Chapter 8
JACQUELINE
Finally home after a long afternoon of trying my best not to think about Jesse Westwood, I called my mother for our weekly check-in.
I’d sworn before I’d left that I would stick to our pre-appointed times, so even if all I really wanted to do was not talk to anyone right now, I settled at my kitchen island and pressed dial.
The phone rang only twice before she picked up. “Jaque?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is Chicago?”
“Big,” I said, glancing out at the city from my window. “It’s also loud and full of extremely confident buildings. I forgot how different things were here.”
She laughed. “It’s been years since I’ve visited, but that sounds about right. How is work going? Have you managed to see Eric yet?”
“Not yet, but things have been good. The firm is pretty incredible, actually. Miranda is exactly what you’d want in a boss if you were designing one from scratch. My office is enormous. Honestly, it’s almost as big as my flat was back home, and so far, the work itself has been interesting.”
“I’m so glad,” she said, and I could hear the genuine relief threaded through her voice. “I was hoping it would be a good fit.”
“It really is.” I leaned against the counter, briefly debating whether to bring up the Westwoods. Jesse, in particular, and the fact that no matter where I went, their name insisted on following me like an unpaid bill. “How are things there? How’s Jessica?”
“Oh, same old,” she said. “We’re missing you, but outside of that, we haven’t got much news. Oliver scored a goal at his game over the weekend. He’s terribly proud. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it himself when you speak to him, so just don’t mention anything about me already telling you.”
I chuckled. “I won’t. Your secret is safe with me.”
She paused for a moment, which was unlike her, but as soon as she spoke again, there was something a bit more careful in her tone. Almost like she’d nearly brought up a heavier subject herself and then decided against it.
Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.
“So, have you had a chance to go out and explore a bit?”
“Not really. Obviously, I’ve left my apartment, which is marvelous, by the way. I’ve been to work and I’ve walked around some, but that’s about it. Oh, I also discovered this little cafe that sells offensively large iced coffees. I think I might be addicted.”
“That doesn’t count as exploring, darling.”
“Yes, it does. Well, it’s all I’ve had time for so far, anyway. I’ve had a lot of work getting up to speed with the new job.”
“Yes, but it’s the weekend now. You should go out. Enjoy yourself a little and get to know the place. As far as I remember, it was a wonderful city. Lots to do and see.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am enjoying myself.”
She sighed. “I know that whole business with Thomas was just dreadful, darling, but you’re young and beautiful. You’ve worked incredibly hard to get where you are. You should be living a little, especially now that you’ve got a fresh start to enjoy.”
I pressed my lips together and stared out at the skyline again. “I am living. I’ve moved to a different country, after all. It’s not like I’m just sitting around my place moping.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But are you happy?”
I didn’t answer that question, choosing instead to focus on the part that mattered. “Thomas stole my dog, Mother. If Hubert was here, I’d be forced to get out, go on runs and walks, but as things are, I’m simply easing into life alone.”
“That was particularly unforgivable. I do agree. I just don’t want you hiding away. Don’t sit in your house simply because you don’t have a dog to walk.”
I sighed quietly. “I’m not hiding.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, I just told you. I’m settling in.”
“Well, settle in somewhere that isn’t your sofa.”
I smiled. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll go out this evening,” she corrected lightly. “It doesn’t have to be for long. Just get out of the house and perhaps have a drink somewhere.”
“Fine,” I relented. “I’ll go out.”
“Excellent. I knew you’d listen to reason.”
We spoke for a few minutes longer about nothing in particular. Then I hung up, the quiet of the apartment suddenly suffocating. When I’d told my mother I would go out, I’d been thinking that perhaps I’d only go for a walk around the block, but I lasted all of ten minutes before caving.
Technically, I had been invited to dinner, albeit not directly or formally, but an invitation was an invitation. Even if I didn’t have an address.
I sighed and dragged my laptop closer across the table, flipping it open with more confidence than I felt. “Let’s just see if I can find it.”
For a few seconds, I almost managed to convince myself that this was purely for informational purposes. Research into areas I would be avoiding rather than actively planning a visit to, but a quick search later, I learned that the coverage on the Westwoods was excessive around here.
I found a lot more than just idle information. Instead, I clicked through links with mild disbelief, skimming articles, headlines, and photographs of them that felt more like features on royalty than a family I was inconveniently connected to.
Their current focus seemed to be on Jesse, his face plastered across every corner of the internet.
Now I understood his comment about going on a date with a mayor’s daughter.
I squinted at the screen, unable to comprehend that the public could possibly have this level of interest in who was on his arm, but there were lots of comments and entire forums discussing him.
“Unbelievable,” I murmured, but not because of the headlines.
