Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
MEYER
Five days.
Jackson hasn’t shown his face in five days. I keep telling myself that’s a good thing—I don’t need said stupid face distracting me from my work—but I can’t shake the anxious feeling. Like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Mom was right when she said I’m not a fan of change. Especially when it comes to the inn. What we have going right now is working—it has been working for as long as my mother was in charge.
Letting Jackson come in and disrupt that flow, potentially to the detriment of the business I love with everything I have, is nerve-wracking, to say the least.
“ Fish . Not the clean laundry!”
The fat orange tabby cat peers up at me with an unbothered expression from his spot inside my basket of laundry. Granted, it has been sitting on my bedroom floor for two weeks, so it’s understandable why Fish would think it now belongs to him. But I wasn’t really counting on cat hair being an accessory to my outfit today.
I found Fish in one of the inn’s dumpsters a couple years ago. He was hungry and in need of a good bath, so I brought him home and nursed him back to health. As a thanks, he eats me out of house and home, and he steals my underwear.
If I’m ever running low on clean panties, I just have to look under the couch. He usually has a decent stash under there.
I nudge Fish out of the basket. He lets out a meow of discontent as he disembarks, and I can feel his glare. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I need to find a shirt to wear to work.”
Then my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, distracting me.
Trystan
Jeanine called in. No one available. Can you cover?
I sigh. Of all the jobs to be done at the inn and restaurant, I don’t mind most of them. Housekeeping, on the other hand, is a different story. I can barely stand doing my own laundry, let alone someone else’s.
Not a problem! See you soon!
Trystan
The exclamation points aren’t fooling anyone, Meyer.
Fine. Housekeeping sucks!!! But I’ll do it anyway.
Trystan
I know you will and that's why you're the best. See you soon, boss!!!
With a grin, I tuck my phone back in my pocket and rifle through the stack of folded t-shirts. I toss the one from the top of the pile onto the floor—it’s predictably covered in a million orange hairs. I find one that’s acceptable and begin to tug it over my head.
My arms are just about through the holes when a knock at my front door startles me. I bump into my nightstand, my knee smashing against the side.
“ Son of a bitch .”
Fish lets out a meow that sounds strangely like a laugh. Once I have the shirt over my head, I throw a glare in his direction where he sits across the room, cleaning his paws.
“I’m beginning to regret saving your ass,” I mutter. Fish only flicks his tail and saunters out of my bedroom.
Another knock sounds, so with a sigh, I follow the cat’s lead. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror on my way by reveals my hair is a dishevelled mess, which adds another few seconds to the delay while I tame the strands.
In the living room, I peel back the curtain on the front window to see who is out there.
A scowl paints my lips as I throw the door open, rubbing my smarting knee in the process. “What?” I snap.
Fish takes the opportunity to dart out between my legs, bright pink panties flapping in the wind as they hang from his mouth.
Jackson watches the cat go. “I take it those are yours?” he asks.
I abandon my knee and stand up straight, crossing my arms. “No,” I reply, tone sarcastic. “Fish likes to accessorize.”
He gaze swings back to me. “You named your cat Fish ?”
“Yes. It’s ironic .”
I take this moment to assess him. The last time he stood outside my front door, he was dressed in sweatpants, and I was very drunk. Today, he is wearing a navy suit, and I am, unfortunately, very sober.
Though I suppose drinking was part of my problem the other night.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
For one, shining moment, I think he’s not going to bring it up and a little of my dignity will remain intact. But apparently, I’m not that lucky.
He smirks. “I thought I’d come to you this time,” he says. “Though I’m a little too sober. Have any good alcohol on hand?”
I glower, taking a step backwards. The door is just about closed when a foot is wedged in the gap.
“Wait,” Jackson says.
I swing the door back open. “ What ?”
“Give me six months.”
“For what? Your timely demise? That’s a lot to ask of me.”
Jackson looks like he’s trying to cling very hard to whatever is left of his patience. “Give me six months to show you that I’m an asset. ”
“I don’t need six months to know that you’re a pain in my ass ,” I counter.
He sighs. “Ellison.”
“Vaughan.”
Another long-suffering sigh. “Alright, fine, you can play it your way. But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here in Fraisier Creek, so whether you like it or not, I’ll be around.”
Make no mistake, I would never like having Jackson Vaughan in my space. In my town. His very presence is a reminder that the inn, and everything I’ve worked so hard for, isn’t truly mine. Not fully.
And that makes me hate him just a little bit more.
I go to reply, but my eye catches on a small gift bag sitting on my front step, right beside Jackson’s feet. It looks so out of place, just like the man in the fancy suit.
I point to it. “Did you bring me a gift to butter me up? Not so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s not going to work.”
His brows furrow as he glances down. “I have no idea what that is. It was already sitting there when I arrived.”
Not entirely believing him, I take another step outside and snatch the bag up. It’s bright pink and decorated in balloons, like something you would give someone for their birthday. But my birthday isn’t for another few months, and neither Pippa nor Declan would leave my gift outside. They’d force me to have dinner with them and then watch as I opened my presents.
