Chapter 6
Megan
As the evening sky grows dark and the patio lights come up around us, my brother carries the bulk of our three-way conversation over drinks, catching me up on the highlights and shenanigans of the recently completed hockey season. Wherein the Northmen made it to the playoffs but not to the final round.
Occasionally, Jameson adds to the conversation, mostly prompting Cole to tell another story, and I do the same.
I have no idea why Jameson is so short on words—surely my hyperactive, talkative brother’s best friend isn’t always this quiet? But I’m too tired and self-conscious to say much myself, and it’s easy to get swept up in Cole’s stories, entertained.
Then the three of us sit down to dinner at the outdoor dining table. The meal is served by Jameson’s staff. Cole sits at the head of the table, between Jameson and me. And while we eat, Cole peppers me with questions about my job in Crooks Creek—which I get the weird feeling is for Jameson’s benefit.
My very uninteresting job at the general store and seasonal garden center, which Cole knows I held for years.
While Jameson, seated across from me, says little more than nothing.
It’s so fucking awkward.
It feels like I’m on a first date with a guy who doesn’t want to be on the date. And my brother is on the date, too, chaperoning or something.
No, worse. It’s like Cole is trying to fix us up. But not so we can date. So I can work for the man sitting across from me.
It’s a job interview.
I realize this when we reach dessert. No one really touches it except me. My brother the professional hockey player definitely doesn’t touch it. Jameson tastes it, like he wants to be polite to Chef. I enjoy every bite of it. Why not? It’s not every day that a billionaire’s personal chef cooks for me.
But then Cole does a very Cole-like thing and blurts out something that makes perfect sense to him, probably, but none to me, kind of killing my appetite. My brother has been communicationally challenged like this forever.
It goes something like this…
Cole: “You can have a job here. Gardening. If you want it.”
Me (almost choking as ganache slides down my throat and I forget how to swallow completely): “What?”
Cole: “Gardening. You love gardening, right?”
Me (still swallowing ganache and clearing my throat): “I do. Yes.”
Cole: “Jameson needs a gardener.”
At this point, I look at Jameson, but Cole speaks for him. “The job is yours if you want it.”
Jameson glances at Cole, but he doesn’t say anything. And I figure with that one look I get the picture. This job offer is Cole’s idea.
Doesn’t Jameson already have a gardener?
“Really?”
“Really,” Cole says.
Then he nudges Jameson, who remembers how to speak. “You come highly recommended.”
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or what.
“I…”
“Whadya say, Megz?” Cole prompts when I get stuck. “You like the gardening shed.”
Yeah. I do.
Cole took me to see it before we sat down to dinner, while Jameson went into the house for a meeting with Clara.
Though “shed” is not really the word for it.
It’s a small greenhouse at the back corner of the yard that’s lush with plants, many of them tropical varieties that wouldn’t survive the harsh winters where I come from. There’s an array of gardening tools, and a cozy sitting area with cushioned chairs arranged in front of a wood-burning stove.
It’s a gardener’s dream.
I glance at Jameson, who helpfully says nothing.
“Couldn’t you see yourself happy in a place like this?” Cole presses.
“Uh, sure.” If it were mine. “I mean… wow.” I’m shocked, that’s all. This yard is a gardener’s paradise. It’s my idea of paradise, anyway, and Cole knows it.
He winks at me.
But Jameson is so stiff. Different from my first impression of him in the street, when I could’ve sworn he was undressing me with his eyes.
Now he seems so closed off. Cold, even.
Because now that he knows who I am, he’s no longer interested in the view?
“Thank you. It’s really generous of you.” I direct that at Jameson. Because bottom line, I need this job.
He replies with a gruff, “No thanks necessary.”
“It’s just temporary, though,” I assure him. “Until I get on my feet, find a job, save up some money and get my own place to live.” I know, whatever Cole says, his best friend doesn’t need me as a gardener.
I’m the only one in need here.
I swallow my wounded pride about it, though. Sitting here, fatigued from the last two brutal days, with these two successful men, I’m aware that they’re trying to help.
“It’s no rush,” Cole says. “And you can always come live at my place, when it’s ready. For as long as you want.”
Well, shit. What do I say to that?
I don’t think I could live with my brother, certainly not longterm. Does he really want to live with me?
“When will it be ready?”
“Six months. Maybe less.”
Jameson’s eyes are fixed on the water glass in his hand. There’s been a slight frown on his face all through dinner, like there’s some problem he’s trying to solve.
I have the feeling I’m the problem.
I can’t live in this man’s house for six months. Even if I’m earning my keep as his gardener.
Besides the fact that I doubt very much he’d want me here that long, I’m not ready to be thrust into the proximity of a man I find so attractive for months on end. His nearness muddies my thoughts and does crazy shit to my body.
His light-blue eyes lift to mine, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
I try to smile at him.
He doesn’t smile back.
* * *
We pour a celebratory glass of champagne to toast my new job. Cole’s idea. I’m still trying to mentally adjust to the fact that my new employer is the most fuckable man I’ve ever met, when Cole’s phone buzzes.
