Chapter 10
JACQUELINE
The bar was exactly what Jesse had promised, dim lighting, booths that looked like they hadn’t been redone since the sixties, and drinks that came out of a bottle or can. No fancy cocktails or elaborate garnishes here.
It felt very American, like I was on a bit of an adventure.
It might have been perfect if there wasn’t a Westwood sitting across from me.
Jesse and I had been tucked into a booth in the corner for at least an hour, a few drinks in and getting on slightly better than I had expected.
He was far from the stuffy Westwoods of my childhood.
He had a looseness to him I felt myself drawn to, despite his cursed last name.
Jesse had one arm draped lazily along the back of the booth, the other gesturing as he spoke like he couldn’t physically tell a story without involving his entire body.
I’d been surprised to learn that he was loud, animated, and completely unfiltered in a way that felt wildly out of place for a man in his tax bracket.
But it was even more of a surprise to have realized there was nothing fake about him.
Jesse Westwood didn’t seem to come with polished edges, nor did he carefully choose his words. He wasn’t ashamed of anything, letting it all hang out—metaphorically, of course—and looking like he was having a blast doing it.
All of which had made me dreadfully curious to find out more. The cheap liquor we’d been drinking had softened my guard to the point that it was practically nonexistent by now.
“I find it odd that none of them know how to swim,” he said, his words just slightly slurred as we leaned in closer, nearly nose to nose over the table. “I mean, those models spend so much time on yachts and they can’t swim. Do you know how weird that is?”
I laughed, the sound slipping out easily. “It does seem dangerous.”
“I bought a yacht so I could jump off it,” he said, completely straight-faced. “What’s the point if all you’re going to do is sit there, all boring, pretending to be interested in—I don’t know—fashion week?”
I stared at him, the rest of what he’d said instantly fading into the haze of alcohol blanketing my mind, but I couldn’t ignore this part. “You jumped off your yacht? How tall is it?”
“Uh,” he said, pausing just long enough to make it seem like he was genuinely considering the question. “Pretty tall. I did get a concussion.”
“Well, I suppose as long as the experience was worth the concussion, I don’t really see a problem with it, but was it?”
“The first one definitely,” he said as a smirk crossed his full lips. “The other two might’ve been overkill.”
“Three times?” My hand flew to my mouth. “You’re lucky to be alive!”
“I have nine lives. Like a cat.” He grinned, his eyes bright but glassy enough to betray the alcohol. “I have three more to go, I think. I broke my leg in Belize a few years ago falling off an ATV. I rolled down a cliff. It was the most fun I’ve ever had.”
I gasped, horrified and impressed all at once. He absolutely thrived on whenever he got a reaction like that out of me. I could see how his grin widened every time I gave him exactly what he wanted, either shock, amusement, or disbelief.
The worst part was that I was giving it to him willingly. Because this was fun. Ridiculously, unexpectedly, truly fun. I had almost forgotten what that was like.
“I like to travel too,” I offered, since it seemed only fair to contribute something of equal weight to the discussion, even if my stories leaned slightly less toward near-death experiences and more toward unfortunate decision-making in foreign countries.
“Really?” he asked, immediately interested.
Honestly, this guy knew exactly how to make a girl feel special. He had Olympic-level talent at making me feel like I’d offered him something valuable whenever I spoke and as if he was only bothering to talk himself so he could find out what I might think of his misadventures.
“Yes, really,” I said, feigning offense. “It’s remarkably easy and fast to get to and around Europe from London.”
Those blue eyes locked on mine, brimming with glassy excitement as he looked at me. “Okay, then. Tell me about it.”
Although I hadn’t planned on speaking to him much during the one drink I’d thought we’d have, I found myself telling him about late trains, wrong turns, and one particularly questionable hostel in Barcelona that I was fairly certain had been a front for something illegal.
All throughout, Jesse laughed like he meant it. Like he was enjoying this as much as I was.
We fell into an easy back and forth after that, swapping stories, jokes, and increasingly ridiculous ideas that somehow felt entirely reasonable in the moment. At some point, we even started making plans.
“We’ll start in Miami,” he said, tapping the table like he was mapping it out in real time.
“Obviously,” I agreed.
“Then the Bahamas.”
“Of course.”
“Then…” He trailed off for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly like he was reaching for something more ambitious. “Oh. I got it. How do you feel about South America?”
“Sold,” I said immediately. “We’ll look for chinchillas.”
“Yes!” he agreed like this was the most logical progression in the world. “We’re doing it.”
“Yes.”
He grinned. “Done.”
My mind was a pleasant blur of gin and laughter, and it was making everything feel lighter and easier, like the rules had temporarily loosened their grip. I hadn’t had this much fun with someone since…
I didn’t even know how long. Years, maybe. All I knew was that it had been too long and that I absolutely had not expected to enjoy the company of a Westwood this much.
As I slid my elbows onto the table, a new idea started taking shape, reckless, impulsive, and entirely fueled by the warm buzz in my veins. “I have a pitch for you.”
“I’m all ears,” he said, folding his hands neatly on the table. “Where are we going?”
“France.”
He made a face. “Why? So we can ride a tandem bike and get wine drunk together, eating cheese and snails?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I hate escargot, but I have to commit a crime there, and I’m afraid I might need an accomplice.”
