My Forever Billionaire

by Katie Evergreen

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything,” he said, grimacing.

  O’Grady raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I probably would say no anyway,” he joked. “No offence, but the rats look like they have been having a party in your kitchen and I don’t want to join in.”

  Jackson coughed.

  “Right,” he said, unsure whether O’Grady was being serious. “Well, I need the downstairs watertight and windproof by this evening, what do you say?”

  The laugh that spewed from O’Grady’s mouth did not fill Jackson with a whole lot of confidence. This conversation was setting his teeth on edge. Jackson felt the heat of shame rise up his neck until it radiated from his face. Why had he let it get this bad? Why had he gotten rid of old Hank? The caretaker had been wonderful for the farm, looking after it and loving it the best he could, which was a darn sight better than Jackson was doing right now.

  “These windows here aren’t your standard off the shelf windows,” O’Grady said, rubbing his large hand over his equally as large chin. “I can’t just grab them out the back of the van and fit them. And that door, well, the less said about that the better.”

  “Money is no object,” Jackson said, hating himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  “With all due respect, sir,” O’Grady continued, peering through the living room door. “All the gold in the world couldn’t conjure up enough windows to secure this place by sundown.”

  Jackson was beat. He’d need to call Clementine and cancel her visit, rebook for when the windows were in, or move it to the diner. He’d rather be alone with her, and not surrounded by people who could overhear their conversation, but if they needed to go to the diner then they needed to go to the diner. He patted down his jeans for his cell phone, and only when he’d punched in the password did he realize he didn’t have Clementine’s number.

  He turned back to O’Grady, who was now peering up the stairs.

  “Do you want the upstairs looking at too?” the man said, nodding in the direction of the landing.

  Jackson puffed out a breath of air and shook his head.

  “It’s not safe,” he sighed.

  “I’ll get the ladders and look from the outside,” O’Grady said, heading out the front door. “I’ll measure up and let you know a timescale. Don’t worry, we’ll get them fixed and it will feel like home again soon.”

  Not soon enough, Jackson thought as he picked up the dustpan and brush from where he’d dropped it and set to work on the living room.

  9

  The wind had picked up as night fell, and Clementine’s soft, brown hair blew all around her like a halo as she picked her way over the broken brickwork. She shook her head so she could see again and concentrated on her feet, careful not to tip the casserole dish she was balancing and send dinner flooding all over the courtyard. Her shoes had had enough of a battering from falling food today.

  The baking had not gone to plan. The kitchen had been too small, and her mom too fussy. Even the stove seemed to have a vendetta against Clementine, lightly browning some of her layers of wedding cake, scorching a handful more, and leaving the rest a soggy mess. In the end she’d admitted defeat and turned her hand to a chicken casserole instead. She had an inkling that Jackson probably wouldn’t have a lot of food in the house and she wanted to make sure he fed himself properly. She’d packed some freshly baked bread to dunk in the sauce, too, it had always been a favorite of his.

  She wasn’t even sure why she was cooking for him, after everything that had happened. But her mom and dad had always told her never to be a guest in somebody else’s home without offering them something from the heart, so she didn’t want to show up empty handed.

  She’d taken the long route to the Brodie Farm, walking down the driveway of her own home and back up the one adjacent. It had seemed sensible, given that she was carrying food and didn’t want to rip her clothes with the brambles. Plus, the fields had looked treacherous during the daylight, and now it was dark there was no way Clementine was risking her ankles on the furrows.

  The long walk had given her time to work herself up into a frenzy of nerves. Her breathing was so shallow that she felt as if she might pass out on the last stretch to the front door. Or what she thought was the front door. The old solid wooden door was covered in what looked like plywood, the dragonfly door knocker that she’d loved as a child long gone.

  Shifting the weight of the casserole precariously onto one arm, she knocked lightly on the wood. It gave a soft, disappointing sound that Clementine didn’t think anyone inside would be able to hear.

  Jackson.

  Jackson was inside. Clementine felt her knees go wobbly and she leant against the wall, hoping it would hold her weight as it creaked noisily. Her heart was hammering so hard inside her chest that she thought it would alert Jackson to her arrival. She swallowed down the panic and forced her feet to stay where they were.

  The door creaked open an inch, then dragged the rest of the way, squealing in protest.

  “Sorry,” Jackson’s face appeared in the shadows. “It’s a bit…”

  He shrugged his shoulders as though he couldn’t think of a word strong enough to describe what Clementine could now see with her own eyes. And she didn’t blame him.

  “Come in, come in, you’re letting in a draft,” he laughed, as a window behind him billowed with what looked like a temporary covering.

  Clementine couldn’t move. Drenched in soft candlelight, Jackson had taken her breath away. His dark brown hair stood up in all directions, like the hedge she’d walked past earlier in the day. He had a trace of stubble over his strong jaw, and his eyes looked like black coals, yet twinkled as though they knew they were turning to diamonds. All throughout their childhood he’d possessed a soft charm which had rendered most people helpless to resist him. Looking at him now, Clementine imagined that not much had changed.

  He was picture perfect.