He pulls it out, and gets to his feet. “It’s my agent, about tomorrow. I need to take this. You guys hang out.”
“Oh. Uh…” I don’t really have anything else to say as Cole strides away and disappears into the house, leaving me alone with Jameson.
Silence falls.
I take a gulp of my champagne, swallowing loudly.
“He didn’t tell you about tomorrow, did he?” Jameson’s voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time. Like velvet when you rub it the wrong way.
“No. What’s tomorrow?”
His eyes pinch, like maybe he wants to punch Cole in the face, just a little bit. “He’s leaving for LA in the morning.”
“What?”
“He has a commercial shoot for one of his endorsement deals. And meetings. And women. You know.”
Yeah. Unfortunately, I know.
But Cole didn’t tell me.
He told me over the phone to come stay with him in Vancouver, but he didn’t tell me we’d be living with his best friend, much less that he’d be flying out the next day. He gave me a whirlwind introduction to his best friend, a job, and tried to make me feel welcome.
And now he’s leaving me here.
That’s so like Cole, I actually laugh out loud.
Although, if he’d told me… I might’ve hesitated to come, right?
I can see why he didn’t.
Something unreadable passes over Jameson’s face in the wake of my laughter. Then he tops up my champagne in silence, as maybe it sinks in for both of us.
He’s stuck with me, more or less.
And I’m just… stuck.
What can I say except… “Thank you.” I take another deep swallow of champagne. Might as well get drunk?
Jameson’s blue eyes burn into me as he settles back in his chair. The word penetrating was invented for this man. I’ve never been eye fucked so casually in my life.
I swear, it’s the same look he gave me in the street.
I didn’t imagine it…
I try not to return the look, but it’s hard. I’m not even sure what my face is doing, he’s got my wires so tangled.
“Your yard is incredible.” I try to make conversation; the only thing I can think to offer is a compliment or three. “I don’t just mean the gardens. And you have private beach access?”
“The beach is public. But, yes. You can walk straight down there. There’s a locked security gate at the bottom of the stairs. Clara can give you a fob so you can go in and out.”
“Oh. Thank you. Um, is that North Vancouver?” I point at the glittering homes on the mountainside across the water.
“That’s West Vancouver. North Vancouver is more to the east.”
“That’s… confusing.”
“Well, North Vancouver is north of Vancouver. But so is West Vancouver, really. It’s northwest.”
“Okay. And what is that line of lights floating in the dark, above the houses?” It looks like it’s partway up the mountains, but I can’t tell. It’s getting so dark, the mountains are becoming indistinguishable from the sky.
“That’s one of the ski hills. Black Mountain. My family owns the resort, actually.”
I try not to look at him. It’s so much more awkward sitting so close to him without my brother here as a buffer. “You own the ski hill?”
“Just the resort at the top. It’s more of a chalet, with a restaurant and bar, shops.”
“I see.” I sip my champagne, considering that. “Can we see anything else you own from here?”
I’m joking. But he points in the direction of the sparkling stretch of downtown, over to the far right of the view. “Vance Tower. My sister lives there. The big one with the red lights on top.”
You’re kidding. It has to be one of the tallest buildings downtown.
I don’t know what to say. I’m miles out of my depth here. The people I know, besides my brother, own, you know, clothes and books and maybe a nice car. Maybe a home of their own, if they’re lucky. Maybe a little cabin out at the lake, too, if they’re really lucky.
That’s in small town Manitoba.
I can’t imagine the price tag on a skyscraper in downtown Vancouver, or a mountaintop ski chalet. Or, for that matter, a professional hockey team.
I dare a look at him. He put on a beachy button-up shirt for dinner, linen, with the sleeves casually rolled up and the front wide open, so I can still see the dagger tattoo on his chest. I notice the two tattooed drops of blood that drip from the tip of the blade. The second one looks a bit pink and raw, like the tattoo is new.
I want to ask him about it, but it seems too personal.
I can’t think of a thing else to say to him that wouldn’t be awkward.
So, you’re rich and gorgeous, that’s cool. What movies do you like?
“So.” He breaks the silence this time. “Is that really what you came to the big city for? To be a gardener?”
His tone is neutral. Not accusatory or judgmental or anything. But he’s probably asking because my discomfort with the whole situation is so obvious.
“No.” My face flushes as I speak; I’ve never been so embarrassed about my general position in life as I have been today, in this man’s company. “But I’m grateful for the job.”
“Why don’t you have any money?”
“Um…”
Blunt much?
I take another swig of my champagne. It’s not a question I have an easy answer for, if I’m being honest.
I’m not even sure why I want to be honest.
Self-respect? I don’t like the idea that maybe he thinks I’m hiding something from my brother. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. Cole knows how I ended up here.
Maybe it’s just the champagne.
“Okay, the thing is…” I take a deep breath and tell him what I’ve told so few people in this world. “I’m an author.”
Jameson’s expression is slow to shift, but something like curiosity hones his features. “Really?”
