Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jameson
Plans?
That little five letter word has been bouncing around my brain since Sinclair spat it out.
I spent all of my time in the shower thinking about it.
While I got dressed in jeans, and an old college T-shirt I stole from my brother years ago, I whispered the word over and over again.
Do plans always mean a date?
There’s only one sure way to find out.
I drop my ass on the corner of my bed and type out a text.
Jameson: When a woman tells you she has plans, what does that mean?
As usual, Kalon responds immediately.
Kalon: Did 14-year-old Jameson get ahold of the phone because what in the ever loving fuck is this question?
Chuckling, I send him back a text.
Jameson: Does plans always mean a date?
I watch the three dots bounce around before another message appears on my screen.
Kalon: You’re shitting me, right? Are you seriously asking me if Sinclair is going on a date with another guy?
I shake my head and type.
Jameson: Who said anything about Sinclair? I want to know what it means when a woman turns down homemade tacos because she already has plans.
Within seconds after I press send, my phone rings. I answer it immediately, “Well?”
“Well, what the fuck is your problem?” Kalon barks on the other end. “If Sinclair doesn’t want your tacos, you need to up your game.”
“I never said I was talking about Sin…”
“Save it,” Kalon cuts me off. “We both know you are, so own it, James. Did you think she was going to wait around for two fucking years for you to cook her tacos? Have you seen her? She’s beautiful. She’s accomplished, and she’s been happily living her life since you left town.”
Leave it to Kalon to lay everything out in simple terms.
Before I can get a word in, he’s talking again. “I’m meeting Damien for a drink, and he’ll lose his shit if I’m late. If you’re this torn up about her plans, ask her what they are. You’re not a scared kid anymore. You’re goddamn Jameson Sheppard. Own it and go get the girl.”
“I never said I wanted the girl.”
Kalon laughs. “Jesus, you’re a bad liar. My brother is waiting for me. I’m hanging up now.”
He does just that, leaving me to wonder what the hell I’m doing.
It’s not as though Sin wants anything to do with me. If Denia hadn’t died, I would still be in New Mexico, and Sinclair would still be making plans as she is now.
I stand, suck in a deep breath, and try to convince myself that what Sinclair does has no bearing on me.
I know it’s bullshit because everything she does matters to me, but I need to find a way to control my urge to ask about her plans or anything else going on in her life.
“I’m a great cook,” Sinclair declares as she finishes the last bite of food on her plate. “You can admit it whenever you’re ready.”
As much as I don’t want to smile, I can’t hold it in. I glance at the empty plate in front of me. “I admit it. Gone are the days when you used to burn toast.”
She waves one finger in the air. “Once, Jameson. I did that one time.”
I lean my elbows on the table. “Are you sure it was only once?”
She nods. “Once when you were around.”
I laugh. “So it happened at other times?”
Her gaze drifts to the left and the many empty chairs at the table. When I came out of my bedroom, she had the table set with Denia’s best dishes and silverware. The two place settings were directly across from each other at the far right end of the table.
I always wondered why my grandmother never changed this table for a smaller one. After my dad’s death fifteen years ago, Denia stopped having the elaborate dinner parties she loved.
Most nights, she ate with my grandfather next to her until he passed from the same type of cancer my dad did. It was a cruel twist of fate that swallowed her joy.
That’s when she sold the apartment she lived in on the Upper East Side and bought this place. She said she needed a fresh start, but she brought everything from that apartment to this penthouse, including a heart full of grief.
“Maybe a few other times,” she admits with a sigh.
I take a sip of the sparkling water in my glass. Denia had a well-stocked wine fridge in the kitchen. I’m unsure if Sinclair completely overlooked it or if she decided to pass on alcohol for the night. Either way, I’m not complaining.
“What room should we start in?” she asks in a whispered tone. “Do you have a preference?”
“Any room but her bedroom.” I shake my head. “I can’t bring myself to go in there yet.”
“I understand,” she says. “We could start with her little library.”
It’s not that little, but it will be a good starting point for sorting through my grandmother’s possessions.
“Sure.” I push back from the table. “I’ll handle cleanup duty and meet you in there in fifteen.”
She glances down at where her dog has been sitting, patiently waiting for any wayward food scraps to fall on the floor. “I’ll take Duds out for a quick walk and then I’ll see you in the library.”
She stands. Just as I’m about to do the same, she turns to walk away. That sends my ass back down because fuck it, those jeans she’s wearing send a flood of memories through me.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m chuckling.
Sinclair glances over her shoulder at me. “What’s so funny?”
“You wore those same jeans the day I cracked my elbow open.” I hold up my arm to show her the faded scar.
Her gaze drops to her jeans. “I was wearing these jeans? How do you remember that?”
Because your ass looks just as spectacular today as it did then.
There’s no way in hell I can tell her that, so I shrug. “I have a photographic memory. You know that.”
She buys it because, at one time, it was true. I could conjure up an image of almost anything I’d seen in the past with little effort.
Those days may be gone, but when it comes to Sinclair, every single memory I have of her is etched into my soul forever.
A smile plays on her lips. “I do know that. I’ll be back in a few, Jameson.”
I’ll be waiting.