Chapter 13 Jessiah
He told me he wanted you to be his best man. But he was afraid to ask. He thought you thought the wedding was stupid. He thought you wouldn’t come. Did you know that?
It was the first thing I thought when I woke up the next morning and slowly came back to reality.
Which was an achievement, considering who was lying in bed beside me.
After my encounter with Helena I’d left the club in short order and called Samara, arranging to meet her at a bar three streets away.
We hadn’t stayed long—I was less in need of conversation and more in need of a good dose of distraction.
So we’d gone back to my place, opened a criminally expensive bottle of Scotch, and I’d done everything I could to forget about what I’d learned. And I mean everything.
It had worked: I hadn’t thought any more about the encounter at Tough Rock.
But the next morning, Helena’s words returned clearer than ever.
I should probably have gone night surfing instead of trying to distract myself with sex.
It was more effective at combating intrusive thoughts, even if it wasn’t quite so much fun.
I turned on my back and stared at the loft ceiling.
Helena’s words hurt worse than the fact that she’d laid me out on the mat just moments beforehand.
I hadn’t known what Adam had wanted, hadn’t even guessed.
My brother and I hadn’t spoken much in the weeks before his death, not because we were fighting, but because I’d been busy with the lodge in Australia—and with the girl I’d fallen for there.
I’d never taken Adam and Valerie’s relationship seriously; I’d seen it as a nice diversion, one that he had earned.
Then, when he told me about the engagement, I’d broken into incredulous laughter and called him crazy for making such an important decision after just six months.
No wonder he hadn’t asked me to be his best man, and thought that I’d refuse.
But I never would have done that, no matter what I thought of the relationship.
“Hey, JC? Anyone home?” Samara was watching me, propped up on her elbows.
I hadn’t even noticed she was awake. “My gosh, those demons of yours are persistent, aren’t they?
I should be offended.” She swept her long, dark hair out of her eyes, stroking my chest. “Come on, talk to me. You’ll feel better. ”
I smiled softly and pressed a kiss to her mouth.
We’d been friends for almost two years, and our little benefits sessions hadn’t changed anything on that score.
I wasn’t into sex with strangers anymore; it was never as good as it was with someone you knew.
It was even better when it was someone you loved, but until I knew where I wanted to live, this was the next best thing.
I wouldn’t survive having to leave someone behind a second time.
The last time I’d moved, a piece of me had stayed in Australia. With Mia.
I can’t come with you, Jess. This is my home; I’d go crazy in New York City. But we’ll make it work, okay? We’ll make it work.
We hadn’t made it work. Not even half a year had passed before I’d been sucked into the frenzy of the city and my family.
I’d missed Skype dates, I was agitated, stressed a lot, and often unfair to Mia.
And when I realized I was no longer the man she’d fallen in love with, I decided to end it.
It wasn’t fair to keep a relationship going when it was doomed to failure.
And now? Now she had someone else, someone better—my friend Paul, whom I’d opened the lodge with. I was fond of them both, enough that I didn’t begrudge their happiness. But I asked myself sometimes whether that would ever happen for me again.
“Jess?” Samara’s voice brought me back to the present.
“Adam wanted me to be his best man,” I said, finally giving in.
“He didn’t say anything back then, before he died.
I just found out yesterday; someone told me.
” At first I’d been mad that Helena had used the information to hurt me, which I could read plain as day in her face.
But my anger had dissipated, and now I was just sad.
Sad that my brother had talked to her about it, and not to me.
“Why didn’t they tell you before?” Sam asked. “Strange to come out with it now, so long after his death.”
I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. “I didn’t know her before.”
“Her?” Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Helena. Valerie’s sister.”
She gave a low whistle. “A Weston? Now I get why you’re in such a mood. I bet she didn’t break it to you gently.”
“No.” I laughed mirthlessly. “Looks like I’ll never get away from that family.”
Sam smiled softly and pushed a curl out of my face.
“You will. Someday. When you finally get out of this place, the Westons aren’t going to follow you.
” She didn’t know much about the Coldwell-Weston feud, but everyone who came from New York City had heard the stories about the bad blood between our families, even before Valerie and Adam’s time.
