Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Jackson
A fter I repeat my new mantra a few times, I answer the door for Daphne.
She responds with a smile that destroys my resolve. She looks far too good in her trendy high-waist shorts and her thin tank top. She's all long, slim curves and confidence. It's right there, in her perfect smile, her big round sunglasses, her long light hair.
She's in hot pink wedges, even though she's taller than almost every man she knows.
In the shoes, she's taller than I am. There's something about looking up to her. Something more than thoughts of the angle, of her runner's thighs pressed against my cheeks—
Though I'm not sure why I need more than that particular thought.
Daphne Webb coming on my face.
What a perfect fucking world.
Keep it in your fucking pants .
The mantra. The purpose of the weekend. Celebrating the impending wedding of our family friend Nathan Denton and his fiancé Kenji. And keeping an eye on my sister and her best friend.
A favor for Dad—he doesn't trust Cassie's boyfriend—and a favor for Cassie—she's worried Daphne is feeling left out now that Cassie is partnered with Daphne's brother, Damon.
Yeah. It's complicated. And I know Cassie hates my distrust of her boyfriend. Even if I trust him more than I did this time last year.
I know it's all patriarchal bullshit. Who am I to tell Cassie who to date?
But as with my desire to throw Daphne on my bed, the knowledge I should follow logic does nothing to ease my feelings. I want to protect my sister from harm.
I want to fuck Daphne.
Incompatible desires.
I need to lean into the former. To be the guy everyone expects me to be. The guy I try to be. The hard-working family man.
Daphne's smile fades as she looks me over carefully. "Are you okay?"
Can she see the traces of desire in my expression? Or is it something more? The longing for a real connection with someone. The fear I'll never have it. "I just got off the phone with my ex." That's the truth. Minus the parts that invite thoughts of me naked.
Daphne picturing me naked.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I need to stop inviting myself to think off-limit things.
"You have an ex?" Daphne's voice stays curious. It's her default. She wants to know everything about everything.
But my body doesn't hear Daphne Webb, future medical researcher. It hears Daphne, woman who wants to know about my love life, woman who pictures me naked.
It's like trying not to think about a pink elephant. All I can see is the animal.
The more I tell myself not to picture her shorts at her ankles—
I need a distraction. A focus.
"Come in." I pull the door open for her. "Can I get you something to drink?"
She looks at me funny, but she still steps into the house. "Do you have coffee?"
"In the kitchen."
She nods great and follows me through the foyer. She pushes her sunglasses up her head, leaving them resting in her long hair.
She looks like a picture-perfect California girl. She has the blue eyes and light hair. Sure, her features are sharp, not soft, but she still wears her casual clothes without effort. And California is more than beaches and sunshine and avocado toast. We're UCs and medical research too.
Like my sister, Daphne exudes effortless style. She looks like she was dressed by a costume designer on a TV show. One who knew exactly how to express a smart woman who spends most of her time studying, barely tries to look great, looks fantastic anyway .
I don't know what it is. The long line of her body. The sharp nose. The red lips and subtle eyeliner. The strong contrast of her bright white top and her deep indigo shorts. The pink shoes against her blue eyes.
The confidence.
The height.
She doesn't care; she'll intimidate most men with her shoes or her brain. She stands tall anyway.
What is wrong with men? Why do so many want a woman who's smaller, shorter, less?
Daphne knows she's beautiful. She doesn't pretend her sunglasses hide it.
No. I'm the one in glasses, and I know they make me more hot, not less. Women love the intellectual professor vibe.
Just like Daphne knows her long, curvy legs are sexy as fuck. Why not highlight them with wedge shoes? So what if she's taller than the vast majority of men in them?
Maybe she needs a man who wants to look up at her from—
Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?
If I've got this many fucks in my head, I am fucked.
Everyone thinks I'm Mr. Professional Language, but my thoughts—
No. This is not the mission here. Distraction. That's the mission.
I lead her through the airy foyer into the clean, white kitchen.
