by Paige North
Brent has pulled my chair out and is waiting for me to sit. I want to see what table Jackson is at so I know what area to avoid, but Brent is just standing there, waiting. It’s a little annoying but I smile and sit down, thanking him as I do.
“This is nice,” Brent says. “It’s almost like having a private table.”
It’s sweet that he’s making what’s more like an exile into something positive. I can see Jackson moving around, shaking hands with Jules by his side. He’s looking around the room and he better not be looking for me.
Why he would be, I have no idea but I don’t want to talk to the guy. Not today, not ever…Even though there seems to be a spot in the center of my chest that throbs every time I so much as look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Maybe one day after class we could go get lunch for real,” Brent says. “Off the clock, you know?”
“Uh huh,” I say, watching the room. We begin eating our salads, which were already placed at the tables before we came into the room. It’s thin and soggy but I keep moving my fork from my plate to my mouth with no thought.
“Hello, Emily,” a voice says above me. That voice. The only voice I don’t want to hear.
The voice I can’t forget.
I look up and see him, Jackson, standing behind my chair looking obnoxiously dapper in his suit and tie, his hair perfectly combed back. The better to show off that face of his, gorgeous strong jaw and mesmerizing eyes. Damn him. He’s so annoying.
“Hello, Mr. Croft,” I say in what I hope to be a sufficiently icy tone of voice. I hardly look at him, no more than the initial glance.
He lets out a chuckle. “Surely by now you can call me Jackson,” he says. What does that mean, “by now”? Does he think because he gave me the best orgasm of my life that means I have to act familiar with him?
“It’s been a while. I wanted to talk with you.”
“Thank you for coming to the event,” I say, because there are a couple other people at the table, and they’re beginning to watch us curiously—including Brent. “We’re so happy to have your support.”
“I’m happy to give it,” Jackson says, his voice as cool as ever. It’s maddening. How can he be so steely? Is there nothing inside his soul? And again—why is he here? Why is he talking to me? “Looks like a pretty full house. That must make you happy. A big success for the children and all…”
That’s it. I can’t take it, especially if he’s going to start giving lip service to the actual needy children of Boston. What a condescending asshole.
I get up from my chair, and jerk my head toward the nearby pillar and stand on the opposite side of it, away from the prying eyes and ears of my table.
“What is wrong with you?” I say.
“Emily,” Jackson says, pulling back at my dramatic opening. “I wanted to say—”
“Nothing,” I snap. “You don’t get to say anything to me. You had the chance, the day after that dinner. But what did I get? A big fat dose of silence.”
“It’s not so simple—”
“Don’t you dare give me lame excuses either. I don’t care. Okay? About you or what happened between us or anything.” I start to leave but decide I’m not done, turning back to him. “You know what? You can’t treat people like that. You think you’re so much better than everyone else and that you have some right to treat people like crap. I’m glad you donated the money but I regret going out to dinner with you. You were just scamming me so you could use me up for one night and then discard me. You’re disgusting, Jackson Croft.”
With that, I push past him, getting the hell out of that room. I am not going to cry, but I might need to scream into a pillow or something.
I punch through the ballroom door. I go to the end of the hallway and around the corner, near the elevator for the hotel offices. I hear the doors of the ballroom click shut and I hope it’s not Jackson coming to look for me. It’d be just like him to want to get in the last word.
So I’m surprised when it’s Brent who rounds the corner, looking for me.
“Hey,” he says in a voice that sounds more like he’s talking with a child than an adult. “You okay, sweetie?” He puts his hands on my arms and rubs them up and down, as if I’m cold. I’m not, I’m heated up and wish he’d stop. I nudge my arm and he releases me.
“Not particularly,” I mumble.
“What was that all about back there?”
I don’t want him to know about my brief history with Jackson so I just say, “It was nothing.”
“Did he say something to do? Something he shouldn’t have?”
“No,” I say. Brent is leaning in so close to me, trying to get me to look in his eyes but I don’t want to. I just need a moment think. “I just thanked him for his donation and then I started to not feel well so I came out here. It was nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing,” he says in a gentle voice, like he’s trying to get a frightened cat out from under the bed. “I hope you know that you can tell me if something’s wrong.”
“Seriously, Brent,” I say. “It was nothing.” I force a smile, hoping it’ll be enough for him to back off. He’s wearing cologne, too much, and the smell is making me feel like I’m going to choke. “Let’s go back in there. Really. I’m better now.”
“Hey, now, slow down,” Brent says. He touches my arms again, holding them on either side. “It is nice and quiet back here.” He tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Brent…” I begin. This is the last thing I need.
“Shhh,” he says, his breath hitting my face. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and truly trying to calm myself. I feel penned in, trapped.
“God, you’re gorgeous.” He puts his fingertips under my chin and leans in, his lips aiming for mine.
“Hey, wait,” I say, pulling back as much as I can when I’m backed against the wall. “Brent, come on. I mean, I'm sorry. I don’t mean…I mean you’re a really nice guy and all.”
