Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
JACKSON
From the minute Meyer met me in the parking lot of the inn so I could drive us to the restaurant, I knew it was a stupid fucking idea to invite her to dinner.
We’re a stark contrast—her in ripped jeans, a plain white t-shirt and polka dot flip flops; me in my usual suit and dress shoes. She knew I would wear a suit because I always do. She, on the other hand, made it a point to dress as casually as possible to sabotage our non-date. I could tell by the smug gleam in her eye as I scanned her outfit.
Little does she know, my perusal was in appreciation, not annoyance.
It’s a well-established fact that Meyer Ellison’s jeans cling to her ass and hips like they were crafted just for her. And her t-shirt is snug around the bust, leaving nothing of her full tits to the imagination. The flip flops, with their multicoloured polka dots, just make me want to smile.
So, like I said, horrible fucking idea.
I can handle, though barely, the wayward thoughts I have about Meyer when we’re in a work setting. But at dinner? That’s going to require herculean effort to stop my mind from wandering.
I planned to take her to Calderville, but at the last second, I veer off the highway and onto a street that will take us into town.
“What the fuck, Vaughan?” Meyer grips the handle of the door. “I agreed to dinner, not to end up in a ditch.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
Sitting across from Meyer in the romantic low lighting of a fancy Italian restaurant? I think I’d rather eat gravel for breakfast. The pizza place on Main will have to do.
There’s nothing sexy about Papa’s Pizza Emporium.
“How’d you even manage to get your licence?” she continues.
“Never underestimate the power of a good bribe.”
“ Seriously ?”
I let out a chuckle. “No, Meyer. I earned my licence just like everyone else, shitting my pants beside the scary driving examiner.”
She glares at me from her seat, and I smile. We ride the rest of the way in silence. There’s luckily a spot right outside the pizza place, so I park and we head in.
“Meyer!” a guy calls from behind the counter. He looks to be about Meyer’s age, and he’s wearing a grin that could only be described as shit-eating. “How’s it going? How’s Mama Ellison? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Meyer smiles. “Hey, Rudy. I’m good. So is my mom. She’s apparently got a hot new instructor for her water exercise class, so she’s rather smitten at the moment. ”
When Rudy’s eyes land on me, he scowls. “This him?” he asks Meyer, jerking a thumb in my direction.
Meyer sighs. “This is him.”
Never in my life have I been referred to with such disdain.
The cool glare that settles on his face leads me to believe that a handshake would be unwelcome, so I settle for a nod. “Jackson Vaughan. Nice to meet you.”
“Rudy Ciccarelli,” he replies.
I notice that he makes it a point not to say it’s nice to meet me.
The thing I’ve noticed most about Fraisier Creek is that its residents are loyal to a fault. On the one hand, it’s endearing to be witness to such a tight-knit community rallying around my business partner. But on the other, it’s been making my life a hell of a lot more difficult than it needs to be.
Like Meyer, everyone in Fraisier Creek seems to think I’m out to destroy their precious inn. I’m not sure what I can do to convince them otherwise. I’m just hoping that after some time, they’ll begin to see reason.
Cherie saw something special in this place. For the first time, I’m beginning to think that maybe she’s right. When I first got here, I was only in this to kill time and fulfill my grandmother’s wish, but now? Now, I’m invested.
“What am I making you? Your usual?” Rudy asks.
“Yes, please,” Meyer replies sweetly.
He turns to me. “And for you?”
Apparently his dislike of me isn’t going to stop him from taking my business .
“I’ll do a Hawaiian, but add green olives.”
With a wry twist of his lips, Rudy goes about making our pizzas.
“You have got to be shitting me,” Meyer says with a scoff.
“What?” I turn to her, eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those people who hates pineapple for no good reason?”
“No,” she says. “You stole my order!”
I chuckle. “I wasn't aware someone could hold ownership over a pizza topping preference.”
She crosses her arms and turns away, pretending to inspect the photographs and artwork on the walls. I take her lead, sidling up beside her, hands in my pockets. More than once, I can sense her turn in my direction to shoot me a glare, but I keep facing forward.
I point toward a photo just above her eye level. “Nice shiner,” I say.
It’s a picture of a local children’s soccer team that Papa’s Pizza Emporium sponsored years ago. Right there, in the centre of the front row, is a little Meyer. She’s probably no more than eight, but she carries herself the same way present day Meyer does. And she’s sporting a gnarly black eye.
Meyer can’t hide the proud grin that stretches across her lips. It’s not directed at me, but I feel a strange sense of accomplishment because I did that. I made her smile. It’s a welcome departure from her typical scowl when I’m around.
“One of the boys in my class was making fun of my friend,” she explains. “She needed braces, but she couldn’t get them yet. He made one too many comments about her crooked teeth, so I gave him something else to talk about instead. ”
Another well-established fact about Meyer Ellison is that her protective streak is a mile long. I see it in the way she cares for the employees at the inn—the way she cares about the inn itself.
It’s an innocuous anecdote from well over a decade ago, but I relish this new information. And I crave more. My fascination has been apparent from the moment I laid eyes on her, but it was purely physical then. Having been in her presence these past few weeks, I find myself wanting to know how her mind works.
“Are you still friends?” I ask, just to hear her talk a little more.
She shakes her head. “We were until the end of high school. Then she moved to Kingston for university. She comes back home sometimes, but if anything, we just wave at each other from across the street.”
“I have friends like that. Acquaintances, really.” I rub a hand along my jaw. “If I’m honest, I’ve only ever had the one friend.”
By the time high school hit, besides Wells, no one was willing to put up with my near constant studying. And when I started working, the long hours left me too exhausted to contemplate more than a casual drink with colleagues every now and then.
