14. Stone #2
And this me wants that man in whatever way he wants to have me. I’m not sure what to make of that, or if I should try to make something of it at all.
Actually, I am sure. The smart action is to make nothing of it, and that’s exactly what I should do.
The barrage of activity continues, but by the next night, I resign myself to it. I’m used to this double life, the way I say one thing and imagine another. But being present is hard. I want to focus on people. I swear I do.
When I go to an event with Nadia on Sunday night, I meditate beforehand. I vow to be in the moment at the fundraiser.
With her. With him. With everyone.
It works well enough on the way over, thanks to Zane.
Once I slide into the limo, my phone blinks with a text from my brother.
Zane: Dude. I’ve got a guacamole sitch.
I chuckle, though it’s not funny that he needs a safe word. But it’s a funny term, and more so, I can share it with Jackson. Flashing back on the plane conversation with my bodyguard, I brandish the screen.
“That’s no good,” he says, sympathy coloring his tone. “You need help with that at all? Anything I can do?”
How about not saying shit that makes you seem awesome all the time?
I smile and shake my head, willing that dumb organ in my chest to calm down. “I should ferret the deets from him first.”
I tap out a reply.
Stone: Are we talking little dribbles or full guac explosion?
Zane: Guac everywhere. Can I call you later?
Stone: Dude. How is that even a question? You can call me anytime. That’s why I have a phone.
Zane: Love you, man. Will call tonight.
We arrive at the event, and I pat myself on the back for successfully making it through one limo ride filthy-thought free.
Nadia’s waiting in the lobby bar at Aria, looking like an angel in a satiny gold dress that clings to her curves, with sparkly pins in her hair that catch the light.
“Damn, woman. You look fine tonight,” I say with a most appreciative whistle.
She juts out a hip, then bats her lashes. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the women on my arm at fundraisers for my favorite charities.”
“Speaking of, let’s go work the room.”
“Don’t I always?” I wink as I drape an arm around her.
“You do, my friend, you absolutely do.”
I stop, remembering Candi’s orders. “Hold on.” I dip into the pocket of my tailored slacks, fishing for my phone. “Smile for Insta? Candi made me promise I wouldn’t forget a shot, and if I do, I have to give her my LA home.”
Nadia taps her chin. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll forget to take the pic so she can get your house.”
I’m holding out the camera at arm’s length when Jackson steps in. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks, J.”
I hand him the phone. He takes the snap, then gives it back.
After I thank him, Nadia waggles her fingers at the man by my side. “Hey, Jackson. Good to see you again.”
“Pleasure to see you too, Nadia,” he says, as businesslike and gracious as he’s ever been.
But as we head into the ballroom to the tune of a new Black Keys number, one quick glimpse at Jackson reveals his stoic mask firmly in place. But it’s been superimposed over his jealousy mask.
Oh me, oh my, do I love that jealousy mask something fierce.
But I stay in the moment. I chat up donors. I work my magic.
Once the event ends and I say goodbye to Nadia, I slide into the car, Jackson behind me.
It’s déjà vu.
Jealousy and limos.
Tension and nighttime.
And here we are, where it all started. I wish it were happening again. I wish I could rewind time to that night, do it all a second time. Wish I could saddle up once more at the Jackson Rodeo.
He tips his chin at me. “Good time tonight?”
“It was great.”
“You looked like you were having fun with Nadia,” he says, and my radar beeps once more.
Is he jealous again?
Does he think Nadia and I are a thing?
And do I want to make him jealous?
My sense of fun perks up, eager to play. But another part of me says I should reassure the guy. Because he looks twisted up with envy.
“We’ve been friends for a while,” I say.
One eyebrow rises. “That so?”
He’s cute when he’s jealous. It is going to be hard to resist playing games. “Yes, we are friends. Girls and boys can be friends.”
“I’m aware of that. I have plenty of female friends.”
“And Nadia is one of my many female friends.”
“Great. It’s great to have friends.” It comes out clipped, tight.
And I’ve got to press. I’ve got to know for sure. “Level with me, J. Are you jelly?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in the least.”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “Not even a little?”
Jackson swallows roughly, looks away, then returns his gaze to me, like he’s working something over in his head. What’s going through his mind? Is he going to admit it? Deny it?
“Stone, do you want me to be jealous?” It comes out quietly.
And that’s not what I expected him to say.
I expected a yes, or a no, or a sidestep. Not a challenge.
But see, Jackson is a challenge. In so many ways. And I like the challenge of him. Maybe too much. And so much so I admit the truth. “Maybe I do.”
“Why?”
My gaze drifts down to his hands. They’re balled into fists. This is as hard for him as it is for me.
“I wish I knew,” I admit, without any trace of bullshit.
He drags a hand along the back of his neck—a telltale sign of stress.
I hate to be the cause of it. “Hey, man,” I say from across the seat.
Slowly, he turns his gaze to me. “Yeah?”
“She’s a friend. Only a friend.”
His lips are ruler straight for several seconds, then they curve into a small grin, almost one of gratitude.
That look leads me on. Leads me down a path I shouldn’t travel.
But I do anyway, saying, “I haven’t been with anyone since .
. .” I let the words fall into the space between us, the space that seems to pulse with longing.
“I know that’s not a long time, and you’re probably rolling your eyes.
But I wanted you to know. There’s no one. ”
The grin seems to tug at his lips, and he tries to fight it off. But it pulls, it taunts, it grabs him, and soon enough the smile is all real.
But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. He erases it. “Good to know,” he says, then adds, intensely serious, “And same for me.”
The air between us crackles.
It hums.
His gorgeous hazel eyes blaze. With desire and dirty deeds. With longing and denial. With the same damn battles I’ve been fighting. And I know this week’s been as hard for him as it’s been for me.
There’s an energy connecting us, and I want to embrace it, ride it, give into it.
I want to crawl over to Jackson and ask for his mercy.
I want to tease him, toy with him, play with him.
Slide my hands up and down his chest, dip my face to his neck.
“You and your ‘same for me,’” I murmur. “You’re making this hard for me.”
He breathes out through his nostrils.
Licks his lips.
But he doesn’t move. “It’s hard for me too, Stone.”
In our heated silence, his words from earlier in the week ring in my ears. Life is full of risks. The key to a good life is being smart enough to know which ones to take.
I care about him too much to take another risk.
I close my eyes so I’m not tempted to climb on top of him.
But the images taunt me anyway. They tease me relentlessly, to the point where I’m clenching my fists and trying ruthlessly not to say anything. Like . . .
I still want you.
How about one more one-time-only?
Please tell me you’re as wound up as I am.
It looks like he might be when we step into the elevator at The Extravagant.
I step to the other side, as far away from him as I can be.
We ride in silence, and it’s for the best.
I know it is.
And when I make it to my room without launching myself at him, I chalk this up as a victory.
I unknot my tie, loosen it, tug it off.
I strip off my shirt, my slacks, my leather shoes.
I do the only thing I can think of. Hit the shower and release some tension that way.
And when I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, my phone buzzes.
I dive for it. I swear, no one has raced to his phone faster than I do in that moment.
Grabbing it on the bed, I flip it over, hoping so damn hard. Maybe, just maybe, it’s Jackson saying he’s on the other side of the door. Asking if he can come in.
I’d yank open that door so damn fast. I’d drag him to the bed and pounce on him.
But when I see the name, I smile anyway.
It’s Zane.
“It’s about time. Way to leave a guy hanging,” I say.
“Ha. I’ll do you one better than leaving you hanging. I’m downstairs. Can I come up?”
This must be one hell of a guacamole situation.