Making Over Maris

by Sabrina York

“Sure.”

  She stood and rounded the table and, because she couldn’t not, she gave them each a hug. They watched her leave—which was unnerving. It probably accounted for the way she skittered from the room, down the hall and to the relative safety of her office.

  Damn.

  Damn and damn.

  She barely had time to recover and reawaken her laptop—to do some actual work—when Jack poked his head into her office. Her pulse kicked up when she saw him. She’d never tell him what she’d learned. He clearly hadn’t wanted her to know.

  But she’d never forget it.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “Hey,” he said. Without invitation he came in and closed the door. “What was that all about?” He plopped into the chair.

  Sara sighed. “They’re worried about me.”

  “Worried?” He frowned. “Should they be worried? Is there something to be worried about? What’s wrong?”

  She loved the concern in his voice. The way he leaned forward. The intensity in his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong, Jack. They’ve noticed I’ve been…distracted. They thought I was freaking out about Mom.”

  “Are you? Freaking out?”

  “No. Mom’s fine, Jack.” She shot him a look. “It’s other things that have me distracted.”

  A broad grin spread across his face. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh. But they were so nice, I feel guilty.”

  He stilled. “Guilty about us?”

  “No. About letting them think… You know.” She shrugged. “I’m not good at keeping secrets.” Not those kinds of secrets.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. They don’t need to know everything.”

  “They really don’t need to know everything,” she laughed.

  The hint of horror in his eyes made her laugh harder. And it reminded her. About tonight.

  “Speaking of that…” She went all sexy and sultry—with a hint of Domme. “I have another assignment for you, you naughty boy.”

  He sat up straighter, adjusted himself in the seat. His voice dropped an octave. “Do you?”

  “For tonight.”

  He paled. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, Jack. Here’s what I want you to do—”

  “I can’t. Not tonight.”

  She stilled in surprise. What? Well hell. That kicked her right out of the mood. He’d never said no before. “Why the fuck not?”

  “I have…a thing.”

  “A thing?” Sara shot a look across the hall into Jenny’s office. Was it a thing with Jenny? Because if it was, she’d have to smack them both—

  “A private thing.”

  Her heart dropped. A private thing? Something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share with her? She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. Not the prospect that there was a part of his life she wasn’t privy to. Not the feeling of desperation and that nasty curl of oh so familiar disenchantment writhing in her gut. And how pathetic was she to be so needy? So clingy? The feelings behind the panic horrified her. It meant she cared and maybe cared too much.

  But if she did, it was far too late. She was utterly lost to him. And he had a private thing.

  Dread trickled through her. Was this it, then? The beginning of the end?

  What was it about men? Her relationships with them? Why did they always have to go tits up?

  And this one—this one would devastate her.

  She rearranged the paper clips on her desk. Mangled one. “Fine.”

  His gaze sharpened on her face. He studied her and then shook his head. “Why did you say ‘fine’ like it really wasn’t fine?”

  “It’s fine, Jack. Fine. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “No. It’s not fine. Sara, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She pressed her lips together and glared at him.

  “Come on, Sara.” He lowered his voice an octave, the way he did when he was trying to be all adamant and shit. “Throw me a frickin’ bone. You know I’m clueless about women. You know you’re alien creatures to me. We’ve covered that.” He shifted restlessly. “You have to tell me what I did wrong.”

  “Isn’t it clear?”

  “No. It’s not clear.”

  “You have a thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A private thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Displeasure churned in her gut. Why did she have to explain this? Why couldn’t he just know? “Something you’d rather do than spend the evening with me.”

  “Oh.” His ears went pink at the tips. “I didn’t say that. I would much rather spend the evening with you—doing whatever it is you have planned.” She ignored the relief flooding through her. It was far too soon for relief. “But today is September thirtieth.”

  “And?”

  “I have a standing engagement on September thirtieth.”

  Her annoyance flared. “A date?” With whom?

  “Kind of.”

  “With whom?”

  He folded his fingers together and studied them for a long while before he answered. Anger prickled the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. She’d begun to think he wasn’t going to answer at all—was ready to say “fine” again—when he spoke.

  “Mr. Winston.”

  “Mr. Winston?” Who the hell was that?

  Jack nodded. His throat worked. “It’s his birthday, you see.”

  “Who is Mr. Winston?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sara snapped her laptop shut. “I have time.”

  “Okay…” He didn’t say anything else but Sara could tell he was working through the details, so she let his mental computer process. “I don’t know if you remember but when we were in high school, my dad died.”

  Her heart clenched. She shook her head. She hadn’t paid much attention to the details of Jack Maris’ life in high school other than he always seemed to be around. And he always seemed to be there when she needed him.

  “I’m…sorry.” Outrageously belated but it needed to be said. She was sorry. She truly was. Sorry he’d had to go through that. Sorry she’d not bothered to know him better.

  But Jack negated her sympathy with a slash of his hand. “He wasn’t much of a father. But when he died, I went to live with my aunt Linda.”

  She stilled. “What about your mom?”

  His lips worked. “I never knew my mom.”

