by Joya Ryan
He nodded. “Ah, the infamous step-brother from the first night I met you.”
“Yeah. Brock.”
“You said you don’t like him?”
There was way more to it than that, but I was trying to push those memories out, not rehash them.
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s a VanBuren. Of Case-VanBuren,” he stated.
“Yeah, that’s my dad’s company.”
He looked at me for a long moment. It was no surprise he knew of it. It wasn’t a big time investment firm, but it was decently well known.
“What’s your stake in the company?” he asked, as if it was a totally normal question.
“I don’t have one. I don’t even work there.” I shook my head, realizing how much had changed in the past couple of weeks. I still wanted to work there, because it would make me a part of my father’s world. Someone he believed in and supported. But Jack had been an amazing gift that allowed me to focus on other things, instead of getting consumed with this need of approval. Which, if I were honest, was still very much present. Another thing I was working on. “I’m just gearing up to be a grad student.”
It was all I was at the moment. Maybe, one day, things could be different, but my father made it clear that I provided little value to him, especially when dealing with the company.
“You should be proud.”
I shrugged. “I am, my dad has a name, and his company, and—”
“I’m talking about you. You should be proud of yourself.”
I stared at him, and could see he was serious. “You work hard, manage expectations from others, and yourself, and chase your goals. That’s strength.”
The way he said it, tied with the way he looked at me, made my whole body ache. Like I was desperate for his arms, his chest. For him to wrap me up, so I could cling to him.
For all my shortcomings, my baggage and damage—some he didn’t even know about—he seemed to see me, not only that, he encouraged me.
“Eat,” he said, motioning to my second piece of pizza he’d placed before me. “You’re going to need that strength, baby,” he gave a teasing smile, and it made the heaviness of the conversation a little lighter. “We have an afternoon of the Godfather. Though I hope you weren’t expecting to focus too much on it, seeing as how you’ll be naked on the couch.”
~
I stood in the bathroom doorway, looking at Jack sleeping.
Dark hair and tan skin amongst a sea of eggshell white cotton was like looking into a dream. Or upon a dream man.
It had been a long day, and night. Saturdays had never felt so good. Only now it was past two in the morning, and it was officially Sunday.
And he asked me to stay the weekend.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the feel of his button up shirt the only thing against my skin, and I hugged it closer. With the soft glow of the light from the bathroom behind me, I simply stood there, watching him.
He looked so perfect, so handsome. His chest rose and fell steadily. His thick lashes rested against his cheeks and his brow was relaxed. The man that wove so much control in his world was naked, with nothing but a sheet covering him, stretched out in bed with one arm thrown over his head, and the other resting on his chest.
I smiled, thinking maybe I had worn the CEO out. He definitely had me in desperate need of a protein shake, a shot of B12, and some Gatorade to keep up with him.
The thought of doing just that made my whole body buzz, as if picking up on the sexy memories I was replaying from today.
As I made my way toward the bed, my shoulder caught the bathroom door on the way out, causing the hinges to whine.
Jack’s eyes shot open.
I stopped instantly. Staring at him.
I’d never seen anything like it. I didn’t know if he was awake, but suddenly, those dark eyes were instantly seared my direction. He made no movement other than his eyes. Staring at me.
What concerned me was the emotion behind them. Jack looked terrified.
“Jack?” I whispered.
His eyes just stayed locked on me. It was eerie, as if he was looking right through me.
“The door,” he growled, low with sleep and anger in his voice. The look of fear left his face, and now he scowled.
I glanced behind me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” I hadn’t realized he was such a light sleeper.
“The. Door,” he said again, and sat up. I had no idea what to say. He seemed so angry.
“I’m really sorry,” I tried again. “I didn’t mean to—”
Jack threw the sheet away, and stomped out of the bedroom. So fast I didn’t know if the blur I witnessed was of him or something I imagined. I heard rustling coming from down the hall. Cabinets banging, drawers being opened and closed. Finally, he was back with…was that WD40?
“What are you doing?” I asked quietly, but he just passed me and knelt by the bathroom door.
I read once to never disturb a sleepwalker or scare them.
“Jack?” I said quietly, coming into his line of vision. I realized he not only had the WD40, but a screwdriver and paper towels. “Are you awake?”
He wiggled the door back and forth, frowning at the bottom hinge, realizing it was the one that was squeaking.
“Of course I’m awake.”
I took a deep breath. Okay, that was a start. He sprayed the WD40 and tightened one of the screws in the hinge, then wiggled the door again.
“What are you doing?”
He frowned and looked up at me. “I’m fixing the door.”
“I can see that, but why?”
That frown turned into something darker. Something beyond anger, fear and terror. It was haunted.
“Because I don’t like squeaky doors.”
“I’m sorry,” I tried again.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, giving the door a final tug. No more squeak. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands, leaving the items where they were, as if not caring about a thing in the world, as long as the door didn’t squeak anymore.
He came out and cupped my face. “Let’s go to bed.”
