Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
MEYER
Jackson fucking Vaughan .
At first, I admittedly found him charming. His easy grin and his nice-to-look-at face drew me in. And when he asked me to tell him my favourite thing about working at the inn, my heart felt a little fuzzy. Because no one had ever asked me that question before, let alone cared about the answer. Then he had to go and ruin it by stomping on my dreams.
During our disaster of a meeting this morning, he managed to charm both my mother and our lawyer. Neither one of them seemed put off by the unfairness of my new reality.
Then, to top it off, Louis Montaigne had to go and try to hug me when Jackson got a handshake. What’s more, he little lady ’d me. It was cute when I was five, but two decades later, I’m over it.
All in all, it hasn’t been a good day.
What I should be doing is finding a way to distract myself. Instead, I’m ruminating. I stare disappointedly at the documents in front of me—the original ones that spell out Cherie’s involvement with the inn. Up until yesterday, I truly thought she was simply a guest.
When Mom arrived earlier, I pulled her straight into the office. Because someone had sent those emails to Jackson, enabling him and his outlandish insinuations about ownership, and I knew there was only one person it could be.
The conversation devolved from there, and now I’m pissed as hell that she didn’t tell me about all of this sooner.
Pippa has been trying to get ahold of me for the past few hours, but her texts and calls have gone unanswered. She was the first person I told about my encounter with Jackson, and we both laughed at the absurdity. I don’t have the guts to tell her we’ve been made fools. Or, more specifically, that I have been made a fool.
I take another swig of wine, straight from the bottle. The sweet taste slides smoothly down my throat.
“Meyer?”
I slump in my makeshift seat—an old crate I found in the corner of the storage room. “You found my secret hiding spot.”
Declan looks down at me, hands tucked in his pockets, a concerned frown on his face. “Pip’s been trying to call you,” he says. “She asked me to stop in on my way home from work. Winona told me you were back here.”
Damn . I guess my secret hiding spot isn’t so secret after all.
“You can tell Pip I’m okay.” I wave him toward the door. “Now, begone. You’re interrupting my wallowing.”
Instead of listening, he drags another crate across the floor until it’s in front of me. Then he plops down, bracketing my feet with his. He holds a hand out for my bottle. I relinquish it, watching as he takes a drink.
“What the hell is that?” he asks in disgust, wiping a hand over his mouth.
I snatch the bottle back and hug it defensively. “Strawberry wine.”
“Christ, Meyer. That’s sweet .”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shakes his head. His blonde hair, usually held back under a baseball cap, is flying free tonight. A longer piece falls onto his forehead. It distracts me so much, I almost miss his next question.
“Care to share why you’re getting drunk in a storage room?” he asks.
“Because all my hopes and dreams have been shot to hell.”
“That’s a little dramatic for a Monday evening.”
I glare. “Do you want me to spill or not?”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry. Shutting up now.”
I sigh. “Apparently, my mother’s friend owned half of the inn. She has for the past fifteen years. Now that she’s gone, her shares have been left to her grandson.”
Declan’s brows raise in disbelief. “You’re shitting me.”
“’Fraid not, bud.” I take another mournful drink of wine. “She’s been coming around all my life, but to me, she was always just a guest.” I let out a bitter laugh. “And I thought I knew everything there was to know about this place.”
“Okay,” he says, rubbing his jaw in thought. “Super unexpected. But her grandson owning part of the inn, that’s a bad thing…why?”
I throw my hands in the air, nearly losing my hold on the wine. A few drops slosh out of the bottle, coating my hand. I lick the escaped alcohol from my skin before answering.
“Because I have to share, Declan!”
“Again, that’s a problem…why?”
I scowl. “My five-year plan centred around me showing the world what an accomplished businesswoman I can be. Look, world! Meyer Ellison did that . Now I have to share with some business guy from Toronto who probably eats Rolexes for breakfast and doesn’t know a thing about physical labour. He’s probably going to want to sell and— Oh my God .”
“What?”
“He’s gonna want to sell!” I wail. “They always want to sell!”
The night I learned that I am a weepy drunk was the night of my senior prom. I’d only had alcohol a handful of times before then, and it was never in excess. Prom night, however, my friends dragged me to a party.
