Chapter 18 Honor
Honor
Fucking Jackson.
It’s all over. Just like that. I knew this fledgling thing I had going on with Noah was precarious, transient, but I thought I had a couple more days of staying in this fantasy.
Two more days away from the real world: away from the relentlessness of the press, and responsibility, and image, and my husband.
Sure, we’ve just been joking, fantasising, about hooking up at Noah’s flat when we’re back, but it’s not the same.
It’s not the same as being here, at Des Anges, in this idyllic, sun-kissed bubble.
Hours ago, his delicious weight was bearing down on me in his airy bedroom.
Minutes ago, my hand was on his thigh in the car.
My fingers clasping his. My head nestled into the crook of his neck.
And now, as we stare in the direction of Jackson’s unmistakable voice, he looks as stricken as I feel.
It’s like we’ve both been the butt of this cosmic joke.
The gods must be having a laugh that I thought I could pull off a little affair—the kind Jackson makes look so easy—and not have it come back to bite me in the arse. Immediately.
I’m furious Jackson’s shown up. I made it clear to him that this was a break for me and the kids, but he’s overruled me.
As usual. And alongside the fury and the desolation—that heavy dropping sensation in my stomach—comes guilt.
I got involved with Noah, and by doing so I’ve embroiled him in the particular brand of toxicity that is my and Jackson’s family life.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I whisper it. ‘I’m so sorry, Noah. I had no idea—’
‘Hey.’ He brushes his fingers down my arm. ‘Of course you didn’t. You have nothing to apologise for. Are you all right?’
I nod.
‘Okay, then.’ He squares his shoulders. ‘Let’s go say hi. This should be interesting.’
Jackson’s in the pool with the kids when we emerge onto the terrace.
As soon as he spots us, he vaults out of it one-armed.
Of course he does. I’ve lived with this man for years, but it’s too easy to see him through Noah’s eyes, and I’m aware of his quiet holy fuck amid Rollo and Serena’s excited yells.
It’s so unfair to put Noah through this. He sleeps with someone, and that woman’s husband, who happens to be one of the most famous action movie stars on the entire planet, shows up to surprise them. It’s brutal.
Jackson walks towards us, all rippling muscles and waxed chest and sky-blue shorts clinging far more than they should, shining the full wattage of his billion-dollar grin on me, and my body betrays me with a flip of my stomach.
This reaction to him is far too deeply embedded in my subconscious: the thrill of being Jackson James’ Chosen One (most of the time).
‘Hi, gorgeous.’ He stoops and kisses me on the lips, and it’s a good job he’s soaking, because it gives me an excuse to keep my distance.
‘This is a surprise.’ My tone is light, but anyone with more emotional intelligence than Jackson could surely pick up on its froideur.
‘I know, right? My FOMO kicked in. Couldn’t bear the idea of my people being out here without me. This place is heaven.’
It’s amazing how much power he has to withstand said FOMO when he’s fucking his co-star in the middle of a lengthy US-based shooting season.
‘It certainly is,’ I say evenly. ‘Jackson, meet Noah.’
I won’t provide context. The only context that’s relevant is the stuff that Jackson absolutely does not need to know.
‘Mate.’ Jackson pumps his hand. ‘I’ve heard great things about your hospice. Good to put a face to the name.’
To his credit, Noah doesn’t flinch from coming face-to-face with an A-list celebrity he’s currently cuckolding.
‘Good to meet you, Jackson. Glad you could make it out here.’
My lips twitch.
‘Excuse me. I need a swim.’ Noah heads off towards the cabana and, over the next few minutes, as Jackson grabs a lounger and chatters on about his flight, I’m only aware of Noah.
Emerging from the cabana in his swim shorts.
Executing a perfect dive and shooting down the length of the pool underwater.
And when he’s done swimming, he grabs a towel and heads straight for the house without a glance in our direction.
Noah keeps a low profile for the rest of the afternoon, and it makes me seriously antsy.
I’d almost prefer the excruciating awkwardness of watching him chat to Jackson.