“Well, I’m writing a series of books. I’ve published the first three already, under a pen name. It’s just novels I write for fun.” I hiss out an annoyed-with-myself breath. “Okay, that was a small lie.” I put my glass down on the table and kind of wring my hands, feeling the faint ache of all the hours at my keyboard. “It’s my passion. I’m just not used to talking about it.”
“Okay. But why are you going to work in my garden if you’re an author?”
“Well, um, I didn’t say I was successful.”
He doesn’t smile at my self-deprecating jab.
“I just love storytelling. I love plotting and world building.”
Now a faint, heart-stopping smile drifts across his lips. “Cole never mentioned you were such a nerd.”
It takes me a long moment to compute that he’s teasing me.
“Maybe I am,” I admit. “I just love getting lost in this fictional world I created. I think I developed such a knack for it because of living in a place I didn’t want to be. Wanting another life? I created my own escape, especially during the endless winters when I was stuck in the apartment so damn much.” It really hits me as I say it out loud: how much I resented living in Crooks Creek.
Yeah, this is definitely the champagne loosening my tongue.
But he seems to be waiting for me to continue, so I venture on. “It’s so personal for me, writing. I’m still uncomfortable sharing it. That’s why I use a pen name.”
“That’s understandable. Plenty of celebrities use pseudonyms. It’s not just a marketing tool. It can be a layer of separation for your private self.”
“Yeah. I like my privacy. People back home don’t even know about my books. Cole knows and our mom knows, but they’re sworn to secrecy. And… Troy knew. My ex-boyfriend.”
I hesitate there, not really wanting to talk about him at all. But I do want to be honest with Jameson.
Maybe because I think he deserves to know why I’m here invading his life. And why, like he pointed out, I have no money.
“The thing is, I’ve made a small amount of money off the books. Very small. I send them out to book reviewers and social media influencers and I’ve steadily grown a little following. The first few months after I published the first book, I made like five hundred dollars, and I told myself if I could make a thousand dollars a month off my books, then I could grow it from there to two thousand a month and so on.” I hesitate. “Well, when I finally reached the one-thousand-a-month mark, on top of what I was making at the store, I was able to really start saving. Troy and I were going to buy a house. We were renting.”
I hesitate again, wondering if I should really keep talking or just keep drinking, as Jameson waits for me to go on.
“Troy saved more money than I did because he made more, but I saved all the book money, besides what I put back into promoting the books. We had this joint account for our house fund.”
I stop there, because it’s really hard to say the rest.
But maybe I want the billionaire sitting in front of me to know that I have dreams, and I am trying to better my life. So I take a fortifying sip of champagne and forge on.
“Anyway… My portion was only fifteen thousand dollars. That was all I’d saved up so far. I know it’s such a tiny amount to someone like you. But it would’ve been enough to cover my rent and expenses for a while here, until I got on my feet.”
“Would’ve?” Jameson’s tone is cool and lethal, and it startles me.
I realize I’ve been staring into my hands when I meet the jagged look in his blue eyes.
Well, fuck. You got this far.
Might as well hit bottom.
“Troy took it all. Right before I left. We had a big fight and I told him I thought we should break up, that things weren’t working. And the next day, all the money was gone from the joint account. He’d used it to buy a new truck, so I couldn’t do anything about it. And two nights later, I left town.”
The line of Jameson’s jaw hardens. “Cole knows about this?”
“He knows. And yes, he insisted on murdering Troy for me, but I won’t let him. Even if Troy deserves it.” I try to laugh, but fail.
Jameson appears entirely unamused.
“Look, if you want to revoke your offer, I totally understand. You didn’t know your new gardener came with all this baggage. I just wanted you to know that I haven’t always been penniless, and I do have aspirations?—”
“I’m not revoking anything.” He cuts me off in a low voice that welcomes no negotiating. “You can be a gardener if that’s what you want, but for what it’s worth, I think you should tell more people about your books. Passions should be celebrated, not kept secret. Be proud of yourself for what you’ve accomplished.”
I take that in with a deep, inaudible breath like it’s the freshest air, floored by this strange, euphoric feeling that’s expanding in my chest.
His words seem so genuine.
I told him about my books, and he said I should be proud. Him, the billionaire marketing genius.
Cole told me, while we were in the greenhouse, what Jameson does for his family’s business. VP of Brand Marketing. I don’t know exactly what that entails, but now that I know his “family business” is that of the illustrious Vance family, it’s definitely a bigger deal than sort of author or gardener by pity vote.
I glance around for any sign of my brother. Where the hell is he?
“He might not be back for a while,” Jameson says.
Shit. Is that his way of hinting that he doesn’t want to be stuck sitting out here with me all night?
“That’s okay. I should get some sleep anyway.” I push to my feet, pick up my dessert plate, and reach for his.
But his hand lands on my wrist, warm and gentle. “You can leave that.”
Oh god.He’s touching me.
“Are you sure?”
“I have staff for that.”
Right. That’ll take some getting used to. If I actually stay here for any length of time.
I put the plate down, mainly so I can slide out of his gentle grasp.
“Sit.”
The word is so evenly commanding, so ruggedly warm in his rough-velvet voice, my butt is back in my seat before I can think about it.