17. Jake
17
JAKE
Seven-thirty on the dot, and I’m at the curb in front of Iris’ house, planning to walk up to the porch and ring the doorbell. Despite what she says about this not being a date, I want to treat her like she means something special. Because she does.
More than I care to admit to either of us. If I’m being honest, no woman has ever elicited the kind of visceral response in me that Skylark’s prickly mayor does.
But before I step out of the car, she’s bounding down the front steps, and damn if she doesn’t take my breath away in a flowy skirt and body-hugging black top, her hair falling in glossy waves past her shoulders. She doesn’t look like the mayor tonight. She looks like the heroine in every story I ever read or wrote.
She slips into the passenger seat and motions with her hands. “Let’s get going before anybody sees us. Hopefully, they won’t recognize you driving this fancy urban assault vehicle.” Patting the dash of the G-Wagon, she offers a bland smile. “I didn’t know you needed a car that could climb Mt. Everest to go dancing. Where’s the truck?”
Her citrusy scent winds around my senses, sweet with a tangy undertone, just like Iris. Her sharpness is more in your face, but the sometimes surprising bursts of sweetness balance things quite nicely. And, let’s face it, I like her sharp edges. I want to soothe them, preferably with my tongue until she’s screaming my name. To bury my face in the curve of her neck and forget everything that ever hurt.
“You’ll take any opportunity to give me shit, huh? Driving down to the city isn’t exactly a vintage truck outing. And we both know the G-Wagon is the epitome of luxury meeting rugged capability.” I wink at her as I pull away from the curb. “Just like me.”
“You’re trying to be inconspicuous around town?”
“I don’t want to come across like a douche,” I admit with a shrug.
She barks out a laugh. “Spoken like someone steeped in generational wealth.”
That’s not meant as a compliment.
She leans back in her seat as I accelerate onto the interstate. “So tell me, how is a luxurious and ruggedly capable guy spending his days in Skylark? Where does he spend his days? Will you be leaving a job if you take over the foundation?”
I shrug. “How do most trustafarians spend their days?”
“Doing blow,” she suggests. “And looking for financing for the documentary film they believe to be a passion project.”
I laugh even though I’m not sure she meant it as a joke. “I gave up blow before I gave up the alcohol.” Obviously, I’m not mentioning my work on adapting the book series for film. “But I manage to keep myself occupied.”
I stretch out my arm and then flex for her. “These muscles don’t come easy, you know.”
“You want me to believe you’re a gym rat?”
“In Austin? No way. There’s too much outdoor goodness to enjoy—hiking, paddle boarding, mountain bike trails.”
Her lips thin, and I realize I’m playing into every stereotype she has about me. I don’t like it, but it’s safer than letting her in on the truth. Not that she’d believe me. No one other than my literary agent and editor knows my true identity.
I wrote that first book after dropping out of college and moving to Austin. I’d decided to go clean and stop relying on my family’s money to fund my self-indulgent lifestyle. No one who knew me then would believe I had the talent and discipline to write one book, let alone a series.
And at that point, I didn’t trust it myself. It felt too personal. There was too much at stake in honoring my brother’s memory and dreams to risk failing publicly.
Now, I want to go clean in all areas of my life, but can’t quite find the courage to do it.
“You can’t spend all your time paddle boarding,” Iris tells me.
I tap a finger against the steering wheel like I’m considering my answer. “Not all my time. Beauty rest is important, too.”
“The foundation has an office in Austin, right? Do you do any work there?”
“Grandpa put me on the board of directors a few years ago, so I’m an expert at ribbon cutting and awarding checks. I keep my visits to the office limited to the days when lunch is catered.”
“You always had an appetite,” she says with an indulgent smile and then falls silent, staring out the window at the darkening sky. The silence stretches comfortably between us as shades of purple and orange streak above us.