“Let’s hope so. But until then, I’m making us breakfast.” I got up and pulled on some clothes before reaching out a hand to Sam and pulling her up too. “Waffles, pancakes, or scrambled eggs?” Although I knew the answer already.
“Just coffee, as always. It will always be a mystery to me how anyone can eat so much so early in the morning.” Sam shuddered.
I had to laugh. “Thaz thinks the only reason women sleep with me is so I’ll make them breakfast. Can you please call him and tell him you are evidence to the contrary?”
Samara grinned. “Sure can, but then he’s going to lean on me to try to persuade you to open this restaurant with him.
And he can be very persistent, as you know.
” She came over and reached up for a kiss.
“As for me, I sleep with you because I like you, and because it’s incredible, and I will gladly let him know. ”
I gave her a grin before making my way down the mezzanine stairs and heading directly for the coffee machine. “Are you in town for a while, by the way?”
“Very subtle, Coldwell.” She shook her head.
“No, I’m not. I have to get to Boston today and then on to Scotland tomorrow.
If everything goes well, we’ll be making our own whiskey soon.
And it won’t cost five hundred dollars like last night’s bottle.
” She pointed to the half-empty bottle on the coffee table.
“My bank balance will be delighted to hear it. And you’ll give me some kind of friends-with-benefits bonus, right?”
Her dark eyes sparkled. “I’ll add an extra case to the order just for you.”
While I ground the coffee beans and filled the holder, Samara disappeared into the bathroom.
When she emerged again, she had her phone to her ear.
From her short replies I couldn’t work out what the call was about, but I knew that look on her face.
Instead of a ceramic mug, I chose a bamboo takeout cup—a client gift—from the shelf.
As Sam ended the call, I filled the cup for her and poured in a measure of almond milk before securing the lid.
“I have to go—issues with a supplier,” she was already saying.
“Anything I can help with?” I asked, sliding the cup across the island toward her.
“No, I can handle it.” She leaned over and planted a quick kiss on my cheek before taking the cup. “Thanks, you’re a star. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Loads of things. But I’d be a fool to tell you what they are.”
Samara laughed. “I’m back in the city in ten days,” she informed me, already at the door. “It was a pleasure as always, JC.” She gave a mischievous grin.
I gave a little bow and smirked back. “Ditto. Call me.” Then she was gone.
Since, unlike Sam, I was a breakfast fanatic, and I had no meetings that day, I decided to make pancakes.
I usually only made them when Eli was sleeping over, but at least if I used whole wheat flour it wouldn’t be totally unhealthy.
But I’d only just taken the ingredients out of the pantry when there was a knock at the door.
I cast a quick eye around to see if Samara had left anything behind—she was a pro at that—but couldn’t see anything at first glance.
I was at the door in a few strides and pulled it open with a flourish.
“I knew you only slept with me for the breakfa—” I broke off. It wasn’t Sam at the door. It was my mother, in an immaculate beige coat and perfectly coiffed hair. “Trish? What are you doing here?”
“Bearing witness to your so-called love life, clearly.” She walked into the apartment, a veritable ice queen. “Weeknight dates until midmorning with that whiskey girl I just ran into downstairs? Interesting. Business hours are really going out of fashion, it seems.”
“There’s no nine-to-five in the restaurant industry, you should know that by now,” I muttered, though I didn’t owe her any explanation.
“Of course I know that. I was married to your father for long enough. But you—a restauranteur? That’s news to me. Or are you actually running your own business now, instead of setting up other people’s?”
I snorted. She never changed. “I own twelve restaurants, in case you’ve forgotten. Surely I can call myself a restauranteur.”
“Those restaurants are an inheritance that you’re managing, nothing more.” Her disapproval was evident.
“Right… and if I were to join the family firm—what would that be?”
“Your only chance to do something really meaningful with your life.”
I didn’t bother to reply. “Are you here for a reason?” I asked.
She usually had meetings from seven in the morning until ten at night.
Trish Coldwell didn’t visit her son spontaneously or out of the goodness of her heart.
She wanted something. And the sooner she came out with it, the sooner she would leave.
“Coffee, first of all. Provided you have whole beans.”