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The high titter of the woman’s laugh sends a chill down my spine, making me fight to avoid cringing in her presence. Fortunately, I have my back to her as I root around in the fridge, but I can feel Jackson’s eyes on me. When I turn, his eyes lock on mine with just as much heat as they contained earlier, but now I know the fire is being fed by the woman to my right.
“I’m Mallory. Afriendof your dad’s.” The way she emphasizes “friend” is almost like she’s winking, making it clear that they are anything but friends. Or rather,everythingthat friends never are.
“We should go.” The deep rasp of Jackson’s voice leaves no room for arguing.
“Such a bore.” The tinkle of Mallory’s voice reminds me of urine hitting the toilet bowl, and that thought steels me enough to look up just as Jackson’s hand goes to the small of her back as he ushers her toward the door.
That tiny gesture I allowed myself to believe he reserved just for me…
I push down the urge to puke all over Mallory’s shimmery dress.
“Fi, whatever Ruby says goes,” Jackson says.
“Bye, Daddy.” Fiona jumps up and goes over to the art table, disinterested in anything else happening around her. Wish I could say the same.
“We won’t be out late,” Jackson says. I nod without looking at him.
When the door closes, I feel an equal-sized door in my heart slam shut. Joy, optimism, frivolous hope—they’re all gone. For good.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Jax
I can’t expel the image from my head of Ruby standing in my kitchen and looking gutted at the sight of Mallory flouncing through my house like she owns the place.
For the past month, I’ve done a pretty good job of convincing myself that any brief moments of connection between Ruby and me were figments of my imagination. Wishful thinking that fueled too many sessions of jerking off in the shower after waking to blindingly hot sex dreams involving Ruby. Cold showers each night as soon as she left my house. I’m the cleanest guy in three fucking counties.
Now, I’m toying with the idea that at least a few of those appreciative glances I thought I imagined may have been real. It’s enough to have me completely distracted from everything that’s happening around me tonight, most notably Mallory, who hasn’t left my side and keeps rubbing herself against me at every turn.
“Babe, can you grab me another glass of prosecco while I run to the ladies’ room?” she purrs in my ear while running a finger down my arm and squeezing my hand at the bottom. I wrest my hand from hers and look around to see if anyone noticed.
Not like anyone here is likely to make a big deal about Mallory and me together because she’s stoked rumors about us ever since Annabelle left. And that one night. It’s old news, even though it’s not actually news.
Still, the thought of Ruby hearing someone tell tales out of school about me makes me acutely uncomfortable.
“Babe?” she asks again, making me shudder at the endearment. Only Mallory Rutherford would come to an event at a California winery and ask for a drink from Italy. We have a renowned sparkling cava, and I plan to bring her a glass of that. See if she knows the difference.
“Sure.” The extent of our conversation for the past hour has been her oblivious chattering and my one-word answers. It doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s stuck close by my side and made sure to flip her hair so it cascades over one shoulder each time a photographer takes a photo of us together. It’s normal industry insider stuff, photos that won’t be seen outside of the glossy Napa magazines that adorn hotel room tables. At least, that’s how it was until my sister invited theTimeshere to take photos for their society page.
Now, each time the shutter clicks, I feel the nauseous tick of my blood pressure rising. Each photo with Mallory makes me think about Ruby, wondering what she and Fiona are up to, remembering how upset she looked when Mallory showed up at my house.
All I want is to go home and see if I’m right about what I’m imagining. If there’s a chance she’s thinking of me the way I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, I need to know.
And yet, I’m like a handcuffed prisoner tonight, miles from freedom.
I’ve never been attracted to Mallory’s brand of beauty—overly perfumed, hair and makeup done by a professional, every decision about who she talks to and how she walks through a room premeditated. She’s good at playing her role, and she’ll probably get what she wants because she knows how to play the game.
But I have no fucking interest in playing.
I’m laser focused on the attributes of only one woman. Sassy and smart, unafraid of bugs, able to wrangle my daughter and enchant her in the same moment. Can’t stop thinking about Ruby, how she’d look in a silk slip of a dress with a slit halfway up her gorgeous thigh. She’s everything I’ve never experienced in a woman.
Only kissed her in my dreams, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gone for her.
I have to rearrange my dick in my pants, so I don’t advertise my interest to every person in the room.
Various people intercept me as I make my way to the bar, which is packed three deep, even though waiters move through the crowd with glasses of wine and appetizers, so there’s little need to line up for a drink.
“I was hoping you’d give the keynote again this year.” Ken Dupont slaps me on the back and clasps my hand in his meaty paw. The mountain of a man inherited a swath of property on the north end of Napa from a relative, and he’s a regular attendee at these events. He likes to know the industry scoop, though I’d lay good money on him never selling an acre of his land, even though he talks a good game.
