18 Birdie
BIRDIE
The ride to Jasper’s house is quiet. I only brought enough stuff to fit in a small overnight bag.
The duffel sits between my feet on the floorboards of his truck.
He was in a rush to leave, pacing the apartment and checking the windows every two seconds while I packed.
He gave me enough time to tuck my tits away, which is a blessing.
Now I sit in the passenger seat in a pair of leggings and a cropped WU sweatshirt.
I slipped my glasses on too, which brought the world back into sharper focus.
My contacts are packed in the bag at my feet.
Pickles sleeps curled in his basket on the bench seat between us.
Reaching over, I scratch behind his ears.
He reappeared on the fire escape right as we were about to leave.
His sharp claws scratched at the door while I was zipping my duffel shut.
Jasper opened the door, and he came darting in like a little black shadow, totally unharmed.
“Oh, please don’t make me leave him behind,” I begged, scooping him off the floor and into my arms.
“Of course, he’s coming.” Jasper grabbed the basket and my duffel and led the way down to the truck, leaving me to follow behind carrying the cat.
Do I think he’s overreacting by making me stay at his house tonight?
Obviously. I feel perfectly safe in the apartment.
I always lock my doors and windows at night.
And I have every intention of using the store credit card Phoebe left me to order a new set of cameras and a motion-detecting floodlight for the alley.
I stand by what I said—it’s silly Jasper doesn’t already have them installed.
With those new safeguards in place, I know I’ll sleep like a baby.
But just for tonight, I’ll give the boss what he wants. I’m too tired to stand on my feminist principles now. I am woman, hear me roar . . . tomorrow. After I’ve had my coffee.
And maybe I’m a little curious too. On our last night together, Phoebe showed me some pictures of Prescott House.
That’s what it’s called. It has its own name, a plaque, and an official listing in the National Historic Registry.
The house itself predates the Civil War.
Phoebe said some of the furniture is even pre-Revolution.
Jasper lives in a literal living history museum.
And I’m a sucker for Queen Anne–style furniture.
It’s at least worth a look, right?
We turn off the main road onto a winding gravel drive and he slows the truck down.
As we round a bend, the trees open, revealing a dark meadow of silvery grass.
It almost glows under the moonlight. The road is a grey ribbon that leads up to a white, two-story Greek Revival structure that looks like it was lifted off the pages of a Louisa May Alcott novel.
All the lights on the lower level are on, making the windows glow golden yellow.
There’s a door centered on the main floor, framed by a pedimented portico.
The symmetrical windows are each styled with a set of dark green shutters.
Beyond the house I see the dark silhouette of a barn and some other outbuildings.
“It’s beautiful,” I say aloud, breaking this precious silence.
“It’s a handful,” Jasper mutters.
“All the best things are,” I reply with a teasing smile.
He rolls his eyes, pulling the truck around to the back of the house. Cranking it into park, the engine settles, a low purr. Jasper glances my way. “I probably should have mentioned I have a housemate.”
I stiffen, one hand clutching the shoulder strap of my duffel. “A housemate? Is that code for girlfriend?”
He chuckles despite himself, turning the truck off. “I’ll beg you not to say that again.”
My chest flutters with lightness. After the night we’ve had, it feels good to do something as normal as tease my prickly new boss. “Mmm, I love a man confident enough to beg.”
He levels a glare at me. “The flirting needs to end right fucking now.”
“Is that your fourth rule?” He grimaces and I smile, knowing I just made him picture the moment we were first alone together in my apartment. God, it feels like that was a lifetime ago instead of only a few days. I need some sleep. And coffee. And an orgasm. Not from my boss.
“Trust me, Birdie. If you value your sanity, you won’t flirt with me in front of Hortense Hastings.”
“Hortense?” My tired mind hums as I piece it together.
Oh! Hortense is the arthritic old lady who works in the shop and drives Jasper batty with her matchmaking.
Everyone at dinner on Friday mentioned her at least once.
She seems to be the whole island’s best and oldest friend.
I gasp with excitement. “Wait, she’s your roommate? ”
“Housemate,” he corrects. “Begrudgingly. I can’t get her to leave.”
Reaching across Pickles in the basket, I squeeze his arm. “Aw, Jasper, you live with your granny? That’s so sweet—”
Growling low, he jerks his door open and slides out.
Listen, I have to do this. The man almost died tonight. If I don’t tease him, how will he remember to appreciate the joys of living? Besides, I let him suck on my tits for a solid four minutes. This is a mutual give and take.
I open my door and Pickles leaps over my lap, disappearing into the dark. “Hey, will he be okay out here? Aren’t there predators? Foxes or owls or something?”
Leaning back into the cab, Jasper grabs the empty basket. “It’ll be a bad night for any fox that picks a fight with Pickles Prescott.”
Fair enough. That neutered cat has balls the size of Jupiter.
I slide out of the truck, slipping the strap of my duffel over my shoulder, and step around the front of the truck. “Does she know to expect me?”
“I sent her a text, but she rarely checks her phone.”
For some reason, I suddenly feel nervous. Hortense is someone deep inside Jasper and Phoebe’s inner circle. Will she like me? Will she accept me here for the summer? Forcing a smile, I step over to his side. “Well, I hope she doesn’t mind the company. It’s just for one night, right?”
“You’re not staying in that apartment. It’s not safe.”
“Well, obviously not tonight. Phoebe said Hortie is really nice,” I add, changing the subject.
Jasper heaves a long-suffering sigh. “She’s a nutty old bat who thinks every moment spent not gossiping and interfering in other people’s love lives is a moment wasted.”
Laughing, I lead the way down the narrow path to the back door. “She sounds amazing.”
Just before I reach the door, Jasper’s hand lands on my shoulder and he turns me around. “Birdie, look at me.”
I glance up, waiting for him to say something rude or sarcastic.
He surprises me by gently cupping my cheek.
The wanting in his eyes churns alongside his stalwart determination to remain detached.
He’s a veritable storm of passions and contradictions, bottled up tight.
And I want to see him unleashed. Reaching up, I wrap my hand around his wrist and give it a squeeze. “What’s your fourth rule?”
His expression shutters and he drops his hand away. “My fourth rule is don’t buy into any of Hortie’s bullshit.”
“What bullshit?”
“Don’t fall in love with me.”
I stiffen, leaning away. “Jasper . . .”
His gaze is cold steel. “She’s gonna try and play matchmaker. She can’t help herself. But I can never be what you want, and you’ll only end up brokenhearted. So, just spare us both the headache, okay?”
Why does my body feel like it wants to take his warning as an invitation? Forcing a smile, I dare to shrug. “Sure thing, boss. Let’s go ahead and call that one a reciprocal rule.”
“Won’t be a problem.” His words cut sharp as glass.
Fighting back a wince, I shift my shoulder under the pinch of the duffel strap and nod at the door. “Shall we?”
Resigned to his fate, he opens the back door and gestures me inside his house.