“Don’t give me that. I know I'm a nice guy. A really nice guy.” He closes the space between us again and says, “I can be a really nice guy to you in more ways than one.”
If that’s supposed to be sultry talk then I just can’t. I don’t want this from Brent.
“Brent, can we just go back to the table?” I say. He doesn’t move so I put my hand on his chest to nudge him back but he grabs my wrist and holds me in place.
“Come on,” he says. “Don’t be such a prude.” He tries to kiss me again but I turn my head, his mouth landing on my ear. “Goddamn it, stop it. Come on, relax.”
My fight or flight responses are hitting max level. I need to get away from this guy. What has happened? How did he turn so quickly?
“I’m serious, Brent. Let go of me.” Part of me wants to scream, but I don’t want to cause a scene—I just want to get the hell out of here and away from him.
“You’ve been in my office more than any other student and now you’re going to tell me to let go? Emily, don’t be that girl.” He tightens his grip and then pushes his body up against mine, pinning me to the wall.
“Stop it, Brent,” I say, the panic in my voice rising.
His face is a tight, angry ball of madness like I’ve never seen. Squirrely little Brent is scaring the hell out of me.
I have the absurd thought that maybe I’m misreading him. And he’s my T.A.—I could get in trouble or at the very least, he can make my life in class hell.
But his grip is not loosening and the more I struggle the tighter he holds and the more frightened I become. Tears are forming in my eyes because shit I can’t believe this is happening.
I have to get away from him. Why won’t he stop?
“Let go of her,” a deep, ferociously growling voice commands. I look over and see Jackson, looking as tightly wound as a ship’s knot, his hands balled into fists at his side, his eyes blazing anger at Brent. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Brent steps
back slowly, but the look on his face says that he’s nervous. He was not expecting Jackson Croft to appear. “Hey, man. We were having a moment here, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Jackson says, keeping his eyes level on Brent. “And I told you to step away from her. Now.”
Brent’s eyes dart from me to Jackson. He straightens his back and says, “Look. Everything’s fine. Why don’t you go back inside and enjoy the lunch?”
With long, stalking strides, Jackson moves toward Brent, who takes a couple of steps back, his palms up in front of him, bracing for impact. But Jackson doesn’t actually lay a finger on him. He leans in close to Brent and says, “If you ever touch or even bother Emily again, I will not think twice about breaking every single bone in that wormy little body of yours. Do we understand each other?”
Brent doesn’t move. The guy is drained of color and totally paralyzed by fear.
Jackson shakes his head slightly, then speaks again. “Tell me you understand or there’s going to be a real problem.”
“I…I understand,” Brent stutters.
“Good. Now get the hell out of my sight.”
Brent immediately starts walking, looking as if his buttocks are clenched, half waddling, half speed-walking down the hall. He shoots one nervous glance back at Jackson and then starts running.
Soon he’s gone.
I fall back against the wall and cover my face with my hands. Holy crap, what just happened?
“Emily,” Jackson says, his voice now soft. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head no.
“It’s okay,” Jackson says. His hands lightly touch my shoulders.
“It’s not okay,” I say.
He drops his hands. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Goddamn it,” I say. My hands are shaking, my insides are boiling, and my brain is scrambled. “What the hell was that? I never even…why did he…”
“It’s not your fault,” he says. “And I’ll gladly go hunt him down right now and really take care of him, if you’d like.”
I shake my head and give a muted laugh. “I think you scared him enough,” I say. I try to gather myself by taking a deep breath. Finally I look up at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” he says.
“What are you doing to me?” I clarify.
Jackson runs his hands through his hair—a move I’m already seeing as a tick he does when he’s thinking. He leans his shoulder against the wall next to me. My back is still against it and although he’s so close to me, I’m not looking at him directly.
“I mean, it’s fine,” I say. “We had one dinner and that was it. You’re not legally required to ever speak to me after that. But why did you have to show up here? Because I know you hate this stuff and if it really was important to your precious business then you would have sent someone more junior to do the whole photo op thing. So why?” I look over at him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Emily.” He says my name so softly. He drops his head against the wall. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Finally I do turn my head to look at him. I’m shocked he said these words. I’m even more shocked at the tone of his voice—so unlike him. So vulnerable. So real.
His eyes meet mine, and I’ve never seen such sweetness from a man looking at me. And it’s Jackson Croft, of all people. The serial business crusher. He moves his hand as if he’s going to touch me, but stops short. “I tried to forget, but it’s impossible. I finally realized I couldn’t stay away from you any longer. When I got the invitation, I used it as my chance to see you. I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he says with a smile, “but it’s deep, and it’s bad.”
I can’t believe he’s saying these words. After all this time, leaving me hanging, he feels the same as I do.
I turn my body to face him. “Why did you try to stay away? Why not just be with me?”
“Because,” he says. “My life…the way I am…I’m not good for someone like you. And yet,” he smiles, “I can’t stop wanting to try.”
