Chapter 4
If I was honest with myself, spending the evening watching TV with Todd was tempting. It was easier. Much easier. No complicated feelings or figuring things out. It also didn’t hurt that Todd loved trashy reality shows and got easily invested in their storylines.
But right now, I was standing in front of Jack’s townhouse. House. He lived in a house. In D.C. I couldn’t even imagine what that cost him. Or what it was like to have that surety, the security, that sort of permanence. A sense of place.
I’d gotten glimpses of it, having my own apartment. A place for myself, even if renewed monthly, suited me just fine. I’d felt fortunate. I was fortunate. Even if the neighbor was generally grumpy, and occasionally showed up unannounced…
I sighed, looking at the bag in my hand, at what I brought.
Having passed by expensive shops and restaurants, it suddenly felt foolish.
I didn’t bring wine, since alcohol and I were on the outs, and I didn’t want to bring any attention or expectation of drinking.
A plant didn’t make sense since it wasn’t a housewarming.
Ginger ale was more a Todd thing. So, I bought a bag of donuts. Cheap powdered donuts.
Which, the closer I got to Jack’s front door, was feeling less and less like a good idea. His home was at least three floors of windows and whitewashed brick. The walkway tufted manicured hostas and feathered grasses. I don’t know what I was expecting when Jack invited me over, but it wasn’t this.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could still turn around. Yes, that was probably a good idea.
Sure, I was on his front stoop, and no I didn’t have any excuses, but—
The sage green door opened before I had a chance to make my escape, Jack appearing inside leaning against the frame.
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, a smirk graced his lips. “You got all dressed up for little old me?”
And just like that, my unease disappeared. “Don’t let it get to your head. I’m still wearing sneakers.” I brushed past him as I entered his home, keenly aware of where his attentions laid. “And I brought the world’s least attractive dessert.”
I shook the bag for emphasis, which solicited a wholehearted laugh from Jack as he closed the door behind me. It took a moment, but once I was inside—
Oh my god.
I froze.
Jack’s home was immaculate.
Warm, and clean, and bright. A large bay window let in the evening sun.
Wood paneled floors, deep and veined, matched the tone and texture of the cupboards.
Exposed red brick ran along the far wall extended into the room, with a fireplace angled just-so providing a natural divide between the seating area and the earth-toned kitchen.
There was art on the walls, so well-tailored to the space, the light, it looked like it was custom-made. Like he’d bought art, real art, from an artist. The same artist. Over and over again.
I found my mouth open. In awe. “You live here?”
“It would be pretty extravagant if I rented this place just to impress you, Delilah.”
I raised my brow.
“Come.” Jack grinned, laying a hand flat on my hip, guiding me forward. “I’ll prove it’s mine. After we spoil our appetite.”
?
There was something about eating powdered sugar and fried dough in dress clothes, hunched over Jack’s kitchen island, that was extremely satisfying.
Who was I kidding? Powdered sugar and fried dough were good any time.
And what I was wearing wasn’t so much considered dress clothes, as it was a dress.
And a fresh one at that, since I sweat through the outfit I’d worn to meet Botan.
I swallowed. “So far this could be anyone’s home Jack—just saying.”
“The proof is upstairs.” He sucked a bit of powder off his thumb, then squared his shoulders. “But first you and I need to have a talk.”
The way he said ‘talk’ made me think that I was about to get a talking-to. Most likely about the missed messages. “Oh good, that is exactly what I thought us spending time together needed.”
He shifted, lowering his gaze. “It was brought to my attention that I may have focused on the wrong things.”
Never mind, I had no idea where this was going. “Oh?”
“Our mutual friend used some very strong language telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I should have made sure that your needs were met. And that I should have consulted you before parading you around the FBI.”
“A heads up would have been nice,” I teased. The visit to FBI headquarters after closing the Almeida case had been terribly uncomfortable. Though I wasn’t sure I was in the position to turn down pieces of the job I’d accepted.
“So, at the risk of sounding insensitive. How soon would you be up for a new case?”
I knew what that meant. “You’ve got one already, don’t you?”
The look on his face was enough.
“Mm, thought so.” I brushed my mouth with the back of my hand. The conversation felt like it might become more serious, and I’d feel rather foolish carrying on with a sugar moustache. “And here I thought I’d get a full week of rest and relaxation.”