  Oh. God. Poor baby.

  Sara’s mom was her rock. Her champion. Her hero. And he’d never had a mom.

  She’d never even known. Never cared enough to ask. “I’m sorry.” She was. In oh so many ways.

  “She died.” He flicked a glance at her. Sara winced at the wounded expression in his eyes. “Aunt Linda said…” His throat worked. He rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes.

  “What did she say?” A whisper.

  “She said it was my fault. I killed my mom.” He cleared his throat. “So I always assumed she died in childbirth.”

  “What did your dad say?”

  Jack barked a laugh but there was no humor in it. Sara could tell he was hanging on by a thin thread. “Dad never talked about her. He never talked about much of anything. He was kind of a drunk.”

  “I’m sorry.” Again. She was. She’d had no idea.

  His fingers laced together until they went white. “Aunt Linda said that was my fault too.”

  “I am seriously not liking this Aunt Linda. She sounds like a raging bitch.”

  “Oh, you have no idea. There were other things—” He looked away. Then he stood. Turned. Faced the wall. As though he wanted to block out a memory. Or couldn’t bear to share it with her.

  Sara ached to soothe him but knew he needed to work through this, to tell her in his own way. “And?”

  “And. Well. Suffice to say, I didn’t stay with Aunt Linda very long.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “I ran away.”

  “Oh Jack.”

  He swallowed heavily and sat back do
wn, in command of himself, his life, once more. “I ran away and it was the best fucking thing I ever did. It was difficult at first because I had to find food and a place to sleep. And life is rough as a homeless kid.”

  Her heart lurched. He’d been homeless? As a kid? “Oh Jack.”

  He glared at her. “No pity, Sara. There’s no need for it.”

  “But how horrible.”

  “You do what you have to do. Besides, it was a hell of a lot better than living with my aunt—”

  “Okay.” She tried to rearrange her features into a pleasant, cheerful mien but probably only accomplished a grimace.

  “Anyway it was tough but then I found Teen Hope—or rather they found me. They gave me a place to sleep and food to eat and made it so I could keep going to school. But they did more than that. They gave me Mr. Winston.”

  “Mr. Winston.”

  “Yeah.” Jack sat back in his chair. His face transformed. It was a balm to her soul. Thank God he’d found someone who could make him smile like that. “He wasn’t anybody, really. Not a millionaire or some bigwig. He was just a guy who worked at a grocery store and spent his evenings and weekends helping us kids with our homework—or talking to us about life.” He paused and fixed her with a poignant smile. “He’s the reason I’m anything, Sara. He’s the reason I finished high school. He’s the reason I stayed out of trouble. He’s the reason I didn’t stick a needle in my arm like so many did. He helped me prepare for my SATs and ACTs, he helped me figure out how to apply for a scholarship. He made me what I am.”

  “You can’t miss his birthday.”

  “I know.”

  “I totally understand, Jack.” She swallowed but it didn’t relieve the pressure in her throat. But damn it, she wasn’t going to cry. “I’m…sorry if I was a bitch.”

  “You’re never a bitch.”

  She tipped her head to the side and shot him a sardonic look.

  “Okay. Sometimes you are but I like it.”

  She couldn’t help her smile. “We’ll get together another night.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Sara. For understanding. Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  Her heart soared. To meet Mr. Winston? The man who had saved Jack? “Hell yes.”

  * * * * *

  “So…if your mom died when you were a baby and your dad was…wasn’t present, who raised you?”

  Jack braked for a light before he answered. “No one raised me, Sara.”

  She shook her head. Unbelievable. She stared out the window. She thought back to high school and winced. How many times had she made fun of Jack to her friends? His clothes? His unkempt, scraggly hair? His idiotic comments?

  When he’d been doing his best, floundering in a world he didn’t understand. Because no one had ever explained it to him.

  “You’ve accomplished so much. Considering.”

  “I suppose.”

  She nearly laughed at his self-effacing tone. It was so…Jack.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall and parked. Sara glanced at the Chinese restaurant right in front of them. Excellent. She loved Chinese. And she was hungry.

  She didn’t wait for him to open the door. She hopped out and headed for the restaurant.

  “Sara?”

  She stopped. Turned. He stood by his car, holding a small gift bag. “We’re going this way.” He nodded his head to the left.

  “Oh. Okay.” No Chinese. No problem.

  She headed back and took his outstretched hand. Let him lead.

  It was surprising that he led her toward the field to the south. It was surrounded by a decorative metal fence. Together, they passed through a creaky gate.

  “Jack, is this—” Oh hell. It was.

  A cemetery.

  She said nothing more as he made his way to a gravesite underneath a sprawling, gnarly oak. The stone said, “Sam Winston—a wonderful man. You will be missed,” along with the dates of his life.

  Jack put his arm around her shoulders. “Sara Grant. This is Mr. Winston. Mr. Winston, this is Sara, the girl I told you about.”

  Her heart lurched. He’d told Mr. Winston about her? When? But she didn’t ask. Instead she said, “Thank you, Mr. Winston.” It was a whisper but heartfelt. She hoped, if there was such a thing as an afterlife, Mr. Winston would feel the full force of her gratitude.