I’ve actually taken on a more significant role in the foundation’s activities in Texas in the past couple of years, partnering with grant seekers to understand and champion their work. It took a bit of time to gain the trust of the staff, especially since I’ve requested that my growing role be kept out of the spotlight—and off my grandfather’s radar—as much as possible.
Why do I insist on letting the people I care about think the worst about me?
I can tell myself a story about wanting to ensure my actions are genuinely about helping others rather than seeking validation. How keeping my efforts private helps me separate my ego from my work. But I’m also processing ongoing survivor’s guilt, and the feeling of not deserving recognition for doing the right thing now when I spent so many years feeling like I was always doing the wrong thing.
They say the best defense is a good offense, or maybe that’s backwards, but I’m going with it either way. I don’t like having the spotlight pointed in my direction, and I want to know more about Iris. Who she is now and what truly makes her tick under the defenses she so faithfully maintains—something we have in common, even though I’m not dumb enough to mention that to her.
“Tell me what brought you back to Skylark.”
“A position in the mayor’s office.” The answer is generic and doesn’t even begin to satisfy my curiosity. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who isn’t telling the whole truth.
“Why a small town in Colorado? You went to school and started your political career in Minnesota, right?”
“Mom had a friend in St. Paul, so when things went bad so quickly after that summer, she moved us to Minnesota.” She wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t everyone’s dream for their senior year to spend the winter with months of snow, ice, and freezing temps?”
“Seems like you made the most of it,” I answer. “You were awarded an Academic Excellence Scholarship for undergrad.”
Her eyes widen. “Did you Google me?”
“Of course. You have an impressive LinkedIn profile.”
She groans.
“Don’t be humble, Dixon. Lots of university honors. A job after graduation working for the governor as a youth policy advisor and community engagement manager. Quite the overachiever.”
Her voice is quiet when she explains, “Given everything Nick and I faced, creating better opportunities for kids like us is important to me.”
Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. What isn’t she saying about Minnesota?
“Is your mom still in St. Paul?”
She frowns and turns her face back to the window. “She moved to Florida when I was in college. Other than our awkward holiday conversations, we don’t talk.”
“I’m still having trouble understanding why you left your role in the governor’s office.” I scratch a hand across my jaw. “The opportunity for advancement there seems?—”
“I wanted to come back and implement some of those same programs here. We never stayed in one place long growing up, but Skylark felt like home.” She draws in a long breath. “In a mostly affluent community, with people who have been here for generations, families who might need help or interventions can fall through the cracks. I don’t want any kids to fall through the cracks. Skylark is more than our reputation for fun. We’re a place where all families should be able to access the healthcare and education services they need.”
“Okay.” I reach over to squeeze her hand, but she quickly pulls it away and crosses her arms over her chest.
I can’t stop prodding for what she’s not telling me. “From what I hear on the news, Robert Wilhelm is a contender for the party’s presidential nomination in the next election cycle.”
“Governor Wilhelm has done an amazing job for the people of Minnesota,” she says, tension radiating off her like a wave. “I’m sure he’ll do the same if elected on a national level.”
“You don’t want to be a part of that? It seems like a lot of opportunities would have come your way if he’s successful in his bid.”
“I want to be here,” she insists, and I wonder which one of us she’s trying to convince. “There’s nothing wrong with starting small and building my resume the old-fashioned way. Gloria is also here, and she was the first politician who inspired me toward a career in public service. I wanted a chance to be mentored by her.”
Her answers sound rehearsed, podium ready, and with every syllable, I’m more convinced I’m not getting the whole story. She’s hiding something. But then, so am I.
You could cut the tension between us with a machete and I don’t want that. I want tonight to be easy and fun, so move on to a less charged topic.
“Tell me about the book club that has you signing up for dance classes and belting out karaoke favorites. Is everyone taking part in this bucket list challenge?”
“Yes,” she says, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “We take turns picking something personal to us. It was inspired by the book The Year of Losing It by an author named Kristen Quinn. Sloane had us read it last spring, right before she told us about the cancer diagnosis.”