“There’s always another case, Delilah.” Jack’s attention zeroed in on my hand, the tulip brand, before I slipped it beneath the countertop, out of view.
“The reason I’m asking you is to see if you need more time.
To rest, to heal, whatever it is, I want to make sure you have what you need.
But I also don’t want to make the mistake of assuming. ”
The prospect of working a case actually felt like a good idea. Like it would be a suitable distraction while I figured things out. Even if the clock was ticking. “Does it involve getting beat up, shot at, or stabbed?”
“I’d prefer it didn’t, but it seems you are in the habit of attracting all sorts of trouble.”
I traced the lines of the countertop with the fingertips of my unmarked hand, thinking. Well, feigning thought, since I’d already made up my mind, and I didn’t want Jack thinking I was too eager.
“I’m in, but you’re the one who will have to deal with Todd if my ribs don’t heal properly.” I wished I was kidding. The longer they took to heal, the more I was convinced he was right about them being broken. “When do we start?”
“I’ll make sure you get your week. The team is putting together the brief.” Guess the time off didn’t apply to Fawzy, Thruppy, Kaatz, and Zhou. “We’ll go in the day after tomorrow… if you’re up for it.”
“You really know how to show a lady a good time.”
“You’re the one who said what we do is part of who we are.”
“Then next time I’ll come prepared to talk shop and wear my business pajamas.”
“Next time you can sleep over.” There was a sparkle in Jack’s eye. The mood shifted. And the idea of staying with Jack, at his house, was more than tempting.
I hip-checked him. “Can’t wait to see what you rent us.”
“Message received.” He straightened, gesturing with an open palm. “Stairs are this way.”
?
The rest of Jack’s house felt just as warm, just as luxurious.
The earth tones continued up the stairs and into the three bedrooms. One of which had been converted into an office, where it appeared Jack spent most of his time when not on site. There were files and papers in organized piles on the desk. Book-lined shelves. And lots of lockable drawers.
As we toured, I tried not to show too much interest in Jack’s bedroom.
Though with the king-sized bed and crisp white linens, it was hard not to imagine myself tucked in under the sheets.
It must have been like sleeping on a cloud.
The thought alone was enough to heavy my eyelids, dragging the overwhelming urge to sleep along with it.
Ignoring any thoughts of my passenger, I blamed the donuts and the near full day of walking for the blooming fatigue I fought off as we climbed up another floor. Making comfortable, non-life altering, conversation, we reached the top of the stairs, abruptly bathed in natural light.
Woah.
I don’t know what I was anticipating, but the third floor was something else.
There were skylights. Art easels. Scrolls of paper rolled and stored on shelves. Spiral bound notebooks and notepads. A library of rolled canvas and paper.
An artist’s studio.
Suddenly invigorated, I crossed into the room to take a look at the work-in-progress on the easel. “You’re an artist?”
“I like to draw.” He shrugged. “Helps me clear my mind.”
Etched in charcoal, the work-in-progress was a series of faces. Each one felt real. Like they were a person I’d met in passing. He was good. Better than good. “If you are trying to impress me, Jack, it worked.”
Tucking his hands behind his back, he kept his distance, letting me explore the space, his work, on my own.
I moved to one of the sketchbooks. It was closed, but laid out for viewing on a waist-high shelf.
Turning to Jack, I gestured to the book.
He gave a brief dip of his chin, granting me permission.
Carefully thumbing the pages, I flipped through, amazed at the beauty, the depth of it all.
It felt like I was looking through parts of Jack’s mind.
How he saw the world. The people around him.
His perception of the world was much more interesting than mine. There was much more passion. More life. Beauty.
A part of me was jealous, and not only of his talent.
After finishing the first sketchbook, I moved onto a second. Then a third. My fingers collecting traces of charcoal, as I leafed through page after page. Absorbing, admiring.
I was right.
The art downstairs had come from the same artist. But it hadn’t been purchased.
“The art all over your house, you made it?”
He shrugged, making himself small. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said Jack was self-conscious. “They were meant to be placeholders.”
Placeholders, my ass. His work was beautiful. It deserved to be in an art gallery, never mind his walls. I couldn’t stop taking it all in.