  He lunged forward and grabbed the casserole from her hands just in time to stop it hitting the doorframe. Clementine watched him do it as though he was acting in slow motion. She furrowed her brow, not quite sure what was happening.

  It was only when everything around her turned the color of Jackson’s beautiful eyes that Clementine realized she was fainting.

  Clementine jolted awake as if from a wonderful but confusing dream, and it took only a few seconds for her to remember where she was. Jackson’s perfect face came into focus and her heart rattled along like the engine of her dad’s old truck. Something uncomfortable was pressing into her back and she shifted in her seat to relieve the pain, wincing at the movement. Jackson studied her with a deep furrow between his brows. Clementine wanted to reach up and stroke his face to release the tension, but the pain in her back was stopping her from making any more movements.

  “Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Here have a sip.”

  Jackson leant towards her with a plastic tumbler. He was so close she could smell him, and it knocked her sideways. His scent was all musk and spice, with an added hint of lime. As the tumbler pressed against her lips it sent a shiver all the way down to her toes.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not from the sink, it’s bottled water,” he whispered as she took a sip of the wonderfully cooling liquid, feeling it soothe her dry throat.

  She took the tumbler from his hands, careful not to touch his fingers with hers—she knew how dangerous electricity was when mixed with water—and gulped down the rest. Refreshed, Clementine took in her surroundings.

  They were familiar and strange all at once, just like Jackson himself. They were in his kitchen, a room she had loved spending time in as a child because Jackson’s mom made the best PB&J sandwiches and they always had fresh milk from the cows to wash them down. Clementine’s own farm was agricultural, so she’d always wanted to come here to play with the animals, not just to eat his mom’s food.

  Yet the kitch
en felt different now. Colder, somehow, and it was nothing to do with the lack of furniture or the missing windows—which Clementine noticed now were covered in black tarpaulin, flapping with the growing wind outside.

  “I’m sorry,” Jackson said as he followed her gaze to the noisy plastic.

  Clementine shifted her weight in her seat, wincing again at the pain. She looked down and saw that the seat wasn’t the heavy, dark wood dining chair she used to kneel up on to reach the solid oak table. It looked to Clementine like an outdoor lawn chair with the brightest of pink fabric, the kind that sold like hot cakes in Home Depot. She looked over to where Jackson was sitting and her thoughts were confirmed, though his chair was bright orange. She leant forward and rubbed at the base of her spine. At least now she knew why she ached so much.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, looking at the chair. “I did wonder if we should have met somewhere else, but I couldn’t contact you to change the plans.”

  The wind rustled the heavy sheeting at the windows, sounding like a force nine gale. Clementine wondered how long she’d been out. Jackson rubbed his face with his hands and carried on talking.

  “I only arrived back yesterday. Then I was so thrown by seeing you I still feel as though I’m in some sort of weird dream. I tried to get someone to come and fit new windows this afternoon but the best they could do was… well, you’re looking at it.”

  He nodded at the tarpaulins and she laughed gently.

  “Not even Devlin Storm could summon up a workman to fix windows that quickly!” she said. Jackson laughed too.

  “Anyway, enough of my woes, how are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

  Clementine looked around and wondered what he could offer her if she said yes. The place looked un-lived in. Yet despite the surroundings doing their best to drag down the mood, she felt alive in ways she hadn’t felt for years.

  For ten years.

  “Maybe some casserole? If it’s still warm?” she said eventually.

  Jackson nodded, a smile making his perfect face even more handsome. His eyes twinkled.

  “You were only out for a matter of seconds, Clemmie. If it was warm before, then it’ll still be warm now.”

  He stood, his chair wobbling, and went to fetch her dish. Clementine watched as he lifted it, the muscles under his white t-shirt rippling. A hot flush spread over her cheeks as he turned and caught her looking.

  “You okay?” he asked, setting the dish on the floor and pulling his chair closer to hers. “You gonna faint on me again?”

  Clementine shook her head, not trusting her mouth to be able to form the correct words.

  “This smells amazing, Clemmie,” Jackson said as he pulled off the lid of the casserole and inhaled the last of the escaping steam. “Did you make it?”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d have a lot food in, so I thought I’d bring something.” She shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal of the gesture, especially now she had seen how Jackson was living. The last thing she wanted to do was make him feel bad for not having a great deal. It was obvious to Clementine that Jackson was finding things difficult, and no matter what her financial situation was with Pete, she would never ever make anyone feel awkward for falling on hard times.

  “There’s some crusty bread in my bag.” She looked around for the large satchel she’d been carrying.

  Jackson got up again and brought it over. Clementine unwrapped the paper from the bread.

  “Thank goodness for the bread, I’ve got no cutlery,” he laughed. “How do you feel about dunking?”

  “You know how I feel about dunking, Jax. It’s the whole purpose of the bread,” she laughed back.

  A sudden jolt of sadness whipped away her appetite as she spoke the words. Jackson used to know everything about her, including her feelings about bread and casserole. Sitting here together it felt as though they’d never been apart. But they had. For ten long years they hadn’t so much as spoken to one another, and the sudden shock of their parting sat like a lead weight in her stomach. Clementine had always wondered what she’d done to make Jackson hate her so much, and their closeness and familiarity now made it even harder to comprehend.

