Kristen Ashley - The Will

He stopped holding my eyes and started staring at me. There was a nuance of difference but I could sense that difference. Most definitely.

“And,” I sallied forth when he made no reply, “the blonde could use a keratin treatment. Her hair is remarkable but she’d find it much more manageable on a day to day basis and with her, well…moves, I believe she’d also find it quite beneficial with her…um, work.”

He again said nothing, simply kept staring at me.

I, for some unhinged reason, kept chattering.

“It was well-chosen, the platform pumps for your waitresses. Platforms elongate the legs beautifully but they’re also very comfortable. Further, they’re attractive.”

When I finished this inane statement, he burst out laughing, the deep richness of it ringing through the cool night air.

I decided again to press my lips together as this would stop me from speaking.

When he’d stopped laughing but was still smiling, he caught my eyes again and whispered, “Lydie was right. Adorable.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothin’, babe,” he murmured but his voice was stronger when he said, “You got something to say?”

Well, here it was. I could delay no more and not only couldn’t I, I shouldn’t as I was making a fool of myself.

“This morning I behaved badly—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted me, his voice gentle. “You mentioned that shit on the phone, Josie. Heard it. Got it. We can move on from that.”

That was very kind.

I nodded while taking in a deep breath.

Then I said, “I’d like for you to come to Lavender House for dinner tomorrow night.”

His head tipped to the side and he asked, “Yeah?”

“Yes, I think…” I hesitated then admitted, “Actually, I don’t know what I think except for the fact that you’re correct. Gran clearly very much wanted us to get to know each other and, well…we should do that.”

“Yeah,” he said again and it was gentle again. “We should.”

Now was the hard part.

“I, well…I’m just uncertain how she wanted us to get to know each other and we should probably discuss that. But I…well, that is to say I believe—”

“Babe,” he yet again interrupted and it was still gentle, but this time more so, “This is not that. You’re pretty, really fuckin’ pretty, and you got a lot goin’ on and all of it’s real good. But you’re not my thing.”

I was confused.

“Your thing?”

“My type,” he explained. “I get off on big hair and big…” he hesitated, his lips again quirking before he continued, “other stuff and don’t mind my women showin’ skin. You’re a seriously good thing. You’re just not my thing.”

I understood what he meant and three seconds ago, if I was told I’d be given this knowledge, I would have guessed that I would find it a relief.

Having it, I didn’t feel relief. I felt a number of things but none of those things were relief. They were far from it. They included my brain again feeling fevered and my skin again prickling, all over, like jolts of electricity were dancing across the entirety of it. I wanted to claw at it, rip it off and this made all of it worse because I didn’t know why.

To hide this reaction, I turned my head away and looked down at the pavement at my side.

When I did, I felt him move, felt his body come close to mine and heard his voice whisper, “Shit, babe.” A pause then, “Fuckin’ shit.”

After he said that, I felt his big, warm hand curl at the side of my neck and I looked up at him.

When I did, he said softly, “I didn’t think I’d be your thing either.”

I told the truth. “You’re not.” After I did that, I lied (or it felt like I lied, but I actually didn’t know what I was thinking), “I think you’ve mistaken my reaction to your pronouncement.”

His lips yet again quirked and his fingers at my neck squeezed and he asked, “And what’s your reaction to my pronouncement?”

“I don’t understand what Gran wanted for you and me.”

“Maybe she wanted us to be friends?” he inquired, but even doing it, it was an answer. “Maybe she wanted to know you got someone who cares, who’ll look out for you, listen to you, take your back when you need it and give a shit not just when you need it but all the time?”

There it was.

The answer to my questions.

But I still didn’t understand.

“Yes,” I whispered. “She’d want that for me.” My eyes strayed to his shoulder and I murmured, “But that makes no sense. She knows I have Henry.”

“A boss is a boss,” he declared, giving me a hint of what Gran had shared with him and that was that he knew precisely who Henry was. I looked back to him when he kept talking. “Always, Josie. He can give a shit but bottom line, it comes down to it, whatever that it might be or even if it never happens, he’s just a boss.”

I, of course, knew Henry was my employer. There were times when knowing this was all he’d ever really be was painful.

But after two decades and then some together, that had grown.

Hadn’t it?

“Henry is—” I started.

“Not here,” he interrupted me to say. “He gave a shit, Josie, no way in fuck, don’t give a shit what excuses you might have for the guy, would he be anywhere but sittin’ at your side while you cried behind your shades, starin’ at your grandmother’s casket.”

Well, there was the answer to that.

He saw me crying at the funeral.

Jake wasn’t done.

“And, he was here, no way you’d have dinner alone last night, open to some fuckwad to make a pass and upset you. That’s the bottom line, babe. Think about it.”

I stared into his eyes and thought about it.

Henry wanted to come, declared he was going to come, but I told him that he had to do the shoot. He was contracted. It was set up. And a location shoot for a magazine wasn’t something you walked away from. A number of people were involved and quite a bit of money.

Further, Henry never did things like that. Even when he had the flu that one time when we were in Alaska, shooting a bathing suit spread in the snow, he’d zipped up his parka and done the shoot. He had a reputation for not only his immense talent but his dependability, his easy-going ways and his bent toward no muss, no fuss.

