A Gentleman in the Street (15 page)

“Like who?”

“Like my mother.”

The sharp inhale from behind her was her only response.

It was easier to speak when she wasn’t staring at him. “That’s how you’ve always looked at me. Judging me. Like I’m some weak, worthless person. An intrusion.”

“I never thought you were worthless, or weak.” His quiet voice carried so much conviction, she almost believed him. “I’m sorry I treated you the way your mother did. She wasn’t right to do that.”

The blunt criticism of Mei was unexpected but not unwelcome. Since the woman had died, she had listened to countless stories of Mei’s grace and wisdom and love, qualities she had never shown her only daughter.

It was sick she needed someone to corroborate the dead’s unkindness, but she’d long since been accustomed to being sick.
Tell me my mother was in the wrong. Tell me I’m worthy of all the things she didn’t give me.

“You should have taken me up on my offer,” she murmured now, half to herself.

His response was immediate. “Yes.”

She set her teeth, as if that might keep the plaintive words lodged there. No luck. “Why didn’t you?”

A long beat. A pressure was exerted at the top of her chair and it turned around. He dropped to his knees so his face was on level with hers, his familiar serious expression almost grave, his skin drawn tight, as if he had lost weight…or was grieving. “I don’t know. I was…scared.” The word was low, like he didn’t enjoy admitting it.

Appropriate, because she hated hearing it. So scary, she was. So terrifying to all the poor little men. When she’d been young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, she’d confessed to a girlfriend that she didn’t understand why men found her difficult to be around. “They’re just intimidated by you,” her friend had consoled.

Like that was supposed to make things better?

She’d decided not long after that men needed to either nut the fuck up or leave her be. Her hand clenched tight over the arms of her chair. “Of me,” she spat, with disdain.

“No.”

Liar. Her nostrils flared. “Then what?”

“Of me,” he finally said
.

She studied him, struck by the words. They were in line with the determination she had come to yesterday, but still confusing. What kind of hang-ups could this guy possibly have that made him so incapable of indulging his desires?

“Why?” When it looked like he wasn’t going to respond, she pushed him. “I have a right to know.”

“You aren’t the only one,” he whispered, his voice barely a sound, “whose parents saddled them with baggage.”

Her brow furrowed. Her mother had despised her and her father only wanted her when he could pimp her out to television viewers. What problems could Jacob have had with his parents?

Granted, she didn’t know much about his earlier years. His mother had died when he was young, his brothers barely babies. She hadn’t interacted with Harvey Campbell much in the two years she had known him before his death, but he had seemed like a kind, friendly, mild-mannered physician. “I don’t understand.”

His lips tightened. “Everyone marveled when your mother married my dad after a month. No one who knew my dad was surprised.” His laugh was without humor. “That was entirely within character for him, throwing everything aside to run off and do something new and exciting. Get-rich-quick schemes, women, business—there was nothing my father liked more than the thrill of risk.”

Jacob wasn’t a verbose man, but as he spoke now, his words came faster, as if he had to get them out before the spigot shut off. “Once when the boys were about three and four—I must have been twelve, maybe—he straight up did not come home for three days.” Jacob’s lips twisted. “I was scared, but more scared of social services, so I didn’t ask for help or call anyone. I just kept the kids in our nice, tidy, middle-class house, and fed them Cheetos and Doritos when we ran out of cereal.”

“Where was he?”

“Vegas,” he responded succinctly. “He went with a colleague after work and got on a hot streak. He didn’t mean to be gone so long. He hadn’t even thought to tell me he was going. Or wondered if he should leave a bunch of kids on their own at all.

“When my mom was alive, I think she managed to keep him balanced. Or maybe I was just too young to notice it then because she picked up the parenting slack.”

One of the thousands of pieces making up Jacob slid into place, everything around it aligning. “So after she was gone, you picked up the parenting slack.”

He looked down and studied his hands. Turned them over, as if all of the secrets of the universe could be found there. “For a long time…yes. As the boys grew older, became more self-sufficient, I thought maybe I could start to pull away. Do what I want.”

