I was still sore. Still exhausted, even though I’d passed out the second my head had hit the pillow last night. I could smell him on me.
I wanted to leave him behind. Wanted to focus on my workday. But I couldn’t.
The worse my day got, the more I craved him. Craved the way he made me feel—like I was capable and safe and free.
He’d built his business from scratch. He’d had days like this. And I had a feeling he’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better.
Michael always ran when things got hard. When I got difficult.
But Charlie—I knew he’d be different.
I’d meant what I said about keeping things casual between us. I got the feeling that ship had sailed, though, somewhere around the time when Charlie had totally charmed my family.
Charmed me.
I looked up at the knock on my door. It was open—I always left it that way unless I was on a personal call—and Jack stood beside it, knuckle poised against the jamb.
“Have a minute?” he asked.
He had his other hand in the pocket of his suit trousers. He looked subdued. Brow furrowed, eyes stormy.
“That depends,” I said, setting my pen down. “Are you going to apologize for the way you behaved at lunch yesterday?”
Jack looked down, slipping his other hand into his pocket. “Jane, I’m telling you, there’s something about that bloke that doesn’t add—”
“Out,” I said, pointing to the door. “Get out. Now.”
He looked up. “I’m sorry. Even if I don’t like him, I shouldn’t have been rude to Charlie like that. Now can I come in please?”
I eyed him. Something was up. Jack was stubborn as a mule. He never gave in this easily.
Sighing, I said, “Apology accepted. Come in.”
“Thanks.” He closed the door behind him.
I watched as he unbuttoned his blazer and sat in the chair across from mine. He shifted uncomfortably, shooting his cuffs before he put his hands on his knees. One of them started bobbing. He looked away. Chewed on his thumbnail.
“Want to talk about it?” I said.
His eyes slid to meet mine. “Talk about what?”
“What’s going on with you.” I nodded at his knee.
It went still.
“You’re different with him,” Jack said, swiftly putting the focus back on me. “The way you smile—it’s in your eyes.”
My cheeks prickled with heat. “Am I really so obvious?”
“In general? No. But with him?” His knee started bobbing again. “Yes. Don’t get me wrong—I love it when you’re happy. That’s what I want for you, yeah?”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“But I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Jane, be careful. Don’t you think things are moving a little fast with him? You haven’t brought a guy home for Sunday roast since—well.”
Since Michael.
I put a hand on my throat. My skin felt hot. I hated feeling like I needed to defend myself—defend my choices. I was thirty-one fucking years old, for God’s sake. But then maybe Jack had a right to be concerned. My past choice in men hadn’t exactly been stellar.
I’d moved on from that, though.
I was moving on from men like Michael. I’d just been telling Charlie how I’d learned from my mistakes, hadn’t I?
“You’ve got to trust me, Jack,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I’m tired of second guessing myself.”
Jack’s gaze softened. “Of course I trust you. It’s him I’m leery of.”
“And I’m getting leery of this caveman act of yours,” I said firmly. “I’ll admit things are moving fast with Charlie. But he’s—Jack, he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I like that he’s different. He’s like—like a shot of whiskey after a lifetime of plain water.”
Jack arched a brow. “I don’t want to encourage your attempts at poetry. But I’ve got to point out that water doesn’t burn. Whiskey, though, does.”
I picked up my pen. Dropped it on my notebook. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”
“And that’s why you need to be careful.” He sighed. “Listen. I watched you go through hell and back during your divorce, Janie. We all did. I’d just hate to see that happen again, you know?”
“I know. Don’t think I’m not terrified. But I’m telling you, Jack, Charlie is different. He gets it. Gets me—sees me in a way most men don’t. I’ve just”—I rubbed my eyes—“I’ve had this terrible fucking day, and all I can think about is seeing him again and how much better he’ll make me feel. How nice it is to have someone like that to call, you know?”
Jack looked at me. Let out another sigh.
“That does sound nice. Really bloody nice.” He tugged at the fabric of his trousers just above his knees. “All right. I still want you to keep an eye open around this guy. But if he makes you feel that way, then yeah. Call him. Hell, I wish I had somebody like that to call.”
I eyed him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you changed the subject when I asked what’s going on with you. You’ve been in a mood for weeks now.” I settled my forearms on my desk. “Talk to me.”
Jack let his head fall back a little. Bounced his fist off his knee.
“I think I’m having a Whitney Houston moment.”
I blinked. “Do you want to dance with somebody, or…?”
“No.” He scoffed. “No, it’s just—you know that new bloke they hired on my security detail?”
Each of us had three agents assigned to us for protection. One of Jack’s agents had just retired, and had been replaced with someone new.
“The really hot one?”
Jack smiled grimly. “So you noticed.”
“How could I not?” I grinned. “He looks like the fourth Hemsworth brother.”
“There’s three of them?”
“I think so. I hope so. The more the merrier.”
Jack had a shy look about him now. A blush working its way up his throat. He held his hand to his lips.
“Jane. I think I’ve got a very inconvenient crush on my bodyguard.”
My heart hiccupped. “I am so here for this. Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Jack kept picking at his trousers. “I think he’s cute. And he doesn’t know I exist.”
