined, and Jack had made it happen. A tear fell onto the book and I quickly brushed it away, not wanting to ruin the glossy cover. I wanted it to remain perfect and untouched for as long as I could.
“Hey now,” Jack abandoned his casual position, and leaned forward, putting his hand under my chin, lifting my face so I could meet his gaze. His eyes were steady and intense. His thumb brushed aside the rest of my tears before they could fall. “You haven’t even opened it yet.”
My hands were shaking, but I managed to open the book.
There, on the dedication page was a message to me. It read:
It’s usually the writer of the book that gets to write the dedication. But there comes a time when you need to break the rules – both in business and in your personal life.
And Libby, you broke all my rules. I liked it. I like you. In fact, I love you.
–Jack
I was speechless. A part of me was worried that I was imagining things. That the dedication page was actually blank, or some generic quote about success or innovation, or something that I would have expected Jack to put in a book about himself.
Instead he had written me a love letter.
I looked up at him. His eyebrows were pushed together, his face both nervous and concerned. I almost laughed.
Instead I put my hand on his cheek.
“You were right,” he told me. “About everything, but especially the book. It would have been nothing without you injecting humanity in it. In me.” He tapped the dedication page. “This is the only thing that I added. Everything else – every word is yours. You deserve the credit. And the praise.”
“Do you mean it?” I was finally able to ask.
“About the writing?” Jack looked down at the book. “Of course, it’s extremely well written and thoughtful and–”
My hand still on his face, I nudged him so he looked up at me, his words cutting off mid-sentence.
“Not about that,” I pointed at the dedication. “About this. Specifically about the part that says that you love me. Did you mean it?”
“I did,” he said, his eyes focused on mine. “I do. I love you, Libby Hanson.”
More beautiful words had never been spoken.
“Can you forgive me?” Jack asked, taking my hands in his. “For being a righteous asshole and a major jerk?”
I laughed, and kissed him. Deeply.
“Does that answer your question?” I teased when I pulled away.
He responded by standing and pulling me into his arms. Then he kissed me, and the entire coffee shop cheered. But all I heard was the beating of my heart, and all I could feel was Jack.
Epilogue
LIBBY
Six Months Later
I thought my cat would have a hard time adjusting to a new place. After all, he had lived in my tiny, but cozy apartment for his entire indoor feline life. And I’d heard stories about cats being difficult once moved to a new and unfamiliar location. I was afraid we were going to have shredded furniture and passive-aggressive marking to contend with. But it turned out that Mr. Mistoffelees was a fancy cat living in a once-street cat’s body and adjusted just fine to his new, luxurious digs.
Both of us had. When Jack asked me to move in with him, I had been thrilled and then nervous. I loved his place, but I worried that Jack’s apartment would feel too vast, too all-consuming and too swank, especially in comparison to my one-bedroom with its leaky shower and broken cupboards. But I knew I would officially be crossing into crazy lady territory if I told my hot, wealthy boyfriend that I would prefer to stay in an overpriced, cramped apartment instead of moving into his state of the art pad. So I said yes, and I braced myself for feeling out of place and uncomfortable.
But it didn’t happen. And the move had been surprisingly painless. Jack had taken care of everything, even hiring people to pack for me. I just had to stand around and supervise, which, of course, lasted for a total of ten minutes before I couldn’t control myself and started helping the people hired to help me. Jack, knowing me as well as he did, had anticipated this, and warned the movers so none of them were surprised when I rolled up my sleeves and sidled
up next to them to pack my belongings.
Not that much of it made its way to Jack’s place. Most of my furniture had been donated to charity, along with my mismatched and chipped dishes, and the few appliances that I had that still worked. I had arrived at Jack’s place with a few boxes of clothes, a sewing machine and a cat carrier.
Yet, within an hour of unpacking my things, I felt like I was home.
Jack had left me to my own devices, telling me that I should get used to feeling as if the place was ours instead of his. That part was a little harder. Even though I had spent every night over the last few months at his place, it had still been difficult to settle in when most of my life was halfway across town.
But now, with my sewing machine set up in the spare room that had been designated as my office, and Mr. Mistoffelees weaving between my legs and purring contentedly, I started to see the apartment as ours. And it was nice. Nicer than nice.
I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. Jack had taken one look at my old computer and replaced it with a brand new, super fancy one. It was one of the many generous gifts he had bestowed upon me. Not only did I now have an enormous walk-in closet in the apartment, but it was full of beautiful clothes.
Even though he insisted that he loved my thrift store style, Jack had still pressed a credit card to my palm and told me to buy anything I had been fantasizing about buying. At first I thought I would feel weird about spending all that money on clothes, until Georgia and I found a store that only carried fair trade clothes and gave a portion of their proceeds to charity. And their clothes were really, really pretty. And exactly my style. Suddenly, I was a little more excited about going on a shopping spree and was able to feel good about the purchases I made.
Of course, when I got home that evening and told Jack all about it, he smiled and nodded as I gushed about the store and everyone who worked there and all the organizations it supported. Then he asked if he could see what I bought. Then when I put on my new favorite outfit, he asked if he could see what it looked like on the floor of our bedroom.