“I saw Sloane at the bookstore the other day. She’s as sweet as ever. Told me she’s getting ready to head to Nashville for another round of treatment.”
“What were you doing in a bookstore?” Iris taps an elegant finger against her lips, pretending to study me.
“I can read. Picture books are about my speed.”
She frowns. “Why don’t you defend yourself against the jabs I throw your way? As much as I hate to admit it, we both know there’s more to you than you let people see.”
“People see what they want to,” I tell her, knowing how true that is.
She shakes her head. “Sometimes. But it feels like this whole bucket list challenge has made me come face to face with parts of myself that have been easier to ignore. For example, I’m prickly.”
Rather than agree, I point out, “You have friends who care about you.”
“Because of Sloane. She’s the reason I’m part of the book club. She chose us. We’re not the most obvious choice on paper for a friend group, but somehow it works. She made it work.”
“Who isn’t giving herself enough credit now?” I ask, changing lanes to take the exit onto I-25 toward downtown Denver, the lights of the skyline welcoming us into the city.
“Nick was the social twin,” she says instead of answering. “My brother could charm his way out of almost any situation.”
“Charm his way into the heart of anyone he meets,” I add.
Her smile holds a trace of sadness. “He was different the last time I saw him. More subdued.”
“That might not be a bad thing in Nick’s case.”
I don’t want this night to get derailed by talk of her troubled brother, my wayward friend. But I can’t escape the fact that Nick is as much the impetus behind so much of what I’ve done and want to do as Mikey is.
“Tell me about some of the other bucket list activities.”
“I’m only the second person to take the challenge,” she says. “Sadie Hart, a Skylark native, was the first. Her mom died when she was in college, so she came home to raise her little sister.”
“Let me guess. She wanted more adventure in her life.”
“In a manner of speaking. Her bucket list item was losing her virginity.”
“Wow. That’s a big deal.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she says when I raise a brow.
“Duly noted.” I choke out a laugh. “How do you pick the books?”
“We take turns. Usually, we meet at the bookstore, but whoever picks the book is the unofficial host. It’s me this month.”
“Another dead president biography on tap?”
“We’re reading the latest by Spencer Charles.”
I jerk on the steering wheel, and Iris lets out a little gasp. “What’s the matter?”
“Debris on the highway,” I say, forcing my voice to be steady. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “Why Spencer Charles?”
“Have you read any of his books?”
“I’m familiar.”
“Then you know how good he is. I’m fascinated by how he puts together these complicated plots. His books are like puzzles, and my mind tends to work on overdrive. Having something to solve helps relax me. His books—and, by extension, the author himself—have had a major impact on me.
“From the chat on the book club text group, everyone loves my pick. It’s pretty gratifying, you know? A lot of people look down on commercial fiction, but Spencer Charles writes good books, full stop. Sloane even contacted his publisher to get him to join our book club meeting via Zoom. We’ve had some authors do that, although not Kristen Quinn. She was hiking some crazy peak in the Swiss Alps the month we read her book.”
I’m floored by the idea that Iris is such a fan, but my editor and agent know to reject any requests for an appearance. No one knows me in that way.
I clear my throat. “I thought Spencer Charles was some kind of reclusive hermit.”
She inclines her head. “That’s a little dramatic. Historically, he doesn’t do interviews. Sloane figured that might be more his reluctance to meet with the press than real fans.”
“You’re like a super fan,” I murmur, and she gives me a funny look.
“I’m not going to deny it, and there’s nothing wrong with being a super fan. Why are you being so weird about this?”
“I assumed you’d only read pretentious books.”
She immediately shoots me the middle finger. “I read good books,” she insists. “You should try not being such a snob.”
A snob. That’s laughable.