She looks around the space with wide eyes, noting the framed art, the sliding glass door leading to the large backyard, the pool outside. "Wow." She brings her gaze to the counters, scanning for a coffee maker of some kind. "You're rich."
That is not what I expected her to say. A laugh spills from my lips. It eases the tension in my chest.
We're not here to fuck.
We're here as old friends.
A little teasing banter is as far as it goes.
"And you're not?" I ask.
"My parents are rich, yes." She motions to the general direction of her parents' house, the one a good twenty minutes away. "Grandma handed down her old BMW, yes. They buy me expensive presents and help with my rent. They pay my tuition. I'm extremely lucky. I'm very privileged. But I am not rich. You—" She takes a step toward me. Then another.
Until she's in my space.
Until her fingers brush my hand.
The hand I used to fuck myself ten minutes ago.
Keep it in your fucking pants.
Unaware of my dirty thoughts, she draws a line to my watch. The one my boss and mentor bought for me. The guy who holds my fate in his hands. Either I make partner this year, or I leave. That's how it works at these old law firms. Up or out.
There are only two spots for five associates.
The odds aren't on my side. Even with the timepiece.
"It was a gift," I say.
"A work bonus," she says. "I remember. You always insist the ten-thousand-dollar watch isn't a reflection of your values or class."
"It isn't." It's also not a ten-thousand-dollar watch. It's a sixty-five-hundred-dollar watch. But offering the exact value doesn't help my case.
"Then explain this." She motions to the framed abstract painting by the dining table. The one with bright reds and oranges.
It looks like a sunset. A new beginning. A supernova, maybe.
"Was that also a gift?" she asks.
"An investment in an up-and-coming artist." An ex-girlfriend suggested it. She worked at a gallery. She knew art. It sounded good: the lawyer and the gallerist, the guy with rules and the girl with beauty. That's the dynamic people expect, even now. A beautiful woman with a rich man.
Only now, the trophy wife has a post-graduate degree of her own.
That's what she said when she ended things. I'm not going to be your trophy wife. I want a life with someone, and you're not ready to be a partner.
But I didn't understand it.
I never saw her that way.
"What did it cost?" Daphne asks.
"Less than it's worth now." The ex was right. The artist took off. I tried to convince her to take the painting with her, but she didn't want it.
"How much?" she asks again.
"Two thousand dollars." A drop in the bucket in the art world, but a lot for a lot of people.
"And how many suits are in your closet?" she asks.
"What do you wear to work?" I ask.
"Scrubs," she says.
"How many pairs in your closet?" I ask.
"Too many to count," she says. "And all under a hundred dollars a pair. Whereas the suits…" She raises a brow. "I bet we can add a zero to that."
And multiply it by five. But this isn't a trial. There's no rule of evidence forcing me to dig myself a deeper hole. "Law is a formal field. I have to wear a suit."
"Uh-huh." Her eyes pass over me slowly, noting my linen shirt and slacks, my leather loafers, my hips, my waist, my shoulders.
I'm not imagining it.
She's checking me out.
But why? Daphne can have any guy she wants. And Cassie is everything to Daphne. She'd never even consider crossing that line.
Even though, well—
It's fair.
Since Cassie is now dating Daphne's brother.
But that's different. Damon is, well, he's the kind of guy people don't want dating their sister or their best friend.
I don't want to be that guy.
I won't be that guy.
Don't think about elephants.
I force my eyes to the counter. The French press. "Coffee?"
She doesn't take the bait. "You have to wear linen on the weekends?"
"It breathes," I say.
"And the mortgage on this place? What is it? Fifteen grand." She looks around with those same wide eyes. "Or is this another of your parents' properties?"
"It's mine," I say.
"And the mortgage?"
"Is this how doctors talk?"
"No." She shakes her head and stretches her arms over her head. "Doctors are terrible with money. We never talk about it. We don't understand it."
"Why is that?"
"We spent all our twenties obsessed with pre-med, then med school, then residency. Our relationship to money is massive loans that lead to the goal we've been working toward our entire life. It's like Monopoly money to us. We just… don't get it."
"You seem to get it." It comes out harsher than I mean it.
