Chapter 29 Clara
I THINK I MIGHT GET minor running injuries more often.
It turns out after a decade of singleness and self-sufficiency, I really like being taken care of. Especially when I’m not truly suffering.
Honor saw the picture I sent of my slightly swollen ankle and responded with a voice note telling me to grow up because I asked if I should head to the emergency room. Having a best friend who’s a nurse is both a curse and a blessing.
Thankfully, Jack doesn’t have Honor’s bedside manner.
His face is buried between my neck and hair; his left arm is tucked under my head and crosses my chest, his hand resting over my rib cage under my right breast. His right hand is gripping the front of my right thigh, his right leg pushed through mine.
Every attempt to free myself from the tangled mess we’ve gotten ourselves into is useless.
His lips touch my neck; his fingers dance up my thigh with devastatingly light touches.
My back curves from the sensation of his mouth on my sensitive skin; his hips push into my ass. His deep moan rumbles next to my ear.
“Good morning,” he murmurs.
“Good morning,” I repeat.
“I can shoot over to Maggie’s to get your things,” he says, kissing along the top of my shoulder. “Brave your dresser to get you something clean to wear. I don’t open the store until ten on Tuesdays because I have deliveries and pickup at nine.”
“I’m going with you. You can’t be trusted.”
I don’t need to see him to tell that he looks guilty right now. “Correct. Want to go now and get breakfast on the way back?”
“We could watch the news broadcast with Flo at Bliss!”
After living alone for so long it feels strange to start my morning with someone else. Five minutes of saying we’re getting out of bed and pulling the other person back in if they made attempts to get up later, we’re heading to Maggie’s.
I can get used to coexisting in the mornings with a man, but I will never get used to going commando.
With yesterday’s Santa outfit and panties stuffed into a tote bag provided by Jack, I’m trying to not be grossed out by the feeling of my bare ass on my fleece leggings. “Why is your face like that?”
“Bad genetics,” I answer, trying to stop the leggings from riding up when I walk.
Jack rolls his eyes. “The grimace, Clara.”
“I’m not wearing any panties and the fleece is causing a bit of a sensory nightmare. Can we go?” I steal the coffee mug out of his hand and take a sip, earning a tut. He removes it from my hand and puts it on the table, grabbing his keys and ushering me toward the door.
“I’m going to take you the back way.”
I frown at him over my shoulder. “At least buy me dinner first.”
“Unbelievable,” he says, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. “I’m going to take you the back way to Maggie’s, so you don’t have to do this walk you’re doing in front of the other guests.”
I can’t exactly see what kind of walk I’m doing, but I can feel it. “I’m blaming my ankle.”
“Your ankle is clearly fine today,” he admits as we climb into his truck. “It’s the fur up your ass that’s the problem.”
“So you admit there’s nothing wrong with me and you just want me at your place?”
He nods. “There are plenty of things wrong with you, fashion choices for starters, but I think your foot is all right.”
T HE TEXT I SENT TO Jack asking if he needs anything still shows as delivered, not read. Even though I’m probably going to be lectured, I go downstairs anyway, knocking on the door when I don’t hear any machines.
Jack is sitting in front of his laptop with his head in his hands. “Hey,” I say cautiously as I approach him. “What’s wrong?”
Please don’t let the answer be Davenport.
“Nothing. I just don’t know how to run a business.” I pull up a chair beside him. “And it’s letting everybody down.”
“What are you talking about?”
Jack chews the inside of his cheek; his lips part. “It’s okay. It’ll be fine. I’m just behind on my Holly orders and I got a load more last night, presumably because of Flo mentioning them on air.”
We didn’t end up watching the broadcast with Flo.
When we suggested it at Bliss this morning, she said no because she was busy.
So we watched it together at Jack’s place, and both laughed when Flo managed to get the topic onto the Holly doll.
She’s quite the marketer. “Okay, well, you have time. You can—”
“I forgot to change the shipping timeline. People are expecting their dolls before December twenty-third.”
That’s not ideal but not impossible to fix. “Do you have the stock to complete the orders before the twenty-third?”