Writing the story that my brother and I had come up with as children, based on the movies and comic book heroes we idolized, meant more to me than anything except Mike. It was my connection to him. I knew if our father found out, he’d find a way to ruin it. My father’s judgment had tainted everything in my life I cared about, I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of tarnishing this too. Keeping my identity a secret was a no-brainer.
I never expected it to be the bestseller it became, but the more successful the sales were, the more I knew I didn’t want anyone to realize I was the author of the Ellie Spaulding mysteries. And I’ve never regretted that decision as much as I do at this moment.
Because more than almost anything, I want Iris to know the real me, the me that isn’t hidden behind a pen name.
No one can know, I remind myself. And I’m not even sure Iris can be trusted. Not with how uber-focused she is on her own goals. Goals that likely don’t align with mine.
“It sounds like you might have a little author crush,” I say instead and have the pleasure of seeing her blush.
She might not know I’m Spencer Charles, but I do. If she likes him, that means she likes me—well, at least a part of me—and that feels like a win for now.
“I don’t have an author crush.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know him. Although I have a lot of respect for his talent, and he’s obviously a good guy.”
If only she knew.
That catches my interest. “Why ‘obviously’ when you don’t know him?”
“I’ve read all his books, some of them twice, and I can tell the kind of man he is. No one could write such a strong female character like Ellie Spaulding if he doesn’t respect women. Something you might not be able to understand, because womanizing is different than caring.”
“Ah, yes, back to my lack of character. Let me ask you something, Iris. Are you the same person you were at seventeen?”
“Of course not,” she replies.
“And have you ever done anything you regret?” I keep my eyes on the road as I take the exit for the club. “Made a whopper of a mistake in your life?”
She glances away, and I know I’ve hit a soft spot. “Of course I have. I’m not perfect, Jake. Besides, is there anyone who hasn’t made mistakes?”
“Do you want to continue being judged on that decision, or the worst moment of your life?”
She brushes her hair away from her cheek. “No.”
“Then perhaps you can acknowledge that whether or not I deserve forgiveness, I do want it. I do regret what happened. Not just to Nick, but to all of us. You have no idea how much.”
“Fine. Let’s pretend like the past didn’t happen. Is that what you want?”
I shake my head. “I wish it was that easy. I don’t want to pretend with you. Is it so wrong to want to move forward?”
It takes her so long to answer, I wonder if she’s going to argue with me about that. Finally, she shakes her head. “It’s not so wrong,” she concedes, “and I appreciate you going out with Jodi.”
“One time,” I remind her. “You can’t force me into a relationship with a woman I don’t want to date.”
She laughs. “No one can force you to do anything you don’t want to. I know that better than most people.”
I don’t like the certainty in her voice any more than the words she’s saying, but I’m sick of arguing.
“You’re going to have fun tonight, Iris.”
“You can’t force me to have fun.”
“No, but you will.”
“There’s the cocky Jake Byrne I know.”
“Self-confidence is sexy. Isn’t that what your man Spencer Charles says about Ellie Spaulding? Her self-confidence makes her sexy.”
“You are no Ellie Spaulding.”
No, I’m not, but so much of my inspiration for Ellie came from the woman beside me—at least at the beginning. Nine books in, and Ellie has taken on her own personality, but she started with Iris.
“I’ll tell you what. I’m so confident you’re going to have a good time tonight, that if you don’t, I’ll extend our agreement and ask Jodi out again at the end of our date tomorrow. But if you have fun with me, then you and I have a real night out.”
“I’m not dating you, Jake.”
“I didn’t say a date. I just said we’d go out and have fun, only I pick the activity. My version of fun.” I lean over and wink. “We both know I’m a guaranteed good time.”
“We also both know I could easily lie.”
“That’s not who you are, Iris. If you give your word, it’s golden. You are the most honorable person I know.”
Her mouth thins, and she shakes her head. “All that confidence is going to get you into trouble, Byrne. Because you might be a good time to most people, but I’m immune to your charm.”
God, I hope not.
“Challenge accepted, Dixon. Challenge accepted.”