I ignore Jackson completely as I dip a hand inside the bag. When I pull the solitary object out, my confusion grows. A small teddy bear, not dissimilar to ones I had as a kid, sits in my hand. I peer inside the bag now, looking for a card or a note of some kind, but it’s empty.
“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask, thrusting the bear toward Jackson.
He shakes his head, hands up in placating surrender. “I have no reason to ply you with a child’s toy. It wasn’t me.”
My eyes narrow as I scrutinize him. After I showed up at his door, drunk, I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to get back at me in some way. Maybe giving me a toy insinuates he sees me as a child, just like everyone else seems to. But, more than that, if he’s telling the truth, that means there is some merit to the uneasy feeling in my gut, and I so do not have time for that right now.
After a moment, I decide, begrudgingly, that I believe him. “Alright,” I say as I shove the bear back into the bag. Then I toss it to the floor just inside my front door, ready to forget it exists. “You’re serious about the whole six months thing?”
He nods. “I am. Cherie asked it of me, and I don’t intend to disappoint her.”
For a fraction of a second, something like sympathy dips low in my belly, but it’s gone before I can fully analyze it. That’s another thing I don’t have time for—feeling sorry for Jackson Vaughan. Luckily, an idea begins to form, pushing those feelings aside.
I cross my arms, cocking a hip. “Fine. You want to help, Hotshot? I’ll give you something to do.”
Rich boy, meet toilet brush.
When I show up to the inn, Jackson on my heels, and tell Trystan we are on our way to clean, he simply shakes his head, trying to contain his smile. He’s no stranger to the scheming gleam in my eye.
If there’s one thing I can safely assume about Jackson, it’s that any kind of physical labour is foreign to him. Anyone wearing shoes as nice as his has never had to get their hands dirty. Not on his own behalf, and certainly not on behalf of anyone else. That ends today.
While I don’t particularly enjoy housekeeping, I can respect how much hard work goes into it, and I’m appreciative of every person we have on our cleaning staff. It’s far from an easy task.
With any luck, it will only take one shift to break Jackson. To have him running for the hills, back to his fancy condo in the city that probably gets cleaned weekly by an equally fancy team.
After a brief tutorial, I send him off to start on one room while I go to another. Because I don’t do this job often, it takes me a while to get into it, but then I’m on a roll and I don’t look up for an hour. When I pause to take a break, I remember that I’m meant to be coaching Jackson, so I go to check on him.
But when I get to the room he’s in, I stop short in the doorway.
The sight of him with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows is something out of a Harlequin romance. Or a porno. There’s just something about a well-dressed man in a state of slight dishevelment that does something to a woman. And sadly, I am no exception .
Upon closer inspection, I see the sheen of sweat gathered on his brow. Usually, perspiration doesn’t do it for me, but again, there’s something utterly lewd about this scenario.
I hate it.
I step into the room, pretending I didn’t just spend the past thirty seconds ogling him while he leaned against the dresser. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if he knew. “How’s it going, Molly Maid?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he replies, turning to face me fully. “You tell me.”
I cross my arms as I take in the space. I expect to find it worse off than when the occupants checked out earlier this morning. But as my eyes roam over the room, I’m begrudgingly surprised. My annoyance only grows when I take in his satisfied expression.
He wasn’t supposed to be good at this task, but he most definitely wasn’t meant to enjoy it. He was supposed to be broken, goddamn it. He was supposed to regret ever setting foot in Fraisier Creek.
I walk over to the dresser and run a finger over the top, right beside where he’s standing. It comes back spotless, free of dust. So does the top of the TV and the ring of the lampshade.
Well, shit .
“It’s…alright,” I admit.
His expression is one of mild shock. “Alright? Just alright? Do you know how hard it was to get those condensation rings off that nightstand?”
The way he looks right now, so passionate about condensation rings, I have the strong urge to laugh. Damn it . He’s not supposed to be funny either. My mouth twitches as I fight my chuckle.
Jackson notices—because of course he notices—and smirks. “You can laugh, Ellison,” he says. “Rest assured, I won’t start thinking that you like me if you do.”
I shrug, unbothered. “If you need a stroke to your ego that desperately, Vaughan, just say so.”
“Only if it’s you who will be doing the stroking.”
A warning flashes in my mind. Danger, abort—do not travel down this road, you idiot . I shake my head with a huff, brushing him off, as a flush creeps up my neck. Embarrassment over letting him see that I’m flustered.
I pretend to inspect the way he’s made the bed, knowing it will be frustratingly perfect but needing to put my focus on something other than him. When my flaming cheeks have calmed, I turn back to him.
“So.” He rocks back on his heels, looking all too pleased with himself. “Did I pass the test?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He nods. “Sure. We’ll pretend this wasn’t some kind of hoop I had to jump through in a vain effort to prove myself to you.”
Double shit . Am I that transparent?
I turn on my heel and march out of the suite. “Back to work, Vaughan!” I call over my shoulder. “These rooms aren’t going to clean themselves.”