“Over half. Maybe three-quarters. My supplier can do a rush order for me that’ll come in two weeks, but I don’t think I’ll have the boxes. Melissa and Winnie handle it and I don’t think they’re expecting another delivery this month.”
“Jack, I’m so serious when I say this doesn’t mean you’re letting people down. It’s a little complication in your day. We can fix it and we will. Give me a minute to think through the options.”
Part of me expects him to tell me to mind my business, but Jack watches me closely. “Option one: we work out exactly how many orders you can fulfill, and we email everyone after that number to say that there’s been an error and you won’t be able to get them their order before the agreed date.
“The positive is you know you have the stock, everything just has to be assembled and then shipped, which I can help you with. The negative is you might receive bad reviews from disgruntled customers. Something to consider is that not everyone will be celebrating a holiday and some customers could agree to a delayed shipment for either a discount or maybe an added gift.”
“I don’t even care about reviews anymore,” he says, sounding defeated. “I just can’t believe I’m causing myself this headache. Why couldn’t it have happened to someone who actually knows what they’re doing?”
It’s a very sad reminder that Jack’s partnership with Davenport could have helped reduce the stress in his life so much.
A real partnership, not the one originally offered to him.
“Is this why you haven’t done any more toys?
” He gives me a sad smile. “I saw the drawings when I was looking for a coaster in the coffee table drawer.”
“I’m out of my depth, Clara. It started as a fun idea and it’s developed into this stress I can’t escape.”
I ask the question I’ve been wanting to ask since the beginning.
“Why don’t the others help you? It’s supposed to be this collaborative project but it feels like you do the brunt of the work.
Designing a box once and ordering repeat deliveries is not equivalent to managing customers, managing stock, and handling all the assembling and shipping. ”
Jack doesn’t look surprised or offended by what I’m saying. He looks like I’m not saying anything he hasn’t already thought. “What are my other options?”
“Your other option is to hustle and get it done.”
“I don’t know if I can get the boxes,” he says, reminding me of his earlier problem.
“I can deal with that. If Melissa and Winnie’s supplier can’t produce a rush order, I’ll find someone who can.”
“I don’t want to use a Davenport factory,” he says quickly.
I don’t blame him at all; seeing all his potential weighed down by the pressure of doing it alone is reigniting the rage I feel at my own company for screwing him in the first place.
And me. They screwed me.
“I won’t need to. Are we going for option one or two?”
Jack chews on the corner of his thumb and contemplates. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but I don’t expect you to help me.”
“You tell me to shut up, too, but you don’t expect me to do that either. I want to help. Let me prove it to you.”
“Okay.” One little word and I feel like I won something spectacular. He stands and moves in front of me, stretching his arms up lazily. “Option two. I don’t want to let people down if I can help it.”
“I believe in you, Jack. I’ll make us coffee and then you can show me how to put her together and I’ll start, okay?” Jack leans forward and kisses me gently. It says everything I know he can’t, and it’s enough for me. “I’ll be back.”
I ’M TRYING NOT TO FOCUS on how monumental it is that Jack is letting me work on the doll that started this whole mess.
That means he definitely trusts me, right?
Jack goes into a cupboard on the far wall. He starts lifting out cardboard boxes and putting them on the floor behind us. “Do you want to take notes?” he asks.
“I should be good just watching. Show me how it’s done, boss.”
Boss earns me an eye roll and a scoff. He points at the first box. “Dolls, then dresses with hair ribbon, over here is books and accessories, this one is box stickers.” I follow him from box to box.
He grabs a doll and puts a dress on her.
Then the wheel of pink hair ribbon, cutting five inches with scissors, and tying it in her hair.
The box is next, opening it out and pulling out the card she stands against. Jack puts her in place, followed by her toys.
The final stage is the twist ties that hold everything in place.
I know it’s the most frustrating part of unboxing something.
I suspect it’s probably the most tedious part of boxing too.
When he’s done minutes later, he pushes everything into the box and closes the clear window lid.
“The box isn’t big enough for the books without damaging them, so I put them in a bubble mailer and they go in the delivery box.”
“Okay, I got it,” I say, but in reality I’m picking holes in this whole system. “Do you just do one at a time?”