  Jackson tore a large chunk off the loaf and handed it over. Scooting his chair closer to hers so she could feel the heat from his arms through her sweater, he picked up the dish and balanced it between their chairs.

  “Bon appetite,” she said quietly, watching as Jackson scooped the casserole into his mouth like he’d not eaten in days.

  Clementine wondered—picking at her own bread—what had happened to leave him so down on his luck, and if his story would be enough to atone for how he had deserted her.

  10

  Jackson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was well aware that it made him look like a complete Neanderthal, but with limited options it was the best he could do. The casserole had been melt-in-the-mouth delicious, warming his heart as well as his stomach. He hadn’t realized how hungry he had been until he’d opened the lid and smelt the food, then his stomach had grumbled like it was eating itself. Clementine was the same as she had always been: thoughtful to the point of pre-empting what the other person would need, and offering it without expectation.

  He looked over to where she perched on the flimsy chair, her doe-like eyes glazed as she picked at the bread he’d handed her a while ago. Most of it lay in crumbs in the lap of her jeans, a few scatterings littering her pink sweater. The pastel color of her sweater made him think of the candies he’d left behind in the city, but he didn’t have the inclination to be anywhere other than right here beside her.

  He wished that they could just sit here in silence and enjoy each other’s company for the rest of his visit. Yet he knew this couldn’t happen. They needed to talk, and his heart pulled in his chest at the thought of what he had to tell her. He leant over in his chair and placed his hand on top of hers. She jumped, flinching at the touch, but didn’t pull her hand away. It felt soft and warm beneath his, fitting perfectly as if it was meant to be there. It had always fit perfectly, he remembered.

  “What’s up?” he asked, gently pulling what was left of the bread from her other hand and placing it in the empty casserole dish.

  Her eyes unglazed, and she turned her focus to him. She was so beautiful. The candlelight made the color of her sweater reflect on her soft, pale cheeks. Her lips looked like she’d been biting them, they were so full and pink. He was taken back, suddenly, to the moment she’d dragged him behind the hay bales and kissed him on the cheek. A sob rose in his throat at the power of the memory, but he swallowed it down, aware that Clementine looked on the brink of tears herself.

  “Talk to me,” he prompted, squeezing her hand gently.

  “I’m a bit confused,” she said eventually. “I feel so at home with you here in your kitchen, despite the state it’s in. I feel so at home with you. Yet my mind is screaming at me because I need to know what happened to us, why you left. I can’t work out what’s more extraordinary—that I’m sitting in your kitchen eating supper with you feeling like no time has passed between us at all, or that I’m sitting in your kitchen eating supper with you not even questioning why you left without speaking to me? I’m torn between wanting to be with you like old times and wanting to poke your eyeballs out with a fork. So maybe it’s a good job you don’t have any cutlery…”

  Jackson looked down at his hands. His heart hammered in his chest so much he thought Clementine might see it through his t-shirt. How could he even begin to unmuddle Clementine’s confusion when his own head was a swirling storm of thoughts?

  A huge gust of wind circled the farm, ripping the tarpaulin from the kitchen window and, by the sounds of it, the living room too. Jackson jumped to his feet, all thoughts of talking evaporated from his mind, and threw his body over Clementine’s, wrapping his arms around her head and holding her close. The sound had awakened some sort of fight or flight response in him and his first action had been to protect Clementine.r />
  That’s what I’ve been doing all this time, protecting the one woman I love, he thought as he extracted himself from around her body. That’s why I left. But how can I tell her?

  “Sorry, I need to sort this before the animals start coming in for bed,” he said trying to lighten the mood. “You would not believe how many living things I had to turf out of here.”

  Clementine nodded, though she looked as though she was on the edge of keeling over again. He set to work, not wanting to leave her for long. Ignoring the irony of that feeling, he searched out the hammer and nails O’Grady had left behind earlier, thanking the window fitter’s forward thinking. With the tools in one hand and the tarpaulin in another, he struggled to hold the heavy sheeting in place and to swing the hammer far enough back to get the nails in.

  She was by his side in an instant, holding the heavy tarp up so he could hammer the nails into the wall. Once again, he was bowled over by her thoughtfulness. Not only had Clementine been able to bring him an offering of freshly made food, she had helped him tend to the mess he’d made with the house, all while feeling a terrible confusion about why he’d deserted her. He knew she was special, he’d always known. Which is why he had to keep on protecting her. He couldn’t let her find out what kind of person he really was, because he knew he didn’t deserve her compassion. He couldn’t let her find out the truth.

  They worked in harmony, Clementine moving around the window holding the tarp, Jackson hammering it tightly to the frame until not even the storm outside could shift it.

  “Thank you,” he said, looking into her eyes and seeing the questions they held.

  He took her hands in his, the best he could whilst holding the hammer and nails. He could feel them shaking. Or maybe that was his own.

  “I promise we can sit and talk when I get back. We can talk about whatever you want to. Just let me check the other windows first.”