She waited, but he fell silent, lost in past memories. “And then Kati came along,” she said softly.

He started. “I realized I couldn’t be him. I couldn’t just do whatever I wanted. I couldn’t be distracted.” A corner of his lips kicked up. Not quite a smile, but a rueful acknowledgment. “That day, at the wedding, you walked up to me, and do you know what my first reaction was?”

She rarely hung on to men’s words, but she was practically on the edge of her seat with this sincere conversation. Their tones were hushed, though they were guaranteed privacy. “What?”

“I was ready to run out of there with you.” He shook his head, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. Her fingers itched to push it aside. “My father was off in his own little world of new love, and I knew he’d once again forgotten he had kids. But I didn’t have that luxury. They needed one stable parent.”

“But you’re not their parent,” she pointed out.

Something dark moved in his eyes.

“Jacob,” she prompted.

He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not. I’ve been informed my sense of responsibility is maybe overdeveloped. I’m…working on that.”

He placed his hand on hers and regarded her steadily. She cocked her head, realizing this was the first time the two of them had gone more than five minutes in each other’s company without resorting to taunts, insults, sex, or defensiveness. They were merely conversing. Like adults.

It was strange. But…nice.

“I’ve gone my whole life trying not to be like my dad. He was addicted to everything, and I knew within the first few minutes of meeting you that I could be addicted to you.” He paused. “But I made that your problem. It was mine, and should have stayed mine.” He stretched his hand out and grabbed something from her desk. A second later, the rose was in front of her. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Slowly, she extended her hand and grasped the rose. She tightened her hand around the stem, the nubs of the stripped thorns digging into her palm. “I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. You didn’t hurt my feelings.”

“I know,” his reply was infinitely gentle.

“I was angry, not hurt,” she lied.

He dipped his head. “I’m sorry.”

He was literally on his knees. The power was in her hands. She could destroy him quickly and send him on his way.

She leaned her head back and thought of the trouble he had gone through to apologize to her, without belittling her feelings or making her out to be the villain. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, or the novelty of such a simple, uncomplicated apology, she could practically envision the tenterhooks of rage releasing their grip on her heart. The rage, but not the bitterness.

“What do you want from me? My forgiveness? Absolution? Because you’re talking about years of being made to feel like…nothing.” Only Jacob and her mother had had the power to make her feel like shit. To make her care what they thought of her.

He flinched. “I want a chance to earn your forgiveness. Make it up to you.”

“With flowers and food?”

“It’s a start.” He came to his feet and turned to the desk, opening the closest container. The scent of cashews and chicken wafted out to her, making her stomach grumble.

“Why do you care?” she asked, confused. “We could easily never see each other again.”

He opened another container. “Because I don’t like that option,” he said gruffly.

Akira’s hair was pulled back today, the black silk tucked neatly in a low bun. On another woman, perhaps the style would only convey professionalism, but the low hum of energy strumming beneath her surface made that an impossibility.

He wanted Akira. Still, always.

Her forgiveness, yes. His words weren’t a farce, a lie meant to win points.

But he couldn’t help the urge to kiss those full lips, bury himself inside her softness. Again, not her problem. It was his struggle to manage.

He inhaled, suddenly certain his next words would decide the fate of all their future interactions. He needed to make it good, so he ignored his aching dick, cleared his throat, and extended his hand.

“My name’s Jacob Campbell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Akira’s fine lashes fluttered, and for a painful moment, he wondered if she would leave his hand hanging in midair. But no, she accepted it, her smaller palm fitting in his as if it had been made to rest there. “Akira Mori.”

Something animalistic inside him stretched toward her rough voice. He wanted it to curl around him, keep him calm. For the first time ever, he allowed the pleasure he experienced from her touch to rush over him. It was so much better when he wasn’t filtering it through a haze of shame and self-denial.

“Akira,” he repeated, his voice gone husky. The pulse at the base of her throat increased.