I furrowed my brow and stared him down. “Doesn’t know you exist? Jack, he literally puts his life on the line for you every day.”
Jack lifted his shoulder. “I know. But he’s not really friendly, yeah? He’s very serious. Very focused on the job. When I try to talk to him, he just kind of shuts me down. It’s frustrating as hell.”
“Hm.” I reached for my pen and tapped it against my chin. “Sounds like the strong, silent type. I approve.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know there are rules about this sort of thing—if they ever caught a whiff of personal involvement, he’d get sacked.”
“And you like him too much to see him go.”
Jack’s blue eyes flicked to meet mine. “Something like that.”
I offered him a grin of sympathy.
“That’s tough,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He waved my concern away. “Don’t be. It’s just a stupid little crush anyway. I’ll get over it.” He stood. “Sorry again for the way I treated Charlie yesterday. I’ll try to be a bit more open minded about him, yeah?”
I stood up and made my way around the desk to give him a hug.
“Thank you. And good luck with your bodyguard,” I said. “If you need help writing some songs about your unrequited love, I’m happy to help. Seeing as I’m such a brilliant poet and all.”
Jack laughed. My day started to suck just a tad less.
“I appreciate that.” He gave me one last squeeze before letting me go. “And Jane?”
“Yeah?”
“No matter what happens with Charlie, I’m proud of you. For being brave enough to open up again.”
I pulled back, feigning disbelief, even as a lum
p rose in my throat.
“You think I’m brave?”
“You are. Probably the bravest out of all of us.” He kissed my forehead. “Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks, Jack,” I said, my voice wobbling. Shit, I was going to cry. When did I get so thin skinned? Like all my emotions had risen over the weekend to rest just beneath the surface, ready to bubble over at the slightest provocation.
I felt exposed. Raw. Not necessarily in a bad way.
Maybe I was moving on to a new life. A new time, beyond the struggle and the doubt.
Maybe I was mostly healed. Healed enough to try again, at least.
He buttoned his blazer. “Have some sex for me, would you? I’m besotted with a man who’ll only touch me if I’m in mortal danger, so…there’s no cock in my immediate future.”
I nudged him. “Hey, you can be brave, too. Brave enough to stick your neck out so Mr. Hottie has to come rescue you.”
“I’m almost that desperate,” Jack said. “Almost.”
“Good luck,” I said, laughing.
I sat back down at my desk. It was only six. Usually I worked until at least eight when I had nothing going on at night. Glancing at my inbox—how the hell had I gotten twenty new emails since I’d chatted with Jack?—I knew I’d be working late. Really late.
I liked my work. Most days I even loved it. It was important and impactful. But the thought of being chained to this desk when I could be out with Charlie made me feel like I was missing out. On real life.
I was more flattered by Jack’s compliment than I should have been. I had been through hell. I was brave to risk going back there again. But like the bets I’d placed in blackjack, maybe that was a risk worth taking.
I was safe standing on my own two feet. But I was ready for more than that.
I wanted more than that.
I also wanted some company after this awful day I’d just had. A little sexual healing could go a long ways right now.
These emails could wait.
Heart popping around in my chest, I dug my mobile out of my bag. Hovered my thumb over Cash Only’s number before I pressed down and brought the phone to my ear, heartbeat blaring in time to each ring.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charlie
I climbed the steps and stood in front of Jane’s door. Apprehension swarmed inside my chest, the loudest by far of all the things I was feeling.
I had a tiny listening device tucked into my wallet in my back pocket. Jimmy’s idea. I had to plant it somewhere in her bedroom—close to the door—so we could keep tabs on comings and goings the night of Jane’s fundraiser.
Which she hadn’t invited me to yet. That was another item on tonight’s checklist.
The thought of extracting the invite from her under false pretenses made my stomach contract. Especially since she’d been the one to call me earlier.
I’ve had a shit day, she’d said. Come over.
And now here I was, ready to dive back into my lie.
I had to fucking keep my head this time. Had to get this shit over with. Get out as quickly as possible.
I could do it. I had to.
Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath. Adjusted the brown paper bag I was holding in the crook of my arm. The six pack in my hand. I looked around, confirming the information I’d gathered last time I was here. Locations of the exits, cameras, perimeter walls. This could very well be the last time I’d be here before the fundraiser.
The last time I’d be alone with Jane.
I put my hand on the door and leaned into it. Fuck me, I hated this.
I didn’t realize the door was opening until it was too late. I fell forward, tripping on the stoop. But Jane was there to catch me, her hands steadying me by my waist.
Her fingers dug a little into my shirt. Fisting it.
She was wearing leggings and a pale pink shirt knotted at her hip.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. I could make out the shape of her hardened nipples through the thin material of her shirt. The silver barbell of her piercing.
Fuck. Me. For. Life.
My dick grew heavy.
There was something private about the way she was dressed. Private about this moment. I was the only one who got to see her like this.
I swallowed.
“Hey,” she said, a smile in her voice. Her face was an inch from mine. “Are you okay? I saw you out here…”
Jane’s mascara was smudged underneath her eye. Without thinking I reached up, swiped it away with my thumb.