But she doesn't shrink back from the tone. She stands straighter. She likes the harshness in my voice. "Am I being nosy?"
"Yes." I say it plainly.
She likes that too. She smiles and lets her shoulders fall. "Sorry. That's another doctor thing. No manners."
"Too busy studying to learn?"
She nods. "It's true with sex and love too." She blushes at the word sex, but she doesn't pull it back. She leaves it there, in the air. "I guess lawyers aren't like that."
"Like what?" We don't know sex either. We're too busy in law school. We're too obsessed with rules. Are we all into BDSM, or just those of us who don't know how to let go?
"A gentleman who follows the rules of polite society."
"A gentleman, really?" I ask.
She motions to my linen shirt. "Where's the opposition?"
How about I tie you to my bed, and we see how much of a gentleman I really am? "My parents helped with the down payment, but the mortgage is mine." I can just afford it on my current salary. But that's what everyone said to do. Buy the second home. Stretch a little while interest rates are low. "Do you need to know the exact number?"
"No. I get it. I'm being rude." She mimes zipping her lips.
"I don't mind," I say. It feels like home, actually. Well, like Dad. He's overly blunt. Mom is the one with manners.
And, Dad, well—
He has this need to prove himself. One I inherited. He grew up with nothing, so now he wants everything.
I grew up with everything, so now, I'm desperate to prove I deserve everything, to prove I can get everything on my own.
I am my father's son.
Desperate to stay in control and completely unwilling to let on.
Do I fool people as poorly as he does?
"Well…" Daphne raises a brow. "How much—" She motions toward the pool. "Or were you teasing?"
I'll tease you a hell of a lot better than that . No. No sex. Coffee. "What sort of coffee?" It sounds like the non sequitur it is.
She blinks, not at all believing the sudden change of subject. "What do you have?"
Something Cassie requested. Plus, a "neutral" blend she recommended for guests. And a decaf. I find the coffee on the top shelf, far above the rows of tea, and let Daphne decide.
She smiles at the sight of the bag. "You keep your sister's favorite beans here. That's sweet. But what is that—" She motions to the other two bags. "Oh. The ex-girlfriend?"
I shake my head. Maddie was a tea drinker, the same as I am. Another way we made sense.
"Other guests? I get it." She smiles and motions zipping her lips. "I won't say anything to Cass. As long as you don't say anything."
"Say what?" She did mention sex. I try to forget the context. I grab the beans and set them on the counter. I fill the electric kettle and set it to two hundred degrees.
Daphne stops me. "Actually, Cass is going to want to stop at her favorite place. She can't go four days without an iced macadamia nut milk latte."
That is true, but I need a distraction. Any distraction. "Do both."
Daphne bites her lip. Her blue eyes brighten. Her cheeks flush. This time, it isn't embarrassment or nerves. It's a look I know. I shouldn't, but I really, really want to . "Could I?"
"Could anyone do something as ill-considered as drinking too much coffee?"
A laugh spills from her lips. A big, hearty thing that makes my heart thud against my chest. "Excuse me, is Jackson Steele lecturing me on giving in to temptation?"
"I don't hear a lecture."
"The man who wears linen every day."
"Every weekend day," I say.
"Who doesn't own a single color."
"Navy is a color." I motion to my slacks.
"Navy is a neutral! And you are proving my point. You are the last person who I would ask for help with fun."
Right. Of course.
It's a good thing she sees me this way. I don't want her to think yes, Jackson, the perfect person to fuck in Las Vegas .
I want her to see me as a fussy old bore.
No. I should want that.
Only I don't.
"Sorry." She notices the frustration in my expression. "That was rude, wasn't it? I think you're right. I haven't had enough coffee. My brain isn't working well. Go ahead."
"Sure." I focus on grinding the beans, filling the French press, pouring the water.
She waits and watches, quiet for a moment. "You look good in neutrals. It just feels weird, stepping into here. Like I somehow tumbled out of the Sex and the City set onto the Succession one."
What? Those are TV shows. I know that much. And they both take place in New York. I know that too. "Aren't they set in the same place?"