She studied him for so long, a trickle of sweat gathered at his hairline. She was judging him, weighing his words. Her fingers toyed with the rose he had clipped from his small courtyard garden to deliver his message. The flower had practically screamed Akira’s name, it was so lush and fragrant.

She followed his gaze. “I like this rose.”

“I’ll bring you more.” Too hasty, that promise. He would promise her everything, a garden of flowers.

Danger, danger.

He slammed his internal warning system into submission. No more, damn it. He was a grown man, and he needed to start acting like it.

“Honestly,” she finally said. “Once someone goes on my shitlist, they usually stay there forever.”

As he’d said, not an option. He glanced away, his brain scrambling. His gaze caught on the puzzle box he had delivered last week. It sat on the corner of her desk.

He cocked his head in the direction of the box. “May I?”

Confusion knit her brows together, but she nodded.

He picked up the box and weighed it in his hand. “I did some research on these after I returned this to you. It’s like an old-fashioned lockbox, right?” He touched a panel. It moved slightly. Fascinated, he slid it back and forth. “You have to manipulate those panels in a certain order, each one unlocking the next. Make one wrong move, and the box remains closed.” He’d watched a video on YouTube of a man taking one apart.

“Yeah.”

“You said you don’t know what’s inside.”

“No.”

He glanced up. “Do you want to know?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“How many moves?”

She shifted. “Two hundred and twenty-six, for this particular box.”

“Have you tried to figure it out?”

Akira shook her head, a strand of her hair coming loose to rest against her cheek, a length of blue black against the cool paleness. “I’m the most impatient person in the world. I’d be tempted to smash it.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s true.” Impatience wouldn’t have made her as successful as she was.

“Trust me. I do, however, have some contacts out trying to see if we can track down someone who can open it. Maybe the original manufacturer.”

Jacob frowned. So some stranger somewhere would open the box for her? That didn’t seem right. Possibly because he could still vividly recall what Akira had looked like, collapsed on her rug, holding the thing to her chest like it was the most precious item in the world.

“Maybe…” He cleared his throat, his idea taking shape. “Maybe I could open it for you.”

She scoffed. “You’ve never even seen a box like this.”

“No.” He tested a few of the panels, the wood stiff and unyielding at first, finally relaxing enough for him to move. “But I like puzzles. And I am patient.”

“You think you can open my box?”

He glanced up, wondering if there was a sly innuendo in her words, but her expression was impassive. “I can try.”

“In exchange for what?” She gave a wry smile at the face he made. “I know negotiations when I hear them.”

He thought for a moment. “I’m not stupid. You’re skeptical of me. Give me two weeks. If I can’t open the box in that time, and if you still feel there’s no value in our truce at the end of the two weeks, then we go our separate ways.”

“The box stays with me. I’m not handing it over to you.”

Even better. Jacob had figured the box would buy him at least one more chance to see her, maybe earn him some goodwill if he could crack it.

But this…oh man. Had she realized the gift she’d inadvertently given him?

Normally, he would be polite and circumspect, but screw that. Time to seize the opportunity. “I’ll come to you.”

Her lips pursed. He could practically see her brain racing. “I’m busy and I work late.”

“I’m a night owl,” he said easily, prepared to match every argument she launched. He looked around the office, improvising as he went along. “I can come here. Bring dinner. I wouldn’t disturb your work.”

“What if you do open the box?”

“You forgive me.” He shrugged. “That’s all I want.”

“All?”

He reconsidered the situation. Decided to keep his options open. “No. You stay open to the possibility of us becoming…friends.”

That did not seem to impress her. “I have friends.”

“You don’t have me.”

She nodded slowly. “True.”

“And,” he added, “you buy me dinner.”

“Like a date?”

A date between him and Akira. The idea should be laughable. It shouldn’t make him want to smile wolfishly at the prospect. He controlled his reaction. “Yes.”

She pondered that. “I don’t do dates.”

The words that fell from his lips were so uncharacteristically arrogant, it was as if someone else were speaking them. “You will.”