Her brown eyes darkened.
The urge to step inside and slam the door and rip her clothes off clung to me like the humidity in the air.
Keep your goddamn head.
I held up the bag and the six pack. A meager effort to put some space between us.
“I brought sandwiches and beer.” My voice sounded weird. Shit. I glanced up at the grey sky. “I was hoping we could eat outside—maybe have a little picnic or something. But doesn’t look like the weather’s going to be in our favor.”
Jane grinned. A tired grin. A happy one. She took the bag out of my hand and tucked it underneath her arm. Her perfume—that summery flower smell—filled my head.
“I like the idea of a picnic,” she said. She tilted her head. “Come in, please.”
She led me into her living room. A window on the far side of the space was open. I strained to hear the sounds of rush hour London, but there was only the chatter of birds. The quiet rustle of a fountain.
Jane nodded at the coffee table in the middle of the room. “Why don’t we move that and sit on the floor in here?”
“An indoor picnic,” I said, setting the beer on a nearby chair. “I like it.”
Together we moved the table off to the side. Jane grabbed a blanket off the sofa and spread it out on the floor, toeing out of her sandals. “Do we need anything? Knives? A bottle opener?”
I shook my head, trying—failing—not to devour her with my gaze. We’d fucked forever the other night. I wanted to do it again.
Right here.
Now.
All night.
All week. I imagined taking that nipple in my mouth. The pierced one. Sucking it to a hard point through her shirt.
“I think we’re all set,” I managed.
Jane sat down, crossing her legs, and I followed after taking off my sneakers.
I twisted the top off a beer and handed it to her.
“Sam Adams,” she said, turning it around to look at the label. “How very American of you.”
I scoffed, smiling, as I opened another for myself.
“Maybe I’m a little homesick,” I said.
Jane looked at me. “Are you? Really?”
I did feel homesick. A little bit for the home I’d grown up in. Being with Jane had made me think about it more than I had in years. But I was also homesick for something else. Something I couldn’t describe. Like I was yearning for the home I’d never had. The one I saw here at Primrose.
My heart was swollen with it. That homesickness. That longing.
“Hard not to be when I see how gorgeous your home is,” I said. I looked up at the room. “Your apartment is beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But when I say home—I guess I’m talking about family. How homey it feels here, you know? Your family has managed to make a palace feel pretty comfortable.”
Jane’s eyes softened. She held out her beer, tapping the butt of her bottle against mine.
“To feeling at home,” she said. “I’m glad you’re comfortable here, Charlie.”
I managed a tight smile. Her kindness only made me feel worse.
Better.
Christ, I couldn’t tell.
I watched as her tongue touched the mouth of her bottle half a second before her lips did. I clamped my hand around my own bottle, taking a big sip that did jack shit to chill me out.
“Like I told you before, my mom was a really great cook,” I said, carefully setting down my beer on the coffee table beh
ind me. I reached for the brown bag and settled it on my lap. “She could make anything—she’d worked at all kinds of restaurants. Burger joints. Taco trucks. Fancier places when we got older. But her specialty was sandwiches. She made it all from scratch. The bread, the mayo. My brother and I loved eating them growing up.” I took the sandwiches out of the bag one at a time. Owen had wrapped them carefully in butcher paper, scribbling the contents in black Sharpie. Turkey cranberry. Reuben. Chicken salad. “It was our comfort food in a way. Whenever we’d have a bad day, mom would make us a sandwich. She’d pile our plates high with potato chips, and then we’d sit and talk it out as we ate.” I looked at Jane. Shrugged. “So I thought I’d bring you some comfort food. Help turn your shit day around.”
Jane was smiling. Blinking just a little too quickly. Her cheeks burned pink.
“That’s incredibly sweet of you,” she said. “Usually when I have a bad day, I just have some cheese and crackers and a bit too much wine. Then I go to bed at a depressingly early hour.”
I bit my lip. “We can still go to bed. Whenever you want, princess.”
“Oh, we’re definitely going to bed, farm boy,” she replied. “But first I want to try one of these sandwiches. They’re all your mum’s recipes?”
I nodded, digging out a couple bags of plain potato chips and a wad of paper napkins. A box of condoms tumbled out, too.
Jane grinned. I laughed.
“Those I did not make,” I said, setting them aside. “Which one would you like? Which sandwich, I mean. Not which condom—because I hope we’ll be using them all.”
She was still grinning. “The sex sounds delicious. But so does the turkey cranberry.”
Handing it to her, I said, “It’s insane, if I do say so myself. Homemade sourdough, sliced turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce with just a tiny bit of herbed aioli. Mom came up with it after we had way too many leftovers at Thanksgiving one year. Our riff isn’t as good as hers—we can never get the aioli quite right. But hey, we tried.”
“I think it’s going to be fabulous. Sounds better than anything I’ve eaten in a long time,” Jane said, unwrapping the sandwich in her lap. She plucked half of it from the butcher paper and brought it to her mouth. She met my eyes. “My mind’s about to be blown, isn’t it?”
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