Chapter 17 #2
They wanted to move the meeting to Monday.
It was Thursday, and Monday was not a day Poppy typically worked.
He figured he would see her at the gala, but he would rather take care of this now.
He hated things hanging over his head. He thumbed through his contacts and pressed on her name as he walked over to look out on the backyard.
“Hey,” Poppy answered on the second ring.
“Hi. Sorry, I know you’re probably getting ready for the—”
“No, actually, I’m exhausted, I think I’m gonna skip it.”
“Everything okay?”
Poppy was in her second trimester, and although things had gone well, her pregnancy was considered high risk. She’d gone back to school, online, and Deacon was worried that her watching Tabby was too much, which made him feel like an asshole for the reason he was calling.
“Yeah, just tired. I overdid it yesterday thinking I was a landscape artist. I learned my lesson.”
She and AJ had moved into a home she’d bought that they were renovating.
“Okay, well, you just rest—”
“No, why were you calling? Is it Tab? Did you need—”
“I know you usually have Mondays off, but I have to be in Silicon Valley this Monday, and I was wondering—”
“Oh, Monday I was going to do that reflexology course, but I can see if I can—”
“No, no, don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind reschedul—”
“Absolutely not. We’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Deacon, I can—”
“Honestly, Poppy, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered. Just rest.” He projected a calm he didn’t feel inside as his mind raced to figure out who to ask.
He hung up the phone and stared at it. He had Liam and Frankie he could call.
Tabby loved Frankie, but she wasn’t as close to her as she was to Poppy.
Tabby had so much fun at Phoebe’s house for the sleepover, but their family was on vacation this week.
He could ask his other sisters, Lina or Pippa, Tabby wasn’t as close to them.
“Mr. St. Claire—”
“Deacon,” he corrected her as he glanced over his shoulder. He hated being called Mr. St. Claire.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. If you’re looking for someone on Monday, we have a teacher in-service day, and I’m available.”
“Really?” Holy shit. That was amazing.
“You’re coming over again?” Tabby hopped up and down in her chair.
“Maybe.” Blake looked back at Deacon hopefully.
He knew he paid well for babysitting, so that could contribute to Blake’s enthusiasm for another chance to sit with Tabby, but from her references and what he’d witnessed personally, she loved kids. And it was obvious from the interactions he’d seen that they loved her back, especially Tabby.
He’d also looked at her volunteer profile in We-C-U.
She had a nearly perfect feedback score.
Every time there was a We-C-U interaction, there was a mandatory follow-up feedback questionnaire, and Blake not only had almost all ten out of ten, but people always wrote glowing comments about her.
He wanted, so badly, to share them with Jenna, but they were strictly confidential.
Also, how would he explain having access to those files?
Blake tilted her head, her lips curled in a hopeful grin, and Tabby was beside her doing the exact same thing.
It wasn’t the first time he noticed Tabby copying her mannerisms. After she left from interviewing her for her article, Tabby had picked up a few of her phrases, she kept telling Rocco, “We love a self-aware king,” whatever that meant.
And she told Deacon, it’s giving boring, when he told her they were having lasagna for dinner again.
Honestly, if she was going to mimic or mirror anyone, Deacon was happy it was Blake. She was a bright girl, treated people with respect, and saw the world exactly how he was hoping to raise Tabby to see it.
“I would need you here from around seven in the morning till at least four, maybe later. I have to go into the Bay Area for a meeting.”
Blake nodded decisively. “Done.”
“Shouldn’t you check with your mom?”
Deacon was almost positive he caught a roll of her eyes, but she hid it well as she pulled out her phone. Her thumbs flew over the screen, and not ten seconds later her phone dinged.
She lifted her head with a smile. “Mom’s good with it.”
“Great.” Deacon smiled with relief.
Not only did he have a babysitter for Monday, he also knew Jenna had her phone on her. He remembered her saying she always did when Blake wasn’t with her. He did have her number, he’d gotten it from her card at the salon. He hadn’t used it yet, but maybe it was time.