I nodded and followed him. But everything in my body was screaming that this was bizarre. More than bizarre. I’d never seen Jack look so lost. So terrified. For a brief moment, when he first awoke, that was the look I saw. I recognized that look. Had had the same one: fear.
Fear of what’s coming through the door.
“Jack?” I whispered, as he sat on the bed and I stood before him. “Why does the sound of squeaking doors bother you so much?”
His stare stayed on my stomach, he unbuttoned his shirt I was wearing, and threw it to the floor.
“They just do.” He kissed my hip, my side, my stomach, then tugged me into bed with him.
“You can talk to me,” I said, but he just rolled us over, so my back was to him and his arms were wrapped around me, spooning me.
“Not about that.” He buried his face in my neck.
“I want to know you.” It was clear there was an issue. Something maybe I could help, at the very least, identify with what he was going through. Whatever fear that gripped him when he thought someone was coming through the door, I couldn’t shake. “Maybe I can help. Or just listen.”
“Don’t ask me again,” he said very calm, but very stern.
I nodded, and he hugged me closer. Funny thing, he was right there, yet felt so far away.
Chapter Fifteen
“Have you enjoyed yourself?” Jack asked from across the little table.
We were eating a late lunch on Sunday afternoon in the sunshine of downtown Denver. The little café had a dining section outside, and people passed us, strolling and window shopping, as Jack and I sat there, like nothing was missing between us.
All I could think about was what happened only twelve hours earlier in the early hours of the morning.
“It’s been a wonderful weekend.”
I took a sip of my water. My clothes ha
d been cleaned and waiting for me this morning. I didn’t know when Jack had washed them, or perhaps he had a housekeeper that possessed ninja qualities. That was the least of my worries at the moment. Sure, sitting across from him looking perfect in his jeans and button-up, while I was in glorified loungewear was difficult on the self-esteem. Though he kept himself casual, the blue shirt rolled at the sleeves, I still felt sloppy in comparison.
“Something on your mind?”
I nodded.
He waited.
He told me once to say what was on my mind. Lord knew he had no problem speaking his thoughts. My only hesitation was fear of pushing too far and having him shut me out. Only way to know…
“I’m confused about last night,” I started.
He stared hard at me. “There’s nothing confusing about it.”
“It was odd,” I said quickly.
He sat back in his chair, as if gearing up for a verbal brawl. “Perhaps it is odd.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me about it?”
“Talk to you about what? There’s nothing to say. I was awoken, took care of the problem that awoke me, and went back to bed.”
“There’s more to it than that. I saw more than that.”
“Really? Enlighten me then. What more is it you saw?”
“I saw fear,” I said quietly. “In your eyes. You were terrified when you heard the door squeak.”
I knew what it felt like to have someone come through the door. Someone you didn’t want to see. Everything in my body was reaching out for him, identifying with him, with whatever incident he’d survived that put that look on his face. I didn’t know the details, but I recognized what a shattered past looked like. And Jack was a master at hiding his past.
He sat, his face like stone, his body even stiller. It was like staring down a snake, waiting to see if he’d strike. A heartbeat passed, then another. He said nothing, but I felt him pulling away. Felt the air between us turn colder, and my own fear swept me up, nervous that I was losing him.
“Jack,” I whispered, and leaned into him, snagging his gaze with mine. “That night we met, you said you saw fear in my eyes. Do you remember?”
“Vividly.”
“And you reacted. That’s the same thing I’m doing. Reacting.”
“Why?”
I swallowed hard. “Because I care. Very much. About you.”
His jaw ticked, his brows sliced down, as if he were trying to determine the truth in my words. What had happened to this man? This amazing, strong, powerful, puzzle of a man. Last night, I’d caught my first glimpse of vulnerability in him. I wanted to help. To comfort, anything I could do.
“Pumpkin!” I jerked upright, surprised to hear my father’s voice booming right next to me. “I thought that was you.”
“Dad?” I looked up to find him and Brock, in suits even though it was a Sunday, standing on the other side of the rope that kept the café seating from the general walking area of downtown.
He opened his arms, as if awaiting a hug. Now I was really confused. But I stood, and he hugged me. It felt frigid and staged. My father wasn’t an affectionate man, not to mention the fact that last time we spoke, it ended with me quitting.
Jack stood, and my father finally let go of me. Brock reached out his hand and shook Jack’s.
“Brock VanBuren,” he shook continuously. “With Case-VanBuren Investing.”
“We’ve met,” Jack said in a calm voice. Brock, being the slithering liar that he was, nodded.
“That’s right.” He plastered on a fake smile. “Good to see you again.”
“Jack, this is my father, Carter Case.”
Jack reached out and shook my dad’s hand next. “Mr. Case, very nice to meet you.”
“And you, Mr. Powell. I didn’t realize you knew my daughter.”
Jack looked at me, and whatever internal button he pressed to turn on the corporate charm, he did it then. All traces of the emotion behind what’d we just been talking about were gone. But he looked at me with admiration, kindness, and interest.
Part of me loved that. That one look made me feel seen by him. His presence also made me feel, like for the first time, I wouldn’t get sick being this close to Brock. I was feeling stronger. And it was because of him.