"Yet they're in totally different worlds."
My brow knits. What the fuck is she talking about? Maybe it's better I don't know. I've seen bits and pieces of Sex and the City . Snippets while a girlfriend or sister was watching the show. I don't know it intimately, but I know one other thing: it delivers on the sex in the title.
Which means I shouldn't discuss it with her.
"I'm being rude again, aren't I?" She leans against the counter. "Let me think of a way to explain it without a reference. You're like the characters on Succession . You have this old-money vibe to you. Even though you're a West Coast lawyer. I keep thinking I'm about to walk into a study filled with scotch and leather and… is there a sort of wood that's masculine? Or is it all masculine? Since it's wood." She looks around the space. "How do you keep it this clean? Do you have help?"
I shake my head.
She nods, taking in the information, adding it to her picture of me. She doesn't say of course, you're a neat freak , but I hear it anyway.
Only I don't hate it on her lips.
I see the appreciation in it.
She waits while I pour the coffee and a cup of English Breakfast for myself.
"May I—" she motions to the stainless-steel fridge. "Or will I mess up the order?"
Probably, yes, but I don't want to admit it.
She notices that. Smiles. Opens the fridge door anyway. She pulls out a carafe of almond milk, pours a little, puts it back exactly where she found it. "How's that?"
"Close," I say.
"You are kinda like your dad, huh?"
"How would you like if I said that to you?"
She takes a long sip of her coffee. "I'd be surprised. People don't usually see that."
See what?
"That's actually… why I got here early." She runs her fingers over the handle of her mug. "I know I'm supposed to stay with Cass and you're supposed to stay with Damon. And I still want to do that. I haven't had enough time with her. But…"
But they can't stop talking about music.
But they'll have sex in one of the rooms.
But they're too fucking loud in both situations.
"I just wanted to make a pact, I guess," she says. "If either of us gets sexiled, we'll open the room to the other."
"What if I want to bring someone back to my room?"
Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Right. Of course. It's a weekend in Vegas. And you're single now. Say no more. I'm thinking about that too."
Not the way I am.
"I really need to… stop putting my foot in my mouth." She motions zipping her lips again. "But if you could not mention that to Cassie."
"Not mention your quest for dick?" I try to say it casually, but the words feel awkward on my tongue. I don't like thinking of her with someone else. Certainly not with some random guy who won't appreciate her.
"More or less," she says. "Yes. I won't mention your quest for—"
"Don't think about finishing that sentence."
She smiles and mimes zipping her lips again. "How about I text you if there's a sex-ile situation and you do the same. And as long as we're not busy getting busy, we'll help each other out."
"Are you really looking to get laid?" That comes out more flirtatiously than I mean it.
She perks up, hearing every drop of intent.
I dial back as fast as I can. "There are lots of assholes and creeps out there."
"Thanks, Dad. Do you want to make sure I have condoms too?" She makes a show of rolling her eyes. "I'm going to be a sex researcher, you know!"
"I thought you were researching addiction."
"Oh. Right." She swallows a long sip of coffee. "No. I, uh, decided on sex. At the last minute. But I haven't told anyone."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks."
"Is that what you're doing this weekend? Research?"
"Absolutely not. Anything except research. No. This weekend, I'm only looking to satisfy Daphne Webb, human being."
That sounds way too good. "Do you need help?" Fuck. Why did I say that?
I try to pull the words back, but it's too late. They fall through the space. They expand to fill the air.
I'm offering to help her satisfy herself.
She looks at me with surprise. Curiosity. Delight. She opens her mouth to say something, but her purse cuts her off. No, her phone. The vibration makes her entire pink purse buzz.
"As a wingman," I say.
"Perfect." She smiles as if I'm offering something entirely normal, and she answers her phone. "Hey. Where are you?" She laughs at Cassie's reply. "No. We can stop there on the way. Of course. Hurry up. I think your brother is scared of me."
No. I'm scared of being alone with her.
But it's the same thing, really.
Four days. And I'm her wingman.
Fuck me.