Pippa didn’t get to town until the following year, so I had a different group of friends back then. Friends who left me and Fraisier Creek firmly in their rear view when they set out for university.
As I watched my friends having the time of their lives with our graduating class, I was hit with a this is the end kind of feeling. It was an odd melancholy that seeped into my bones and left me feeling exposed. So I did what any rational eighteen-year-old would do: I resolved to get blackout drunk .
I didn’t quite make it there because I can still vividly recall my friends finding me on my back in a hayfield, crying up at the stars. The pitying looks they shot me as they carried me home almost exactly match the look that Declan is giving me right now.
“It’ll be okay, Meyer,” he says, placing a comforting hand on my arm. “This isn’t goodbye.”
“Sure feels like it.”
That melancholy is back, and this time, she’s here to stay.
“Maybe we could take up a collection?” he suggests. “I know I haven’t been in Fraisier Creek long, but I get the feeling you folks protect your own. I’m sure everyone would be more than willing to help you buy him out.”
I smile at Declan’s naivety. He’s not stupid by any means, but at twenty-two, he somehow hasn’t been jaded enough by the world to see it the way I do. Even with shitty parents like his, he’s still good to his core.
I can’t resist telling him as much. “You’re one of the good ones, Declan Rhodes.”
He rolls his eyes, though he’s smiling, too. “I’m never going to escape that label, am I?”
I shake my head. “Probably not, but that’s okay. You just be you. A good man. A good friend.”
He slaps his thighs and then stands. “Well, as your friend, I think I should get you home.”
“I’m not ready to go home,” I admit.
The thought of going back to my dark, empty cottage makes the melancholy grow. Sure, my cat is there, but he definitely won’t have patience for my drunkenness.
“Come home with me, then. We can order pizza to soak up some of that disgusting wine and then you can crash in Pip’s bed.”
I smile, but it slowly loses its shine until it drops altogether. “You go. I’ll be okay. I pinky promise I won’t drink any more wine.”
I drank more wine.
Never before have I broken a pinky promise. But after Declan finally left, the melancholy sprouted teeth and took a chunk out of my heart. So I decided more wine was in my best interest.
This is so not a good idea .
I should really listen to myself. I’m pretty smart. Usually. But my brain is kind of fuzzy, and I think I’ve fallen right off the weepy scale and into an even more unfamiliar territory. I feel…angry?
“Vaughan!” I shout. Oops . My fist pounds on the door to the room Jackson is staying in tonight. “I know you’re”—hiccup—“in there!”
In hindsight, I should’ve taken Declan up on his gentlemanly offer to walk me home. Instead, I’m standing outside the best room at the inn, waiting for my new sworn enemy to open the door.
Thankfully, this side of the building is otherwise empty. Not that Jackson knows that. Like hell was I going to comp his stay, so he’s paying for our most expensive room while he’s here. Might as well milk that fancy credit card while I can .
I ready my fist to knock again when the door swings inward. Jackson leans against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. The picture of smug relaxation. A lazy, amused grin stretches his lips.
I take this moment to drag my eyes down his form. Drunk Meyer is nothing if not an opportunist. I half pictured him to sleep upside down in his suit like some kind of well-dressed vampire bat, but I’m pleasantly surprised to note the sweatpants slung low on his hips. His white t-shirt certainly doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. His muscles are not of the beefy bodybuilder variety, but they subtly define his stomach and chest. He’s also got marvellous biceps.
His attire and musculature, coupled with his angular jaw and warm honey-coloured eyes, leave me weak in the knees. He’s even got dark brown hair that’s short on the sides and a bit longer on top. Perfect to run your fingers through. Perfect to grab during?—
“ Ugh .”
Why does hotness always come with a heaping side of asshole ?
“Did you just come here to check me out, Ellison? Or is there another point to your visit?”
My eyes snap up to his. “I’m not checking you out ! You’re the anemone. My anemone.”
Jackson steps away from the doorframe and into my space. I tip my chin up, unwilling to break eye contact. This, however, puts my lips entirely too close to his. Too close—because we’re enemies .
Kissing your enemy is bad … right ?