He makes an appearance with a book, which he proceeds to read on a shady day bed at the far end of the pool while Angus and Jackson get stuck into a long backgammon tournament punctuated with endless rosé.
It’s irritating to admit, but Jackson’s arrival has had a boosting effect on the atmosphere at Des Anges. I preferred the low key vibe we had going on before he showed up—I needed a break from Jackson’s high-octane personality—but he’s perked most of the others up.
He and Angus know each other reasonably well already, mainly through me and Evelyn.
Elaine is skittishly pleased to see him and welcomes her uninvited guest into her home with characteristic grace.
And all the kids are thrilled. Unfortunately, his A-list credentials and his undeniable (and finely honed) charm give most people a major kick, and our friends are not immune.
It’s just me and, presumably, Noah who are put out by this unexpected turn of events.
By the time pre-dinner drinks roll around, Noah is showered and changed and on impeccable form.
His tan continues to build, and he looks hot as hell in a pale pink polo and white shorts that showcase his dark, perfectly hairy, Mediterranean skin.
Noah, the human ice-cream. Yet again. I can’t get enough.
No one on that terrace would suspect for a moment that there is anything between us, or that Noah has any beef with my husband.
He’s relaxed and full of smiles as he engages Jackson in an animated conversation around his upcoming show, Vet.
It’s based on a series of blockbuster books, all of which Noah’s read, and he appears fascinated by Jackson’s inside scoop on which aspects of the books they’ve stayed true to and which they’ve sacrificed.
I suspect that irrespective of his relationship with me, Noah is secretly pumped to be hanging out with Jackson James. Jackson’s a man’s man as much as he’s a ladies’ man. A national treasure. Noah’s only human. It’s impossible to be immune to the full power of Jackson’s attention.
Although I’m grateful and relieved Noah’s putting on a good show, I’m antsy. Desperate for a moment with him. I get nothing but a few crumbs all evening.
‘Another glass of champagne, Honor?’ he asks casually, brushing my bare shoulder with his fingers as he rounds the back of my chair. When I look up, only I see the heat in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure my eyes reflect that heat right back at him, judging by the tiny, knowing smirk on his face.
Hmm. This aspect of having an affair I can handle. The secret glances. The subtle touches. The forbidden nature of it certainly gives me a definite frisson.
What I haven’t thought through sufficiently is juggling these two guys—especially under one roof.
That was most definitely not the plan. I’ve been working on the assumption that I can neatly pigeonhole my married life and my relationship (or dalliance, or whatever it its) with Noah in London.
After all, Jackson will be back on the road again with his beloved Leila from next week.
But here in Provence, I’m facing the discomfort not just of logistics (I’m not having sex with two guys under one roof!) but of my emotions.
My reaction to Jackson tells me my husband still does it for me.
Of course he does. Every human being with a pulse has a reaction to Jackson James.
But I’m also in this bubble with Noah that’s enchanting, and not just because of its sparkling newness and intoxicatingly forbidden nature.
No, it’s enchanting because of the way he makes me feel.
As though I’m this incredible, perfect being, to be seen, and treasured, and adored.
Not that one-way adoration is particularly sexy.
That’s just a power imbalance. What’s really irresistible about our liaison is that I’m equally drawn to him.
I may not have the history of years of crushing Noah does.
Or masturbating—I giggle to myself at the image of Baby Dr Noah crushing hard over me after his night shifts.
But I’m as in the moment as he is. I’m crushing equally hard over his skin, with that tan and that body hair, over his laughter lines that bracket that beautiful mouth, over the silkiness of his hair when I claw at it.
And most of all, over the heat in his dark eyes when he kisses me. When he moved inside me this morning. That heat, and the way it makes me feel the entire way through my core, tells me this liaison is rapidly becoming at risk of escalating into something far more than an easy little fling.
One could even say I’m becoming an addict. A Dr Noah addict.
It’s too much. My head and my heart are too full of unfamiliar turmoil and emotions. As soon as supper is over, I practically sprint to bed. With any luck, I’ll be asleep before Jackson materialises. If I’m not, I’ll damn well pretend to be.
One night down; two more to go.