Chapter Seventeen Jack
Chapter Seventeen
Jack
I’m midshower when it goes ice cold.
“Shit,” I say cranking the knob all the way to hot. “ Shit, shit, shit. ” It’s somehow getting colder with every second. Construction officially starts tomorrow—Monday—and it can’t get here fast enough. I am sick of living in this place. I’m sick of not having a kitchen. Of sleeping in a small-ass bed. Blame it on my upbringing, but I am not good at roughing it. I unapologetically enjoy comfort and nice things. Which is one reason it’s been great spending a fair amount of time over the last few days at Emily’s house.
It’s happened by accident. She was gone all day Friday with her sister Annie, delivering a flower order for an event a few hours out of town. A little thunderstorm rolled through, so she texted me asking that I go check on Ducky—who apparently doesn’t like storms. Ducky seemed fine to me, but I didn’t want Emily to worry, so I stayed and worked on my book at her house from the comfort of her couch. Emily came home that evening and found me there, lying flat on her couch, with my laptop propped up by pillows on my lap, and Ducky curled up on my chest, her little orange face tucked under my chin. Turns out, I’m a cat person.
Emily stared at me for three beats and then asked if I wanted to stay for dinner. She put a frozen pizza in the oven, and we watched a movie together while we ate. I thought it would be awkward and tense after our scene blocking that almost turned into so much more the other day, but no. Emily was Emily and seemed determined to (A) not mention it and (B) act as unruffled as ever. And I sure as hell didn’t bring it up because this…whatever this is feels fragile and I won’t dare break it.
The next morning, she popped into my house without knocking (retaliation) and asked if I’d go with her to an estate sale to pick up a massive new rug she bought dirt cheap (after an impressive round of haggling) for her classroom next year. On our way home, we passed a used bookstore and stopped in. She found a pirate romance from the ’80s that’s definitely seen better days, but she swore Annie would want it. And as if the universe was laughing at me, on a stand by the register was a signed hardback edition of my first book. My heart raced as Emily eyed it, picked it up, and inspected the signature for so long I thought she was memorizing the curve of each loop. And then she bought it—claiming it was a sin to pass up a signed edition.
I felt as tall as an ant in that moment for not telling her the truth. The deeper into this friendship we get, I know Emily would keep my secret if I told her. That’s not what worries me anymore. Now it’s that we are finally…friends. In the past, competition has always gotten in the way of that. What happens if I tell her I’m a published author after learning she’s going after the same dream? Will it throw us right back into the center of the arena? I’m not ready to find out.
With ice-cold water, I scrub down my body as quickly as possible, submerging only when it’s absolutely necessary. But when my landline—yes, landline—starts ringing from my kitchen, I decide to end the torture and get out.
“Just a second!” I yell as if whoever is on the call can hear me. I towel off at warp speed, pull on my black boxer briefs, and then snag my glasses off my bedside table on the way to the kitchen. I whip around the corner and lift the phone from the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Were you just on a run? Why are you so out of breath?”
“Who is this?” I ask, scrubbing the towel against the back of my head.
“It’s me. Jonathan.”
“Who?”
“Johnny!”
Water drips off my body and pools at my feet. “Bonnie? I don’t know any Bonnies.”
“Johnnyyyy,” he says, dragging out the name to overenunciate each letter. Not kidding, I’ve played this joke on him no less than three times and he falls for it every time. “Your agent!”
“My agent isn’t named Bonnie.”
“No—it’s Johnny with a J as in jam. ”
If I were warmer right now, I swear to God I would tell him Jam is a strange name. Instead, I laugh. “Ohhhhh, Johnny. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Son of a bitch, you knew the whole time, didn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“You’re lucky you’re my biggest client.”
“I remind myself of this every day. What can I do for you, Johnny?”
“I got an email from Denis yesterday.” Denis is my publicist. “I’ll give you three guesses for why he was emailing me and the first two don’t count.”
“He wants to know what shampoo I use since my hair is so luscious. He wanted to tell us he’s quitting publishing so he can pursue his lifelong dream as a zoologist. And, oh, let me see…he wants me to reveal my identity along with book four’s title on Good Morning America ?”
“Damn. He emailed you too?”
“Yep.”
“Crazy he’s going to become a zoologist, huh?”
“To be honest, I saw it coming.” I’m not sure most agents could put up with my shit, but Jonathan—he’s great. A little gullible at times, but the best person I could ask for to manage my career. He was brand-new to agenting when he answered my query, and some might have found partnering with someone so inexperienced a very scary gamble. But I liked that he needed me as much as I needed him.
He was also the only agent who not only said they loved it but admitted that my manuscript was raw and needed a lot of work. All the other agents blew smoke up my ass and said it was perfect and ready to go on sub—and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being lied to. I crave brutal honesty.
The guy was approachable, and we shared the same vision for my books. Best of all, he respected my decision to remain anonymous after I opened up to him about who my dad was. He was the only agent I felt comfortable telling. I doubt many others would have supported my choice not to ride my dad’s coattails all the way into the bookstore like Jonathan did. And he’s been true to his word that he would protect my privacy ever since. He never pushes me to tour or have a social media presence. I mean, I have accounts on all of the major platforms, but they’re mainly full of graphics and a few vague lifestyle photos that don’t show my face.
And actually, I think people like the mystery of it. Pun intended.
The more I think of Jonathan, though, the more I wonder if he’d be a good fit for Emily as an agent too. I want to ask him, but something tells me I need to ask Emily if she’d want that first. Maybe this is something she wants to do on her own.