  “His name was Sam,” Jack said.

  “Sam.” She nodded. Although she knew that. She’d read the stone. “I like that name.”

  “Me too.” Jack stood in silence for a long while. “He’s the reason I was able to make it. The reason I’m alive. The reason I’m anything,” he said. Silence surrounded them as they both fell into their thoughts. After a while he said, “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “How it only takes one person to care. To make a world of difference. One person…” He pulled something small and metallic from the gift bag and set it on top the tombstone.

  “What’s that?”

  Jack grinned. “A little robot. I built it. From a kit. I make him one every year.”

  “Why?” Sara hugged her arms around herself. He’d moved away; she was suddenly cold. She liked that he came back to her side after he set the robot on the tombstone and wrapped his arm around her again.

  “It’s how he got me.” He glanced at her, saw her confusion and elaborated. “He convinced me to join this stupid robotics club. We built these spider bots. They don’t do anything but crawl around and flash lights but as a kid I was fascinated by them—and that I could actually make something. Someone had donated a crappy old computer to the shelter and I used it to create more interesting designs. And then I discovered I have an affinity for writing programs…”

  “Did Mr. Winston help you with that too?”

  Jack laughed. “No. He didn’t understand code in the least. Said it was all ‘jibber-jabber’ but he liked that I cared about something.” Jack turned back to the grave. “He was a good man.”

  “He was.”

  “I always thought if I ever had a kid, maybe I would name him Sam.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  A comfortable silence enfolded them again. They stood in the waning sunlight of a fall afternoon, simply being together. Body and soul. It was wonderful.

  “So,” Jack gusted. “Are you hungry?”

  Sara blinked at the abrupt turn of conversation. “Um. Yes?”

  “Great. Let’s go eat.”

  “Is that…it? Is that what you wanted to do?”

  “Yep. That’s it. I needed to pay my respects. Happy birthday, Mr. Winston.”

  Sara smiled at the tombstone. Yeah. “Happy birthday.” You wonderful man, you. How she wished she could have met him.

  “Let’s go get some food. I saw a Chinese place over there. You love Chinese.”

  Naturally he would know that. He would know that when she had really—really—known nothing about him.

  “And then we can go do that thing you had planned.” He shot her a mischievous grin and she grinned right back.

  But they didn’t. After dinner he took her back to his place and they made love but it was slow and soft and oh so gentle.

  And she liked it just as much as the kinky stuff.

  Maybe even more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thank God the next day was Saturday. They could sleep in.

  Sara loved sleeping in. Loved it more wrapped in Jack’s arms with Ding curled around their heads, nibbling on their hair.

  Ding was a bit odd. But she loved him.

  Jack’s phone rang a couple times and Sara’s cell chimed off and on. They ignored them both. When they finally got up, he made breakfast—scrambled eggs and French toast and bacon—and then they hopped in his car, put down the top and took a drive up the coast. They had lunch on the Santa Barbara Pier—delicious clam chowder in yeasty bread bowls—and walked along the beach for hours with their
fingers entwined. They liked it so much they stayed the night.

  On Sunday they drove home and visited a quirky boutique in North Hollywood that Sara loved. It was filled with BDSM clothing and jewelry—all stuff that could be worn in polite society but cleverly crafted so the uninitiated would never know. Way in the back, behind a curtain, they found a special selection of toys and…equipment. They explored the treasure trove, laughing and joking and holding up item after item. When Sara threateningly waggled an enormous strap-on dildo at him, he blanched but she wasn’t altogether sure that was fear in his eyes.

  Jack spent a fortune.

  He couldn’t wait to get home and try the stuff out, which made something warm glow in the region of her heart. She loved this. Loved even more that he loved this. They headed back to his house with the late-afternoon sun warming their faces and the freeway breeze teasing their hair.

  Jack stopped at his favorite Chinese takeout place on the way home. Together he and Sara carried the bags of food into the house and arranged everything on the table, laughing over the fact that the restaurant had gotten the order completely wrong but somehow it didn’t matter. Everything was good.

  After dinner they sat on the couch in the living room.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  Sara nibbled her lip. “Is it something you bought at Trisk?”

  He laughed. “That’s for later. Wait here.” He sprinted to his office and found the envelope that had been sitting there for almost two months. When he handed it to her, she tipped her head to the side. He loved when she did that.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  She did, and froze. “Jack.”

  “Your tickets. To Paris.”

  “I’d completely forgotten.”

  “Really?” That was difficult to believe. She’d been adamant. Then again she usually was. “You leave on Tuesday. I’ll take you to the airport that night. I booked you a room in a hotel on the Seine with a view of the Eiffel Tower.”

  She sucked in a breath and studied the itinerary. “Oh. This is… This is… I can’t accept this, Jack.”

  His belly dropped. He gaped at her. “What do you mean, you can’t accept it? You have to. We had an agreement. You leave next Tuesday.”

  “But that wasn’t fair of me. I shouldn’t have—”