Chapter 8 Bearded Dragon
Bearded Dragon
West
Late afternoon heat. I miss the ice rink. My polo sticks to my back, and the memory of Jane’s hands on me in the shower earlier doesn’t help the heat situation. Focus, Prescott. Shower. Change. Survive cocktail hour.
I start texting Jane.
Me: Golf’s done. Scarlett's seething. Success.
Me: I'm making my way back for a quick shower, then cocktail hour at 6. My mother's latest candidate will be there. Apparently "very excited to meet me.”
Jane: How excited are we talking? Like "polite interest" or "already picked out china patterns"?
Me: Ah, the jokes. The latter. Help.
Jane: On it. What's her deal?
Me: Corporate lawyer. Art collector. My mother's exact clone in a younger body. Do your best.
Jane: Say no more. I'll bring my A-game.
I pocket my phone, already dreading whatever chaos Jane's about to unleash.
No, that’s not it. Fear it, yes. But I'm actually looking forward to it.
Which should probably concern me more than it does.
The early evening breeze is hitting my overheated skin like a benediction after three hours of Blake’s smug commentary and Scarlett’s simmering resentment.
The plan worked—Natalie showed up “unexpectedly” at the clubhouse, all sunshine and wedding-dress excitement, and Blake had no choice but to shower her with attention for thirty minutes. His attention snapped from Scarlett to his fiancée like someone flipped a switch. Textbook priority management.
Scarlett watched from the sidelines, her smile so brittle I thought it might shatter every time Blake touched Natalie’s arm or laughed at something she said.
Mission accomplished.
Now we just need Scarlett to crack.
Ilet myself in quietly. The main room is empty, but I hear Jane’s voice drifting from the bedroom. She’s on the phone.
Her tone is different—softer, warmer, laced with an affection I haven’t heard directed at anyone else since I met her.
Curiosity prickles. Who gets this version of Jane? The one that sounds… unfiltered with a trace of worry. Not her usual chaotic energy or fake-bright customer service voice.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’s a dick move. But something in her voice pins me to the spot just inside the doorway, hidden by the half-closed bedroom door.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her bare toes wiggle against the duvet. She looks young. Soft. Real.
"—I know, Gracie. I know." Her voice is softer than I've ever heard it. Strained. "No, I'm not stressed. I'm fine. The job's going well."
She picks at a loose thread on the duvet, wrapping it around her finger.
"Grace, stop. Seriously, stop worrying,” she’s saying into her phone, her free hand gesturing emphatically even though the person on the other end can’t see it. “I’m practically drowning in proof that Blake’s a cheating scumbag.”
A soft laugh escapes her.
“No, not literally drowning. Though the ocean is right there, so it’s a possibility. But focus! That shiny new stethoscope you keep sending me links to? Consider it wrapped.”
She listens, then laughs under her breath. The thread snaps. She drops it and starts pulling at a stubborn feather poking out of the pillow instead.
“Yes, that link. The shiny silver one you keep sending me like it’s subtle.”
The feather comes loose. She twirls it between her fingers.
“I know you’re ‘just looking.’ You’ve been just-looking at that stethoscope for six months, Grace.”
She leans back against the headboard, her tone shifting—gentler, steadier.
A smile creeps into her voice. “You’re going to be listening to hearts for the rest of your life. You might as well hear them properly. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
She's quiet for a moment, the feather stilling in her hand. When she speaks again, her voice drops.
“—no, Grace, listen to me. It’s handled. Okay? It’s handled.”
The feather starts spinning again, faster now. "Because I said it is. Don't worry about the payment portal. I told you, I've got it covered."
She closes her eyes. Her breaths turn shaky.
“Sweetie, stop. I know you’re stressed. I know it’s a lot. You’re not causing me any hardship. If you even think about deferring another semester to ‘help out,’ I will personally fly back to Boston right now and glue you to your anatomy textbook.”
I watch Jane start pulling another feather out of the pillow, her voice losing its playful edge.
“Listen to me. This is your dream. Nursing school. Helping people. Being brilliant at it. You’re not throwing that away because Mom left us a pile of bills and I sold my beat-up car. That one’s on me. If anything, I feel sorry for not managing my business’ float better.”
Her hand releases the pillow. She presses her palm flat against her thigh like she's trying to ground herself.
“Please just focus on your classes. On passing that phlebotomy practical. Let me handle the money. That’s my job to take care of you.”
Her voice cracks slightly on ‘job’.