Even if maybe his lips look like they would be good at kissing. Even if maybe his hands look like they would fit perfectly against my waist. Even if maybe I would love to know what it would be like to feel his weight settle on top of me—between my thighs.
“Are you drunk?”
I squint as I pinch my thumb and pointer finger together in front of his pretty eyeballs. “Just a little bit. But drunk words are sober thoughts, buddy, so you best believe that what I’m saying is the truth .”
“And what are you saying? So far all you’ve done is undress me with your eyes and call me your anemone .”
Shit. That’s not the right word.
“I’m saying that this inn is literally all I have going for me, so if you want to get your grubby little mitts on my shares, you’re gonna have to pry them from my cold, dead hands. Even then, you’ll lose because my ghost will fight you.”
He regards me like I’m cheap evening entertainment. “Is that all?”
“No, that’s not all, Mr. Interrupter,” I say. I stab his chest with my finger. It’s nice and sturdy—hurts my finger a little. “I also wanted to say that I’m sorry for your loss. Your grandmother was a hell of a woman and I’m going to miss her a lot.”
For a moment, I think I spot a flicker of something in his eyes. Sorrow? But then it’s gone and his lips quirk upwards. “Most people wouldn’t give their enemy condolences.”
I set my shoulders. “Lucky for you, I’m a nice enemy. ”
Now his grin is crooked as it stretches across his lips. “Lucky me.”
My lungs stutter as he continues to look at me. I’ve met my fair share of attractive people. I’ve slept with a few of them. But none have made my breath falter from a single look in my direction.
It’s the wine. It has to be the wine.
“Don’t smile at me,” I scold. “You’re not allowed to smile.”
His grin deepens. Honest to God dimples appear on his cheeks. Fucking cheek dimples . It’s official: the universe is out to get me.
“Why not?”
“Just because.”
This only elicits a chuckle. Jackson steps farther into the hall and shuts his door behind him. Then he tucks his hands into his pockets and starts off down the corridor.
“Let’s go, Ellison,” he calls. “Time for bed.”
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you home.”
“I don’t need you to walk me home,” I protest.
He stops and turns to me, sighing. “Can you please just humour me?”
“Why?”
“Because lucky for you, I’m a nice enemy, too. And despite what you may think, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, especially while you’re not yourself.”
My heart does a funny little skip. Traitor .
I try really hard, but it’s difficult to be indignant when he says something like that. I don’t even point out that Fraisier Creek’s crime rate is practically in the negatives. Instead, I follow him down the hall, and then I lead him out the front door of the inn.
My home is off to the edge of the property, shielded by trees to give the illusion of privacy. All along the gravel path from the inn to the front door of my tiny cottage, Jackson keeps pace with my slightly unsteady wobble.
Now that the adrenaline of confronting him has worn off, I’m dead on my feet. Trying to unlock the door requires herculean effort, but I swat Jackson’s hands away when he tries to assist. I certainly don’t need his help.
“Son of a bitch,” I curse as I drop my keys for the umpteenth time.
Before I can bend down again, Jackson swipes them off the ground and nudges me out of the way. Within seconds, my door is swinging open.
Do I enter? No, I linger like the stupid drunk woman I am.
The nighttime air smells of spring. It kisses my skin, sending goosebumps scattering across my exposed flesh. It’s now that I realize I left my jacket in my office at the inn.
Standing here in the moonlight, my keys clutched in my palm, the teeth biting into my flesh, a wave of embarrassment washes over me. Not only am I a sloppy drunk, but I fully leaned into that sloppiness and made a complete fool of myself in front of Jackson.
And I’m somehow supposed to run an inn with this man.
Nausea does a gold medal-winning somersault in my gut. Why did I ever think I could do this? I haven’t even signed the paperwork to officially become the owner and I’m already fumbling, big time.
Abruptly, I turn away from Jackson and step into my house. I throw a small thank you over my shoulder—because my mama raised a woman with manners—and then I move to slam the door. I want to shut out this night, both metaphorically and physically.
Jackson still stands on my stoop, hands in his pockets. “Ellison?” he calls.
I reluctantly meet his eyes. “Mhm?”
I was fairly certain I couldn’t dislike this man more, but then he decides to drive the knife of humiliation even deeper.
His smirk is taunting. “I really hope you remember this in the morning.”