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I said, “No, no, join us, Justine.”
She said, “See ya,” shoved the tablet into my hand, then went back through the open sliding doors. I called out, “Justine. Wait,” but she didn’t and she was moving fast.
I shot a glance at Jinx, said, “I’ll be right back.” Then I went after Justine, who swept through the house and out the front door like a gust of wind through my heart.
But when she stopped at the gatepost to punch in her code, I caught up with her.
“Sweetheart, Jinx is just a friend. Nothing is going on. Come back. Have a drink.”
“No, thanks, Jack. I only came by to drop off your thing, the iPad. And I’ve done it.”
“Justine, honestly,” I said, but by then she had ducked into her car. The door slammed shut, the engine started, the headlights went on, and she expertly navigated the tricky backing-up maneuver out of my driveway and onto the highway.
I found Jinx out on the deck, dressed again.
She stepped into her espadrilles, and I said what was already abundantly clear. “Justine had to leave.”
“I have to go too, Jack. A little nagging headache is turning into a big nagging headache.”
“Frozen daiquiris can give you brain freeze…”
She laughed. “Good one, Jack.”
“Well, I’m sorry about the awkward moment. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s okay, Jack. Another time.”
I walked Jinx out to her car. We exchanged cheek kisses. I waved. She tootled her horn and got onto PCH unscathed.
I felt embarrassed, deflated, and headaches must have been going around, because I had one too. I went inside and nuked frozen Salisbury steak with peas.
Then I ate dinner alone in front of the TV.
Chapter 55
JUSTINE TOOK A run with Rocky, even going an extra lap along the grassy median on Burton. But the three-mile jog didn’t calm her down, not at all. She was mad at Jack, hurt by Jack, and freaking furious at herself.
At home again, Justine let Rocky into the fenced-in backyard, went to her laundry room and stripped off her clothes, threw them into the washer.
She pictured Jinx Poole: the hair, the body, the ads for her constellation of hotels with their five-diamond ratings. She could easily see Jinx and Jack together, an excruciating image that made total sense. Unlike the dumb arrangement she’d worked out with Jack so that she could be with him and still keep her options open for her own protection.
And you know what? He had every right to do the same.
She was an idiot. Correction: she was an idiot with a broken heart.
Justine went to her bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror behind the door. She sucked her stomach in, turned to each side, then got into the shower and sat on the floor. She pulled up her knees, laid her head down on her crossed arms, and let the dual pulsating showerheads beat a three-quarter time on her body.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with them?
She thought about meeting Jack five years before.
Back then, she’d been working in a mental hospital three days a week and saw private patients on the other two days in a high-rise in Santa Monica.
One day, going to work at her private practice, she got into the elevator, and Jack got in right after her. She pushed the button for her floor, shot a sideways glance at this gorgeous, confident sandy-blond-haired man. Then she watched him lose his cool when he rode with her to the tenth floor before realizing he hadn’t pressed his floor number and completely missed his stop.
Both of them had laughed.
The next time she saw Jack, it was in the same elevator. He told her his name and asked her to dinner. Justine could do a quick read on anyone, a survival mechanism in her line of work. She didn’t get a whiff of anything crazy off Jack Morgan.
