Chapter 17 More Cahoots #2
“The script is junk, though. All the scripts have been junk.”
“Yes. We can finally, decisively fix that, and then this guy becomes a bottomless source of money. We can afford to get some big names attached.”
“I’d kind of come around to the idea that no one can fix the script except Angela.” That the project had died with her.
“No. I know I maybe haven’t been the biggest cheerleader for this project lately, but this is our chance to finally do it.
The actual point of this call is that you have to meet him.
I know you didn’t want the Christmas shindig to be a work party, but I invited him.
Pitched it as very small, very exclusive.
Don’t be mad. You just have to spend five minutes charming him. ”
“OK.” She told herself not to freak out—about the party or about the prospect of having a potential Green Light savior at it. “What’s this guy’s name?”
“Bjorn Ekberg.”
“Wow, he really is Swedish.”
“Yep, and he’s about seven feet tall and blond, and in case you didn’t get it from the whole American-lit-major-turned-tech-mogul thing, insanely smart.”
“Is he single?”
“He is. You should totally go for it.”
“No, no, not me. I meant for you.”
“Oh, no, I’ve decided my type is more literary assholes.”
“You mean Jack?”
“Yeah, I don’t know, he’s growing on me. I’m going to turn on the charm at the party and see what happens.”
This was the second time Tiff had mentioned going after Jack, so she must be serious. Blair didn’t know what to say. Her first impulse was to say, Hands off. He’s my literary asshole, but that wouldn’t be wise—or true.
“I’ve decided to take a break from looking for Mr. Right and have a Mr. Right Now interlude,” Tiff said.
“And really, he’s perfect. He’s so handsome.
He’s also insanely smart. But unlike Bjorn, there’s no potential I’ll ever be working with him since he already rejected us so soundly for Books with Blair. ”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Blair finally managed.
“Why not?”
Blair checked the time. “You know what? I have to go.” She had a date that wasn’t a date with the literary asshole in question.
Life had become rather confusing.
Outside, at the appointed time, Jack held a finger against his lips and pointed toward the fence that separated the yard from Mrs. Afonso’s.
He was wearing a dark-gray hoodie with the hood up.
It was a bit jarring to see him in long sleeves.
It reminded her that he would eventually go home to Minnesota, where it was cold.
“What is this?” Like the nearby lemon tree, the rest of the vegetation on the Mrs. Afonso side of the yard hadn’t been doing well. Blair had had to have a row of California lilac ripped out. But tonight, the resultant bare spot had been turned into… well, it looked like a picnic.
“Shh.” He took her hand and led her to a quilt he’d spread on the ground. Her curiosity was such that she didn’t even mind that, forget folding, she’d have to wash it about a thousand times now that it had been outside on the ground.
There were a bottle of gin, a couple cans of tonic, a Ziploc full of ice, and two glasses on the quilt. “I know you’re a vodka martini person, but we’re getting into the spirit of Double Gin Night.”
“What is this double gin thing you keep talking about?”
He sat with his back to the fence and tugged her down to join him. “All will be revealed. I hope. And if not, we’ll have some G&Ts and do some stargazing.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Jack Branksome?”
“Shh.” He produced another quilt and shook it out over her legs. “I thought you might get cold.”
How… thoughtful.
“I haven’t really been outside much at night, other than coming and going to your place,” he whispered as he started mixing the drinks. “I didn’t realize how stunning the stars are up here.”
She lowered her voice to match his. “I don’t appreciate it as much as I should.”
“I used to spend summers with my dad at his lake place. The stars up there were really something.”
“Cal was into astronomy for a while when he was younger.” She squinted up. “There’s Orion.”
He handed her a drink, they toasted, then they shot the breeze in low tones. It shouldn’t have been that remarkable. They’d talked plenty of times before. But there was something about sitting shoulder to shoulder, whispering in the dark, that conferred a kind of intimacy that felt… new.
Or maybe it was the gin. She was on her second drink, and he made them strong.
“Jack,” she whispered when there was a lull in the conversation. “Your book is so good.”
He dipped his head. “I—”
A peal of laughter startled Blair so much that she physically jumped.
Jack cocked his head so dramatically that it made Blair laugh. He looked like Edward trying to identify a new sound.
He clapped a hand over her mouth, and why were his hands always so warm? It wasn’t fair.
She was just tipsy enough that she pried his hand off and, as before in the pool house, balled her own hand up into a fist and nestled it in his larger, warmer hand.
Not only did he keep her hand, he took her other one, but not before, again, making a shushing motion with his finger against his lips.
She nodded as the laughter from over the fence started again.
It was accompanied by urgent whispering she was having trouble making out.
She soon realized that was because Mrs. Afonso and her guests were speaking Italian.
But then, in English, a third voice: “Stop with the Italian! If I’m going to be an accessory to a crime, the least you can do is commit it in English.”
“So demanding,” Mrs. Afonso said in a teasing tone.
“Do I need to remind you who’s the retired pitcher here?”
Everyone laughed, and Mrs. Afonso said, “Ready?”
And then the projectiles started coming over the fence.
What in tarnation?
Most of the missiles were landing in the pool, which had only recently been drained and refilled, but some of them were hitting the yard, both the flagstones and the landscaped parts.
Blair’s first instinct was to confront the criminals, but Jack was vigorously shaking his head no.
She nodded to signal her understanding—he clearly had some sort of plan here—and he let go of her hands and crawled over to retrieve one of the… what? Balls? Rocks?
“Frozen fertilizer chunks,” he whispered when he was back at her side.
He handed her the cold nugget and turned his phone’s flashlight onto her palm.
“At least I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening here.
She makes ice cubes with fertilizer in them, lobs them over, and they melt and wreak havoc. It’s kind of genius.”
“Well, I’ll be jitterbugged.”
“Indeed.”
She was aware that she should be angry, but the whole thing suddenly struck her as hilarious.
She put her own hands over her mouth to try to stifle the laughter.
When Jack shot her a quizzical look, she whispered, “My elderly neighbor has a vendetta against me for unknown reasons and is waging war on me with fertilizer popsicles.” She dropped the frozen fertilizer.
“This isn’t helping with my perpetually cold hands. ”
He started laughing, too, and trying to stifle it. Soon they were sitting together shaking with silent laughter. Every time they came close to calming down, another projectile sailed over the fence and they lost it anew.
When she finally got to the point where she could trust her voice again, Blair whispered, “What do we do?”
Jack held up a finger and got up and slunk along the fence.
From behind the ailing lemon tree—fertilizer was supposed to be good for plants, but could too much ruin them?
—he produced a stepladder she usually kept in the shed.
He came back and set it up next to the fence.
“We’re going to confront her. You should film this. ”
Blair got out her phone, and Jack climbed the ladder but stayed crouched down. When the next projectile came sailing over, he stood to his full height, shone his flashlight over the fence, and said, “What the hell are you doing?”