But Jake was correct. The bottom line was, when I told him not to come with me and do the job, he’d agreed.

“Josie,” Jake called and I focused on him again. When I did, his fingers gave me another squeeze and he asked, “You have dinner tonight?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Honey, you gotta eat.”

It took me a moment to respond. This was because four people in my life called me honey. My father, when he was in a good mood or he’d done something horrible and was trying to make amends. Gran. Henry.

And now Jake.

And Jake’s, like Gran’s and Henry’s, felt nice.

I let myself feel that before I assured him, “I went to the grocery store today. I’ll have some fruit and cheese when I get home.”

“Right. And tomorrow night”—he grinned—“you promise you aren’t gonna disappear, I’ll show. But I gotta say, Ethan’s gonna be with me. Not givin’ Amber another hour to do fucked up shit with her moron of a boyfriend and not givin’ her another wad of cake to blow on mascara.”

This was not good news.

Not that he’d agreed to come. I was actually looking forward to that in a strange way I didn’t quite comprehend.

No. Because I didn’t like children. I found them loud and attention-seeking. They interrupted and, these days, parents didn’t admonish them for this rudeness. They broke things. They spilled things. They whined. They refused to eat food they hadn’t even tried, declaring erroneously they didn’t like it when they could have no idea if they did or didn’t.

And when they ate, they often did it with their mouths open, which was repulsive.

Obviously, I shared none of this with Jake Spear.

“Is there anything he, or you, don’t like to eat?” I asked instead.

“Ethan helped Lydie cook a bunch a’ shit in that kitchen. She taught him to dig his food however that comes. I already learned that so whatever you make, we’ll eat.”

I highly doubted that, at least about Ethan.

I didn’t share that either.

“All right,” I replied.

“We’ll be there at six.”

Six.

Very early.

Wonderful.

Well, I’d have to work with that seeing as his son probably had to be at school early the next day or do homework or take care of the class gerbil or something so they couldn’t be out late.

“Fine,” I agreed.

“Okay,” he murmured, again grinning.

Then he said nothing.

I didn’t either.

When this stretched for some time, and the fact that his warm hand was still wrapped around my neck became uncomfortable mostly because it didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest, I broke our silence.

“Are we done?”

“Not by a long shot,” he answered. I drew in a deep breath at his reply and he finished, “But we are for now.”

“Well then…goodnight, Jake.”

“Right,” he muttered and I watched, my eyes widening in surprise as he leaned in and whispered against the skin of my forehead, “’Night, Josie.”

I felt his lips brush there and that was also not uncomfortable. Not in the slightest. In fact, it felt so not uncomfortable as to make my skin again prickle but this time in a different way.

He pulled back, gave me a squeeze at the neck and a smile before he slid away.

I watched him move for a second before I forced myself to stop watching him move.

I did this by getting in my car, starting it up and not looking back as I drove away.

The bell rang at six-oh-four the next evening and I moved quickly to the front door, feeling the strange anticipation I’d been experiencing all day heightening significantly to the point I was finding it difficult to breathe.

I stopped at the carved, polished wood door and my mind for some reason took flight.

And where it landed was that I decided I should polish the door, as I had many times at Gran’s behest and as I’d seen her do many times as well.

I then turned my attention to my attire.

I’d gone for casual seeing as it was a home-cooked family dinner. Jeans that were expertly faded and again bootcut. Nude, patent leather platform pumps with peekaboo toes. And a blush colored cashmere sweater with a high neckline that was a slash from shoulder to shoulder. It had deep batwings but the wings ended just below my elbows and the knit was tight along my forearms.

Subtle makeup that was a hint dewy.

And my hair was pulled back in soft twists on either side that led to a plethora of slightly teased, full curls I’d arranged in a supremely feminine chignon at the back of my head.

The hairstyle was more suited to an evening gown but I liked its complex elegance juxtaposed with my casual garments, so I’d gone with it.

I realized I was thinking about my clothes while Jake and his son were standing outside waiting for me to open the door. Therefore, I stopped thinking about my clothes and opened the door.

When I did, I froze solid.

This was not because Jake Spear was standing there exuding his demanding masculinity wearing a dark blue turtleneck, faded jeans and brown boots (or, not only because of that).

This was also not because his young son was standing in front of him wearing a sweatshirt that declared his devotion to some sports team, his black hair was in disarray and he was staring up at me for some strange reason with his mouth wide open.

No, it was because, standing removed at her father’s side, was Jake Spear’s daughter wearing a surly expression, way too much makeup, having her hair teased out in a style that even Jake’s exotic dancers eschewed and sporting a short knit skirt that I knew, when she moved, would ride up in ways that would be quite alarming.

She was not supposed to be there.

I could, maybe, handle one child. But a child and a surly teenaged girl who dressed like her heart’s desire for a future profession was to dance at her father’s club?

No.

“Yo, babe,” Jake greeted and my eyes shot to him. “Woulda called but seein’ as Amber was grounded about two minutes before we left the house, it wouldn’t have helped anyway. So, as you can see, Amber’s here. If you don’t have enough food for her, I’ll order a pizza or something.”