Music. That was the only answer that had ever worked for her, at least since she was old enough to recognize that the world, her world in particular, could not be neatly organized by logic, ambition, or even sheer force of will.
It was music—the mindless algorithmic playlist, the syrupy pop anthem, the heavy bass and catchy lyrics of ’90s and 00s hip hop and R&B, and the gritty all-woman indie alt-rock collective—music had never made her a promise it couldn’t keep, it had never abandoned her marriage by going undercover for four years, music didn’t cheat on her with her best friend or betray her by sleeping with her husband.
She needed to lose herself. That was her only objective tonight. She needed to shut off her brain and forget about the gala and the red temptation mere feet away from her.
She should have returned the dress, shoes, and jewelry. She should have left it on his doorstep. That’s what she should have done. She kept telling herself to. Yet it was still hanging in her closet calling to her.
“Screw this,” she muttered to herself. She knew what she had to do. Get lost in a cleaning spiral. Annihilate every last germ, fingerprint, and microbe from every conceivable surface. That would work.
“Alexa, play cleaning playlist.”
The robot chirped to life as if it lived to serve her mood swings. “Playing cleaning playlist,” it announced with the smug finality only a piece of AI could muster.
Then the universe, or perhaps some algorithmic deity, decided she hadn’t suffered enough, and the opening bars to “Bed Chem” piped through her small, echoey room. Jenna let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling.
Of course.
Of course. There was no one alive who had more bed chemistry with Deacon St. Claire. The memory of him was like a static charge, her pulse kicked up, her body thrummed, and her skin flashed hot and then cold, hot and then cold, like a bipolar thermostat.
She’d had sex before, obviously, but that… the sex they had… was something else. That was hall-of-fame sex. That was sex that made you believe in fate, and curses, and maybe even true love, if she were the kind of woman who allowed herself that kind of vulnerability.
She wasn’t, of course. That was why she was skipping the gala. She’d rather clean grout than share a room with a man she couldn’t, under any circumstances, allow herself to be with.
But Jiminy Cricket, if she were normal, if she had even one less deep-rooted neurosis, she would just go to the dinner, have fun, let things happen, see where it went. Would it be great if she could just live her life like that? Abso-freaking-lutely. But Jenna knew herself too well.
She was the kind of person who spent two weeks, two actual weeks, going back to the same bar every single day after a one-night-stand, just in case he showed up.
Two. Weeks. In the middle of a full-scale personal crisis, she’d sat in a parked car outside an Irish pb, running through hypothetical conversations with a man she’d spent a handful of hours in her thirties. That wasn’t even a little bit normal.
Whatever genetic mutation her mother had, it had absolutely been passed down to her.
She came by it honestly, though, and at least she’d learned not to indulge the sort of craving that led to complete personal obliteration.
She would not let herself get addicted to anyone, especially not someone as dangerous as Deacon St. Claire.
Not when she had a business to build, a life to salvage, and most importantly, a daughter to raise.
Jenna stared at the ceiling and breathed in a sharp and shallow breath.
She’d already lost enough. She’d been fucked out of hundreds of thousands of dollars, chewed up and spit out by a system that had never been designed for women like her, women who tried to do the right thing and always ended up with the shortest end of the stick.
Lawyers. Fucking frat brothers. Why had she trusted him?
That was just money, though. It didn’t matter.
She had Blake. Nobody could take Blake from her.
Even if she lost everything else, she’d still have her daughter, and that was what mattered.
She’d never let Blake feel alone the way she had, never let her go hungry, and never give her a reason to not trust her own mother.
She’d built her life around those promises, and she’d kept them, no matter what.
Since moving to Hope Falls, she finally had the community she’d always wished for.
Not just for herself, but for her daughter.
This place—this town with its pancake breakfasts, its insufferably charming Main Street, its parade of well-meaning weirdos—was like the mythical Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls, only with better lattes and slightly less public shaming.
It was the town she’d always wanted to grow up in, the one she’d spent her entire adolescence daydreaming about, convinced that somewhere out there was a place where everything made sense and everything worked out.
She never found it for herself, but she’d found it for Blake, and that was enough.
Well, Asher found it, and she’d tagged along.