I can’t believe he’s saying these things to me. To know that this man in front of me feels that way about me is shocking…and a totally sexy.
“Well,” I say, lowering my voice to quiet, soft levels that he’s using. “You’re definitely in trouble for what you did.”
A grin creeps up on his lips. He takes a small step closer. “What’s my punishment?”
Now I’m grinning. What did I just start? If he expects me to do dirty talk I can’t possibly. I drop my head, embarrassed.
Jackson moves closer still, slipping his hands around my waist. He dips his head close and says, “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.” When I don’t say anything because oh my God I am blushing so badly he says, “Should I kiss you?” I nod yes as my heart pumps wildly in my chest.
His lips meet mine and it’s like I’m home. We kiss slowly at first, tentative. When his tongue pushes softly into my mouth it’s like nothing else matters expect the feel of Jackson. I rest my hands on his biceps, so firm beneath his elegant suit, and I give them a squeeze, delighting in how strong he is. I know that nothing bad can happen when I’m in Jackson’s arms.
He tugs me closer, our hips pressed up to one another. His kiss deepens and I do the same, each of us trying to get more and more of the other. I move my hands up to his shoulders and neck, then up into his thick hair, digging into it while pressing his face closer into mine. His hands are roaming all up and down my back, our bodies mashing up against one another but it’s still not enough.
“Oh! Excuse me,” a voice says.
I quickly move away from Jackson and turn to find Jules, my boss, standing at the corner having just witnessed Jackson and me groping each other like horny teenagers.
“Jules, oh my gosh,” I say because I don’t know what to say.
Jules doesn’t seem to know either. She just gives me this look—disappointment?—and turns on her heel and walks back into the ballroom.
“Oh, great,” I say. I feel like my insides have just been frozen, recalling that look on her face. It was masked, but it was still obvious disgust.
How unprofessional could I be? Making out at a fancy fundraiser with a donor? I’m seeing shades of prostitution in that scenario. “I’m in so much trouble.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Jackson says as he rubs my back.
“No, that’ll make it worse,” I say. “I don’t need you smoothing anything over. Oh my god. Now I have to go back in there. My face must look like a mess. Am I all splotchy and red?” I turn for his inspection.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” he says. “Honestly, don’t worry about it.” He puts his arms around me again.
“So what do you propose we do?” I ask. “Stay out here and wait to get caught again?”
“No. I have a much better idea.” He whispers into my ear, “Come home with me.”
I smile, pulling back slightly to look at him. “You want to take me to your place?”
“You make it sound so seedy,” he says. “It’s not a dorm room. It’s a house.”
“And I’ll bet it’s in Back Bay.”
He gives me a look and says, “Do you want to come with me or not?”
I know that what I really should do is go back in and try to repair the damage with Jules. What I really should do is learn from past mistakes and not be involved with this man.
He’s admitted himself that he’s no good for me.
I’ve already been hurt once, and I’m sure to be hurt again.
But my pulse is already racing as I think about spending more time with him, tonight, right now. And so I find myself doing the exact opposite of what my brain says I should do.
“I want to come with you,” I whisper, and then he takes my hand and leads me outside.
Jackson
I’m kissing Emily in the car on the way to my place on Marlborough Street. I’m kissing her as we walk up the
steps of the brownstone. I’m still kissing her when I insert the key and go through the front door. I kick the door shut and press her up against the wood-paneled wall and devour her some more. I just…can’t…get…enough. The way she digs her fingers into my hair, pulling me into her makes me absolutely insane. But I need to take her. I need to show her how spectacular she is, how out of control she makes me feel, and just how much I want her.
If I can get us out of the foyer.
I pull back from her and take her hands. If I could magically make my bed appear, I’d do it but frankly I don’t have the patience to take her up the stairs. I’m guiding her into the formal sitting room off the entrance—there are couches and a plush rug if it comes to that—but we still don’t make it far.
“Jesus Christ,” Emily says, her eyes drifting up toward the curved staircase and dark, high ceilings. “This place is huge.” I tug her toward me, covering her neck with kisses to distract her. I don’t want her to see my house. I want her to feel me. Her hands go back around my neck. Briefly. “No, seriously, Jackson. This is some major old money home.”
I pull back and look at her. “This is Boston. The houses are old. This place was built in 1860.”
She looks into the sitting room with the modern cream couch some decorator picked out to help counter the stuffiness of the home’s original details. “You have a fireplace?” She says this like it’s outrageous, like I have a pony in the courtyard.
“I have five,” I say.
I love watching her walk around in awe—not because I’m trying to impress her, although a part of me definitely wants Emily to be impressed by me, and in every way possible. I love the way her face lights up, her eyes scanning the room and catching every new thing. You’d think she just stepped through the looking glass. I guess maybe for her, she has. Of all the women I’ve brought here, many were impressed with its old-world charm or its size—I own two side-by-side brownstones—but none looked at it like they were in the queen’s palace the way Emily is.
“Will you give me a tour?” she asks.