It was because of the pictures of him that kept popping up.
His dark brown hair was perpetually a little too undone to be accidental.
The incredibly blue eyes carried an infuriating mix of amusement and disinterest even through the screen.
His face was the sort of handsome that would make people forgive things they absolutely shouldn’t.
It was highly inconvenient how objectively attractive he was. I closed the laptop halfway but then opened it again almost immediately. Clearly, I hadn’t tortured myself enough just yet.
Alex Westwood was equally easy to find information on, but the articles that featured him spoke of a man who was a lot less chaotic and more controlled than his younger brother. These were mostly about business expansions and acquisitions he’d made.
There were a few older stories about him with different women, but it seemed like, for the last few years, ever since the media had covered his marriage to Jane Thayer, there was only her.
I leaned in a little closer, studying the way they looked at each other like no one else in the world existed, and found myself smiling.
Jane seemed genuinely happy with him. In love with her husband. A lot softer than she’d seemed in that conference room earlier. As much as I disliked and distrusted her husband’s family, I really did like her. It was good to see that she was so clearly loved.
Eventually, however, I found out that Jane and Alex had recently moved into a house right here on the Gold Coast. I blinked hard, sitting up a little straighter. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re bloody neighbors?”
I clicked into the article, quickly scanning the lifestyle piece, but nope. The headline hadn’t been kidding. They lived in the same neighborhood, on the same general stretch of very expensive real estate that I now, somewhat accidentally, called home.
A search of the address revealed that it was shockingly close to my own, but maybe that would make it easier to show up just this once.
Jane had seemed nice enough and I supposed I would have to establish some contact with these people at some point.
It might give me a good opportunity to set some boundaries.
Once that was done, I would never have to do it again. A one-time obligation. I could handle that.
“Fine,” I said out loud as I snapped the laptop shut with a decisive click. “We’re doing this.”
Getting ready, however, turned out to be significantly more complicated than I’d anticipated. What exactly does one wear to dinner with gazillionaires?
A ballgown would be excessive, like I was trying way too hard.
But a business suit seemed too formal for a family meal.
I stood in front of my wardrobe for an unreasonable amount of time, staring at perfectly acceptable clothing but feeling completely out of my depth.
Eventually, I settled on an outfit that felt safe enough.
Dark wash jeans, heels, and a pretty blouse that walked the line between effortless and formal.
After changing, I allowed myself to check my reflection only once and decided it was good enough.
The taxi ride over to the address I’d jotted down from that article was much too short. I spent most of it staring out the window, my stomach tightening into a ridiculous knot of nerves. This is ridiculous. It’s just a dinner. Not a trial.
“Here we are,” the driver said way before I was ready, pulling up along a quiet, pristine street that seemed exactly like the kind of place where people with generational wealth lived without apology.
“Could you just park down the street a bit?” I asked as I glanced toward the house. “Perhaps keep the meter running as well?”
He nodded, pulling forward without questioning me. As I reached for the door handle, I drew in a deep breath. Looking up at the house, I climbed out of the car. It was an impressive place, with clean lines and warm lighting, the facade telling a story of understated luxury at its finest.
I approached the door confidently enough, but as soon as I reached it, I stopped and walked back a few steps. Then I approached again, getting closer this time before I stopped again. My hand lifted but then froze.
The sound of laughter filtered out from inside, faint but definitely there.
Squeals rang out too, like there was at least one particularly happy child in there.
Some good-natured, loud banter was being exchanged.
I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to.
The warm, boisterous tone said everything.
Behind that door was a family. From all accounts, a tight-knit, happy one—and I wasn’t part of it in any way, shape, or form.
I doubted I could ever feel welcome among them, after Mom’s stories.
None of these people had been involved in those bad memories, but I couldn’t help but lump them all in the same group.
Memories flickered through my mind as I stood there, remembering other rooms with other Westwoods. Conversations that had grown quiet when my mother had entered with us in tow. There had been polite smiles for the charity cases. We’d felt more like guests than family.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my hand. It might not have been this particular branch of the Westwood family that had featured in those memories, but I suddenly had the unmistakable, inescapable feeling that I didn’t belong here either.
Grateful that I’d asked the taxi driver to wait, I turned and walked back toward the street. I’d kept my promise to my mother and gone out. I just hadn’t stayed out, but that wasn’t what she’d asked me to do anyway.
I was reaching for the door handle of the cab when the sound of my name rang through the night, coming from the direction of the house. It startled me so much that I actually jumped a bit.
“Jacqueline?”
Instantly, I froze, knowing in that moment that I’d made a grave mistake coming here, and unfortunately, it didn’t look like I’d managed to slip away with no one being the wiser either.