He nods. “I’m usually on my own.”
“Can I interfere?” I ask, giving him my most angelic look.
He rolls his eyes, puts his arm around my waist. “Could I stop you even if I wanted to?”
“No. We need to streamline this process. The ribbons can be cut in bulk—we also need to run a flame over the end to stop them from fraying. The accessories are all mixed up so you’re losing time trying to find one of each.
I’m going to split them into separate boxes.
” He’s nodding along, which is a positive sign.
“With the books I’m going to do the opposite.
I’m going to collate them and put them in the bubble mailers so you can just grab and go. ”
“Why didn’t I think of this?” he says.
“Let’s get through today, but going forward, I think you should leave the dolls with Flo’s dressmaking club. They can add the ribbons and dresses, then send them to you. It’ll be less work for you and a little more work for those already making dresses.”
“Maybe,” he says, kissing my cheek.
It’s better than no, I guess. “I’ll dress her. Do you want to cut all the ribbons and burn the ends?”
He nods and we fall into a quiet but productive rhythm. The head hole in the dress is a touch too small to make putting it on easy, and every time I drag it over her perfect brown curls I cringe, thinking I’m going to ruin them. I wonder if Jack’s mentioned this to Flo.
Jack adds the ribbons to her hair while I switch to separating the toy accessories into different boxes.
She has flowers to represent the florist, a slice of cake to represent Flo, a book to represent Miss Celia, a microphone to represent Wilhelmina, a bunny to represent Dove, and a hammer to represent Jack.
Each of the stories that come with her relates to an adventure involving one of them.
“I forgot you’re the one who wrote these adventures. ”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “If I’d known so many people were going to buy them, I’d have spent longer making them better. They felt good enough for what was Sailor’s gift, but maybe not for all the people who paid good money for it. They’re short; I guess that redeems them a little.”
I look up, shocked. “You’re ridiculously hard on yourself, do you know that? Who else writes multiple children’s stories for a toy they designed?”
He kisses my forehead, his mouth hovering near my face. My chin tilts up; I’m hoping he’ll kiss me properly. “Not Davenport,” he whispers. “They use AI.”
The sky outside darkens as the day rolls on.
Jack and I fall into a rhythm with our miniature assembly line.
We take turns with the annoying job of twisting the packaging ties until we realize Jack is twice as quick as I am.
My job becomes shipping paperwork and organizing, something my year in distribution prepared me for.
There’s a surge of dopamine watching the completed doll boxes pile up next to us. The order paperwork stack gets smaller and smaller and I’m getting giddy with excitement.
I watch the tension dissipate from Jack’s shoulders. We eventually run out of dolls and boxes, toys and mailers. It’s a natural halt to the process, seconded by my stomach making the loudest noise I’ve ever heard.
Jack sits against the table. He holds out a hand for me to take and guides me in between his parted legs. There’s so much he’s not saying yet so much I understand from him wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his forehead on my shoulder.
“Your stomach is screaming at me,” he says quietly. “What do you want to eat?”
“We should finish putting the shipping labels on them so you can send them tomorrow,” I say, ignoring the embarrassingly loud gurgle coming from my abdomen.
“After I feed you.”
“You’re bossy.” Jack looks up, his hands sliding from my waist down to my ass. He pulls me closer. “And grabby.”
“And you’re hungry.” He lists off the contents of his cupboards and every takeout place he likes in a twenty-mile radius. “What do you want?”
“The grocery store hot counter does a barbecue pulled pork sandwich. How about that? I can head over while you finish up. I’ll walk Elf.” He looks like he’s about to argue, but I suspect he realizes if he goes to get the food, then I’m going to do the work. “And yes, I’m fine to walk.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Take my wallet.”
I may be a strong, independent woman with her own money, but I’ll never turn down free food. “You’re very trusting that I won’t rob you.”
“You’re overly optimistic that I have anything worth robbing.” He laughs.
He kisses my forehead and taps my ass, which I take as my signal to leave. I can’t stop smiling at what we’ve achieved this afternoon. I can’t stop smiling at what I’ve achieved so far.