“Pizza’s up!” Rudy calls, shutting down our conversation.
When I pull out my wallet, I send a teasing glance to Meyer. “Aren’t you going to offer to pay for yours?”
She smirks. “No. I’m pretty sure you can afford it,” she replies. “Besides, you’re the one who asked me to dinner, Hotshot.”
Rudy rings the pizzas up and I pay. Then I drop a hefty tip into the tip jar before grabbing my pizza box. Meyer already has hers in hand.
“Thanks, Rudy!” She smiles. “Another month and it’ll be prime picking season. Then I’ll whip up a pie just for you.”
Rudy points a green bell pepper in her direction. “I’ll hold you to that. Best fucking pie I’ve ever had.”
She places a hand to her chest with a grin. “Oh, how you flatter me.”
“Yet you still won’t give me a second chance.” He winks. “Say hello to your mama for me.”
She waves, and then finally we’re heading out the door. Once outside, I jut my chin in the direction of the park across the street. There’s a small playground farther down with a couple swings, a modest slide and a set of monkey bars. A gazebo with chipping white paint stands sentry in the middle of the green space. We find a picnic table sitting under the shade of an oak tree, perfect protection against the setting sun.
Well, almost. The tree does nothing to shield me from the mesmerizing way the orange and red hues play in the reflection of Meyer’s crystalline eyes.
Apparently even eating a greasy pizza in the middle of a public park isn’t enough of a deterrent to keep my mind from drifting.
In an effort to make the most of this time I have, I ask, “What kind of pies do you bake?”
“Any kind, really, but my specialty is strawberry. ”
I lift up my wrist and point to the spot where I saw the tattoo on hers. “Is that why you have one on your wrist?”
She looks surprised, as if maybe I’m the first person to notice it. Maybe it’s new.
Slowly, she nods. She rests her elbow on the wooden table and twists her arm so the strawberry is on display for me. I only noticed the vague outline and the colours the first time, but now I can see the intricate details.
“I used to bake a lot with my mom. She doesn’t really do it anymore, but I still do. When I have the time.”
I itch to trace the design of her tattoo with my finger, but I refrain. Instead, I trace it with my eyes, roving over each delicate seed and crease of a leaf on the stem.
“It suits you,” I say.
Then Meyer does something incredible—she blushes. It’s not the same flush that crept up her face that night she came to my room, drunk and adorable, ready to brawl. This blush is a pretty pink that dusts the apples of her cheeks and brings warmth to her otherwise cool appearance—the light blue of her eyes, the icy glares she offers me.
In an instant, the moment is gone. She snatches her wrist back and tucks in to her pizza. I let her retreat, picking up a slice of my own.
Being away from the inn, I sense that some of the fight has left Meyer. She’s still guarded, but the walls she has erected aren’t nearly as tall. Perhaps, with time, I could scale them entirely.
“Tell me something,” she says, tossing a piece of crust back into her box.
“What do you want to know? ”
She laces her fingers together and rests her elbows on the table. Her chin drops on top of her clasped hands as she regards me. “How many suits do you own?”
“Eight,” I reply easily.
“Huh.”
I chuckle. “You sound surprised.”
She shrugs. “I figured a guy like you would have at least twenty.”
“It’s not about the suit. It’s all about the tie,” I explain.
She cocks her head, scrutinizing my tie. I arch a brow.
“Sorry,” she says with a crooked grin, “but I think that’s just about the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I laugh.
After that, Meyer really starts to relax. We talk more about her baking and I tell her about all of my non-existent hobbies. Eventually, we finish our pizzas and throw the boxes in the garbage by the sidewalk.
An older man passes us, and he tips his chin in our direction. “Lovely evening,” he says.
Meyer offers him a polite smile. “It is. Have a good one.”
“Do you know him?” I ask as we cross the street to my car.
“No.” She shrugs. “He’s probably a tourist.”
Unlike earlier, the drive back to the inn isn’t fraught with Meyer’s unease. Instead, it’s full of a different kind of tension. The kind that tempts me to make a stupid decision when I park and turn to face her in the passenger seat.
“I, um—” Meyer’s tongue darts out, smoothing along her bottom lip. My eyes track its movement. “I didn’t have a terrible time. ”
I grin. Coming from her, that’s the closest to a compliment I’m probably going to get. “Finally see that I’m not so bad?” I tease.
Her lips quirk. “I haven’t fully made up my mind yet.”
She gets out of the car first. I linger for a moment, sighing when I realize the scent of her perfume still floats in the air. Meyer has already made it to the side of the building by the time I catch up.
This is the moment where we say goodnight. She’ll retreat across the parking lot and down that path toward her little cottage. I’ll watch her leave until I can’t see her anymore, and then I’ll make my way to my room.
But none of that happens.
Meyer shifts backwards, turning toward me, and her foot gets caught in one of the many craters littering the parking lot. To save her from a sprained ankle, I spring forward with a curse, catching her around the waist.
Her hands find purchase on my shoulders. Her eyes, big and wide and so fucking blue, latch on to mine. I like the way her hands feel on me almost as much as I like the way my fingers dig into her soft curves. When she swallows, I itch to trace the delicate skin of her throat—with my fingers, with my lips.
Her lashes—which I would gamble are naturally a pale blonde that rivals her hair but are generally covered in a layer of brown mascara—flutter.
Then Meyer’s eyes slide to the right and her whole body tenses.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as tears well in her eyes .
I whip around, an arm still anchored to her waist. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn’t the angry red lettering splashed across the side of the inn. It looks like blood marring the white exterior, but it’s more feasible that it’s paint.
Still, that isn’t what makes the blood in my veins run cold. It’s what the message says that has me tightening my grasp on Meyer. For her sake…or maybe for mine.
You will regret this .