“Look, it’s just money. It’s just… numbers on a screen. We’ve been through worse, right? We’ll survive this. In a few days, this job will be wrapped up tight. The payout will cover everything. We may even afford a small vacation for you when the semester ends. It will be all well.”
A watery laugh echoes from the phone, barely audible.
Jane echoes it, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Exactly. We’re Coopers. We’re scrappy.”
Jane closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. When she speaks again, her voice is thick. “I love you too, bug. More than anything. Now go be amazing. Text me later.”
She ends the call and just sits there for a moment, phone clutched in her lap, staring at the scattering of goose feathers on the bed, like they hold the answers to questions she’s too tired to ask.
The revelation hits me like a blindside check.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I've spent that on a watch. On a weekend in Monaco. On a bottle of scotch I never opened.
She'd mentioned it was for her sister's tuition on the first day we met, but hearing it like this—hearing the desperation, the guilt, the weight of it— It's not just tuition.
It's survival. Sold her car. Overdrawn bank account. "Not managing my business' float better."
She's drowning, and she's apologizing for it.
The sheer, terrifying weight of that responsibility… I've never known it. My family's money was always just there. A trust fund. A safety net I never had to think about.
Jane doesn't have a safety net. She is the safety net.
This job isn't a professional opportunity. It's a lifeline.
And if it goes wrong—if Blake catches her, if the bridesmaids don't pay, if I screw this up somehow—Grace loses nursing school. Jane loses everything.
The stakes I thought I understood suddenly quadruple.
I'd known she was desperate. I hadn't known it was this kind of desperate.
The kind where love and sacrifice are the same thing.
The noble, heartbreaking kind that makes my chest ache.
Then, she swipes quickly at her eyes before jumping off the bed.
And promptly scream when she saw me leaning against the doorframe.
“Sorry.” Not for the shock but for her situation. The word feels inadequate.
I saw her armor crack. Saw the raw, desperate love beneath it. Saw the weight she carries alone.
“Just got back. Golf was… productive.”
She forces a smile, already rebuilding the walls. “Scarlett blow a gasket?”
“She’s smoldering nicely. Blake looked like he’d rather be audited.”
I push off the doorframe, stepping closer. “You okay?”
I watch her move around the room, gathering clothes, avoiding my gaze. The practiced ease of her deflection is almost as telling as the phone call.
“Jane.”
“Me? Yeah. Peachy.” She waves a dismissive hand, but her eyes are still a little red-rimmed. “Just… sister stuff. Grace is stressing about finals. You know how it is.”
I do now.
Heard the sheer, grinding weight of responsibility.
A love so fierce it made her fly to a billionaire’s playground and try to seduce a shark like Blake Hartwell.
She’s not just a fixer. She's a dragon. Small, fierce, guarding her hoard.
“Sisters,” I agree, keeping my voice neutral. “Always stressful.” I don’t mention the tears. Don’t mention the money. “You ready for cocktail hour? Mom’s final candidate awaits.”
Jane visibly latches onto the distraction. “The corporate clone? Bring it on.” She squares her shoulders, the vulnerability tucked away behind a flash of determined mischief. “What’s the play? More puck bunny? Or should we escalate?”
“Your call. You’re the demolition expert.” I gesture towards the bathroom. “I need a quick rinse. Five minutes.”
“Take ten,” she says, already heading for her suitcase. “I need to accessorize. Sabotage requires the right props.”
By the time I emerge from the shower, towel slung low on my hips, Jane is standing in front of the full-length mirror, critically examining herself.
She’s swapped her sundress for a sleek, dark green wrap dress that hugs her curves in a way that should be illegal. Her hair is down and artfully tousled. She’s applying lipstick—a deep, bold red.
She catches my reflection in the mirror. “What? Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “It’s… perfect.”
It’s a weapon. That dress. That mouth.
She looks like trouble wrapped in silk, and I want every second of the unwrapping.
She turns, a slow, deliberate pivot. “Good. Because I’m going for ‘devastatingly competent femme fatale who might also be secretly unhinged’.” She smacks her lips together. “The lipstick is key. Makes statements pop.”
“What kind of statement are we making tonight?”
“Oh, you’ll see.” Her eyes sparkle with chaotic promise. “Just follow my lead, Prescott. And try not to look too horrified.”
Getting ready together feels dangerously domestic.
Jane critiques my shirt choice.
“Too safe. You look like you’re going to a board meeting, not dodging matrimony.”
She also insists I leave the top two buttons undone.
She steals my cologne, spritzing a cloud and walking through it, the scent of sandalwood and citrus clinging to her skin.