But one thing terrified me in this skill of Jack’s. He had the ability to shift from business to personal to social, then back to business. One moment he could be saying the sweetest things, or on the brink of discussing something personal, the next he wore a mask of indifference. What was even more terrifying was that trait he harbored was the same as my father. He knew when to turn it on, and who was watching. Like right now.
My dad hadn’t reached out to me since I’d shown up at his house and quit. But now I was in the presence of a millionaire who owned resorts, and suddenly I was back to being “Pumpkin” and on his radar.
My heart hurt a little. Yet the kind gesture and hug from my father still made my pathetic chest tighten, and the desire for him to notice me—love me—persist.
Yeah…pathetic.
“Lana and I met a few weeks ago. I’ve had a hard time letting her out of my sight since.” Jack glanced at Brock, then back at my father.
His words warmed, me and eased the ache rising from this encounter and just how deep in the Case-VanBuren game I was. False niceties, passive aggressiveness, and hidden agendas were swirling so thick it was suffocating.
“Oh!” my father said, pleased. “That’s wonderful. You two should come to the house for dinner then.”
“No,” I said quickly. Jack’s eyes landed on me, but I just smiled at my father. I could play this game too. With my best smile and “there’s nothing wrong” attitude, I sweetly said, “We can’t make dinner tonight.”
“Why?” Brock asked in a challenging tone that was laced with just enough sugar to make it not sound threatening. But it was meant to threaten. The mere sound of his voice made my skin crawl.
“Because we’re calling it an early night. Work tomorrow and all,” I said, not looking at Brock, rather at Jack, who I was trying to syphon some kind of invisible energy from to get through this chat. It was all I could do to keep from shaking because the dread from this “casual run-in” was building.
“Oh, responsible, Lana.” Brock put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, then looked at Jack. “She’s always been this way, responsible and sensible.”
“She’s a good girl,” my father said, and suddenly I had no idea what the hell was happening. Brock was trying to see how long I could stand in his presence before the anxiety got the better of me, and my father was being condescending on purpose.
Jack just stood, his gaze on me.
“Another time then?” my father offered, looking at Jack. “When is good for you?”
“You’ll have to talk to Lana,” he said, rubbing his hand along the small of my back. “She’s the boss. I’m on her schedule.”
Stupid tears threatened to make an appearance, but I urged them down before anyone noticed.
Jack was not the kind of man to be on anyone’s schedule but his own. But he just gave me the power, in front of Brock and my dad, and the surge of strength made me stand taller.
Both Brock and my father were clearly surprised by Jack’s admission, but Jack simply sat down, as if he were done with them, and said, “Good to meet you both.”
“Yes,” my father said, confusion riddling his voice. “I’ll call you later, Pumpkin.”
They left, Brock sparing me a gross smile and equally chilling glare.
Once they were gone, Jack looked at me from across the table.
“Tell me about that.”
“About what? My father?”
He nodded. “And your step-brother. Clearly there’s animosity there, and everything else was a big show.”
“It was that obvious, huh?”
I looked at my plate, which was half eaten, and shook my head. “I can’t remember the last time my father hugge
d me.” Then I scoffed because it sounded so silly. “I’m not a part of their world.”
“They don’t deserve you in their world then.”
I looked up at him. “Do you think it’s stupid that part of me misses the way my father used to be before—?”
I bit my lip, but Jack urged me on.
“Before what?”
Before he married Anita. Before Brock snuck into my room and not only wrecked certain parts of my psyche, but drove a wedge between my father and me. Before I suddenly didn’t matter to my mother, or father, or anyone else. Before I merely existed.
“Before the divorce,” I said instead, keeping it as surface as possible, because tears were lining my throat.
“Nothing about what you want or how you feel is stupid.” He reached across the table and cupped my cheek.
“I want you,” I whispered. “I want to know you. Want more every day.”
He stilled and took a deep breath. “I want more of you every day too.” He ran his thumb along my bottom lip. “I asked you to trust me. I’m asking again.”
I nodded. “I do trust you.”
“Then hear me when I tell you that there are certain things I won’t talk about. My past is not a place I want to revisit. You’re astute and yes, perhaps you saw something last night, perhaps you care, but,” his voice was soft, not commanding or dominating or threating. It almost sounded like he was begging. “Please, don’t ask me about it again.”
My heart broke for this man. For all the weight he carried and everything he kept hidden.
“How can I get to know you more if you won’t tell me anything? It’s not my goal to upset you or bring up unwanted memories…” I knew how that felt, and I could understand that. Far too well. “How can we move forward when there isn’t an exchange? When I’m the only one who seems vulnerable.”
“You’re not the only one, Lana. I have a significant vulnerability, and it’s only getting worse.”
“Then tell me, please.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “It’s you.”
My breath caught, and he leaned back in his chair, the warmth of his hand leaving my face.
“I’ll give you as much as I can,” he said.
The chill that crept over my skin was breaking me more than I realized. Not just breaking me of fear, but breaking me wide open with the need to understand him. It hit me then: I’m falling in love with a man who will never fully open up to me.