“I’m sure I already know the answer, but I’m still obligated to ask. Will this be the year that AJ Ranger finally unveils himself as Jackson Bennett?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Books are selling just fine without my face being on them.” Just fine would be an understatement. My books all debut as number one New York Times bestsellers…and usually hang pretty close to number one for a few months. Right there next to my dad’s.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll email Denis and tell him it’s not happening and to drop it once and for all. If you ever decide you want to step into the limelight, we’ll let him know, but I’ll make it clear it’s unacceptable for him to continue to bug you about it.”
I sigh a little with relief. “Thanks, Bonnie.”
Our conversation ends abruptly when my front door flies open and in strolls Emily. “Jack, I just heard that—”
She freezes, eyes melting over my body.
“Jonathan, I gotta go.” I hang up the phone, and Emily makes no move to turn away. She doesn’t blush. She doesn’t stagger. She stares boldly at my body, and lust is written all over her face. It’s a delight to see.
“Well, well, well. You’ve finally caught me in my pajamas,” I say, enjoying the way her eyes finally lift to mine and smirk.
“I should have known you’d be a Calvin Klein man.” The space between us pulses. Begs us to get closer. If we hadn’t been interrupted on the couch the other morning, we absolutely would have had sex. And I can’t decide yet if that would have been the best or worst decision in the world.
“What’s wrong with Calvin Klein?”
Her eyes rest on the corner of my body where my hip bone meets with the waistband of my boxers. She looks like she’s imagining hooking her finger inside. “So high-class. Snooty.” She grins. “You can never just buy the Target brand of anything.”
“Says the woman who sleeps in silk lingerie. Face it, Emily. We’re the same.”
“No, because I have a few nice things that I had to save way too long to afford or used a coupon to buy. You have no shortage of nice things. How do you afford it, Jack?” I don’t think this is about her thinking I’m snooty anymore. This is Emily’s nose catching a scent again. This is her trying to work out the answer to a question that she’s not even sure she’s asking yet.
“Maybe I used a coupon too.”
“On your brand-new Land Rover?”
“Dealerships are doing incredible things these days to move inventory.”
“Jack…”
“Emily. Don’t worry about me. I have excellent money management skills.”
“But terrible taste in jewelry,” she says with a quiet smirk, her gaze dropping to my plastic candy necklace.
I smile and touch the colorful string around my neck. “You know why I wear these necklaces, right?”
“Because you want everyone to know you’re whimsical and fun?”
I laugh. “Yes. But also because they’re gifts from my students over the years. It started at my old school. One of my first students gave me a friendship necklace. The one you’ve probably seen me wear a few times. The next year another kid noticed I liked to wear my friendship necklace, so during teacher appreciation week, he gave me one too. Over the years the kids noticed, and it’s become a thing. I get at least one new one every year. I think I have like twenty at this point and I rotate them out.”
“I see,” she says, eyes blazing like this answer couldn’t have been better. And my skin is melting under her attention. I can’t think straight in these conditions. I want her, and standing here in my underwear in front of her, there’s certainly no hiding it. But I’ll be honest, I have no idea how to move forward. We are teachers at the same school. We are neighbors. I’m attracted to her (and maybe even have feelings for her?). And now we’re also friends, to top it all off.
Almost as if Emily and I are having these thoughts in tandem, she clears her throat and turns toward the door. “I wanted to tell you that I heard Bart is coming home tomorrow. I’ve decided to break into his house tonight, and I was sort of wondering if—”
“I’ll be there. This idea is much more preferable to the one I was considering.”
She turns back. “What was yours?”
“I was going to surprise him when he got back with a coffee and basically invite myself inside to chat. I would have gotten an urgent email on my phone I needed to look at, but it wouldn’t load so I’d need to use his computer. I’d delete the email while I was logged in.”
“I mean…not the worst idea actually.”
“A good plan B. I’d rather give your option a shot first, where I don’t have to pretend to pal around with Bart if possible.” Bart is…well, judgy would be the best word for it. He’s not a terrible guy or anything, but he is a people pleaser’s worst nightmare to interact with. He looks like he’s waiting for you to slip up. I’m always exhausted after talking to him.
“Well, thanks for being willing to risk an afternoon with him forme.”
“Hey, actually…” I pause, wondering if I should really bring this up while I’m still standing here in my underwear. “Hang on a second.” I go throw on some athletic shorts and then meet her at the front door again. “So I don’t overstep, I wanted to ask you before I did anything. But I was wondering if you’d like for me to talk to my—” Damn, I almost did it again. I quickly reword. “Friend. One of those resources I told you I had in publishing. He’s an agent and might be interested in reading your book for representation. Or at the very least, connect you with an agent who might find it a good fit?” When she doesn’t respond right away, I feel compelled to defend my case. “This actually happens more than you’d think in the industry. It never hurts to pull strings with people you know to get a foot in the door.”
I would have asked my dad to do it for me too if we had a different relationship. If I knew he wouldn’t use those strings against me or to further his own agenda.
Emily’s eyes are wide. She’s stopped breathing. I’m not sure if this is a good sign or a bad one. “I see. And you want to pull strings for me?”
“Yes. If you’ll let me.”
Emily nods once—looking stoic. But I see her balled-up fists at her sides. She’s trying not to cry. Happy tears? Or frustrated?
Finally, she rubs her lips together and blink blink blinks. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I would definitely appreciate you reaching out to your connection.”
I let out a relieved sigh. Happy tears. “You’re welcome.”
A beat passes where we just stare at each other. I don’t know what Emily is thinking, but for my part, I’m trying to absorb the realization that the tug I was experiencing in Nebraska—the constant thoughts of Emily and what she’s doing—was right. I thought I would come back and be reminded of all the reasons she and I could never work. Instead, all I’m realizing is just how freaking much I like Emily Walker.
A soft, tentative smile pulls Emily’s lips. “Okay…I’m going to go. But…I’ll see you tonight?”
“See you tonight.”