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“Sorry. I should have said something.”
“What is he doing here? Are you going somewhere with him? Did he change his mind about the date?” Her voice rises with each question.
I flick her shoulder. “Shh! Keep it down. He just got here—” I check the time on my phone. “Eleven minutes ago. There’s an estate sale. He secured early access, so we’re going this morning. I’ll be at Spark House by one at the latest. And everything is pretty much ready for the event tonight. I can make phone calls and answer any last emails on the way to the estate sale. Is that okay?” I bite the inside of my lip. I don’t usually dump work on Harley since she and I are often picking up the slack for Avery these days.
She waves me off. “It’s fine. Better than fine, actually. Have fun on your estate sale shopping date.”
“It’s not a date. It’s a meeting with an estate sale thrown in.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” She smiles brightly and brushes past me. “Enjoy your not-date.”
I find Jackson sitting right where I left him, on the living room couch. He’s flipping one of my origami stars between his fingers.
“All set! Sorry to keep you waiting.” I adjust the strap of my purse.
His gaze lifts, and I feel it sweep over me like a lover’s caress.
This is business, not a date.
“No apology necessary, London, considering I just highjacked your entire morning.” He pushes to a stand. “Shall we?”
I’m not prepared for the experience of being willingly trapped inside an elevator with Jackson. Everywhere I look, there he is, reflected back at me in the mirrored glass surrounding us. It’s one thing to be near him, but this is very, very different. Even standing on the opposite side of the elevator feels too close. The scent of his cologne is stronger and more potent in here. I use the mirrored walls to surreptitiously check him out.
I swallow repeatedly and grip the handrail, searching for something banal to discuss as we descend to the lobby. I’ve never understood why people have felt the urge to get it on in an elevator. Until now. Especially with all the mirrors, which would give me an amazing view of Jackson from all sides, if I were to say, climb him like a tree.
Stop it, London. I have no idea how I’m going to manage in a car with him for the half-hour drive to Woodland Park.
“Everything okay?” Jackson tips his head the tiniest bit and his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip.
“Oh yeah. Everything’s fine.” I’m holding the handrail so tightly, my knuckles are turning white. “This was just a bit of a surprise. Especially after last time.” I bite my tongue to prevent more idiotic things from leaving my mouth.
“How do you mean?” I can practically feel his eyes on me as he slips his phone back in his pocket.
I force myself to meet his gaze. In a normal setting, under normal circumstances, this would be fine.
I flail a hand between us, and because we’re in a small elevator, I almost touch him. “Oh, you know, because I—” The elevator doors slide open, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to finish that statement.
I bolt from the elevator toward the front entrance and burst out onto the street, practically gulping down fresh air like I’ve been holding my breath under water for two minutes. Which incidentally is about four times as long as I can reasonably hold my breath.
I at least have the wherewithal to hold the door open for Jackson.
I plaster on a smile and glance beyond him to my reflection in the mirrored glass, toning it down so it looks less anxiety-stricken and closer to normal. “Should we stop and grab coffees for the trip?” I point to the café next to my building. “They have the best pastries.”
“Sure, that’s a great idea.” An amused smile plays on his luscious lips.
Between my soaring body temperature and the inappropriate tingles below the waist, and how difficult I’m finding it not to stare, this morning is going to present a challenge in personal restraint.
“Do you have any suggestions, London?” Jackson asks when we approach the cashier and the case full of pastries.
“The chocolate croissants are to die for and the cinnamon buns are the best in the universe. They also have a cinnamon latte that is heaven in your mouth,” I tell him.
“Is that what you’re having, then?”
“Yes, please.”
He turns to the young woman standing behind the counter. “I have it on good authority that the cinnamon latte and the cinnamon buns are to die for. Would that be accurate?”
She blinks a few times and reaches up to touch her hairnet. “They are to die for. We usually run out of both by ten in the morning.”