“What crime?” he asked, leaning in, so attentive that he was barely breathing as he waited for my answer.
Bloody hell, this is a thrill.
“I need to steal a dog,” I whispered.
Objectively, I knew how insane that sounded. Even to me, but Jesse just nodded like this wasn’t strange at all. He took it in stride, as if people pitched crazier things to him every day.
“Is it a big dog?” he asked seriously. “Or, like, a put-it-in-a-bag-and-run kind of dog?”
“He’s a big dog,” I said slowly, momentarily thrown by the fact that he was workshopping this with me. “His name is Hubert, and he’s like a son to me.”
“Who took him?” Jesse asked without any hesitation whatsoever, already waving down a server for another round of drinks like we were about to toast to grand larceny.
“My ex,” I growled. “He’s the reason I’m done with relationships. Romance is a lie.”
His expression changed in an instant, his features turning hard as he lifted his hand again, canceling the drink order without question. “Nope.”
Before I could even ask what he meant by that, he was reaching across the table, grabbing my fingers, and tugging me out of the booth. “Wait… what…”
“We’re going,” he said firmly, dragging me to the door.
I blinked up at him, beyond confused right now. I had a feeling I would’ve felt the same even without all the gin. “Going where?”
“The airport.”
I laughed. Obviously. “That’s absurd. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. I have a jet,” he said as I stumbled after him, both of us very clearly past the point of coordination. “A really fast one. We’ll go to France and steal your dog back.”
I burst out laughing again, so hard that it made it impossible to stand up straight, which was unfortunate because I was currently trying to do exactly that. We swayed together, a complete mess as I gripped his arm while he attempted, unsuccessfully, to hold me steady.
“I can’t…” I tried again, dissolving into laughter when we bumped into each other.
I was vaguely aware that people were staring, but I didn’t care.
“She’s laughing,” Jesse announced to absolutely no one, like my laughter was proof of something. “She’s in. We’re doing it.”
“We are not doing it,” I managed, even as I clung to him for balance.
“Is he a big guy?” he asked suddenly.
“Who?” I frowned. “Hubert? He’s probably sixty pounds—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and widening his eyes. “Your ex. Can he fight?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied after a moment. “He’s an academic.”
Jesse’s grin was immediate. “That’s great news for me. Although I do love a good tussle.”
The next thing I knew, there was sunlight shining directly in my eyes. I groaned, squeezing them shut as my brain struggled to catch up. It felt like I’d blinked and last night had simply disappeared.
We’d gone from dim lighting, laughter, and terrible ideas straight into morning. My head throbbed. Actually, it was worse than that. It was pounding like someone had set up a construction site inside my skull and decided to get an early start.
I tried shifting to get the sun out of my eyes, and then I realized that I couldn’t move. Something heavy was pinning me in place. I frowned, forcing my eyes open through the haze and squinting down with slow, painful effort.
Oh. Oh, no.
Jesse Westwood was draped over me like we’d stumbled into my apartment, tripped, and collapsed onto the couch in a heap before promptly passing out. On the other hand, that might’ve been exactly what’d happened.
I let him lie there for only one more second before I shoved him. Hard.
“Get off,” I croaked.
He jolted awake immediately, pushing himself up with a disoriented grunt, his hair even more tousled than usual and his expression a perfect mirror of my own confusion.
“What happened?” he started, blinking rapidly, his eyes watery and red-rimmed even though they were only open to slits. “Are we in France?”
“My apartment,” I said.
He looked around for just a moment, then brought his gaze back to mine. Both of us stared at the other for a long beat. Then, almost simultaneously, our gazes dropped.
Thankfully, our clothes remained very much on our bodies. I let out a sharp breath and nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed.
Another beat passed and then, while I had absolutely no idea why, we both suddenly started laughing, the sound loud and slightly hysterical. I pointed at him as I tried to catch my breath. “You were going to fight my ex.”
“I still might.” He groaned as he dropped back on the couch and threw an arm over his eyes. “Although maybe we should hydrate first.”
I laughed again, shaking my head as I pushed myself upright. “Maybe we should sober up first.”
“That’s probably fair.” He stood, swaying slightly before catching his balance. He glanced around like he was trying to piece together an exit strategy. “You know, I think I left my card at the bar.”
He was already backing toward the door, his light blue button-down from yesterday wrinkled beyond recognition and that thick hair sticking up all around his still-handsome face. It was so unfair. No one was supposed to be that good looking hungover.
I nodded at him despite knowing that he was simply trying to get out. “Well, you should probably go find it, then.”
He hesitated for half a second, looking at me like he might say something else, but instead, he reached for the door handle. “See you around, Jacqueline. It was fun. What I remember at least.”
I’d hardly managed to lift my hand in a wave before he was gone, the door snicking shut quietly behind him. Falling back against the couch, I blew out a harsh breath and started shaking my head, but quickly stopped when the movement exacerbated the headache to a level I couldn’t handle.
So instead, I just sat there quietly and completely still, wondering who on earth that man really was. He certainly didn’t fit into the Westwood mold I’d mentally built over the years. Worryingly, spending the night with him had left me uncertain whether I’d been right about them at all.