Damaged In-Law (16 page)

But Jack doesn
’
t let go of my hand. I
look back at him in surprise as he holds me anchored in place with one foot out
the door.

“Good,” he looks up at me from the backseat, “Because I intend
to pick up right where we
’
ve left off tonight.”

“Oh. OK. Sounds good,” I stammer, mesmerized by his intense
gaze, “But aren
’
t you coming inside?”

“I have to take care of a few things first,” he replies
vaguely, “But you go and get ready. I
’
ll see you in a
couple of hours.”

He draws my hand to his lips and plants a searing kiss
there. I stand there speechless as his eyes linger on mine. Gently, he releases
my fingers and slides back into the car, signaling for the driver to take off.
I stand staring after him from the curb, the place where his lips touched my
skin tingling hotly.

Of all the many,
many
kisses we
’
ve shared since I joined this movie, this one has me the most
worked up. Because that quick, innocent peck wasn
’
t part
of a script. That was
real
. What else might we be sharing for real later
tonight?

I race upstairs to start getting ready. I might not know
what tonight has in store for me and Jack, but I know I want to look damn good
for
whatever
lies ahead.

Chapter Thirteen

Three hours later, I must have tried on every single outfit
in my outrageous walk-in closet. I stand before the vanity mirror, scrutinizing
my appearance. Dressing for a mystery date is no easy task. Without any idea as
to where Jack might be taking me tonight, I
’
m trying to
nail the perfect, sexy, all-purpose outfit. Something that toes the line
between casual and formal, hip and classy. And I think I
’
ve
finally
nailed it.

My blonde locks are piled into a loose up-do, my face done
up with classic cat
’
s eye makeup and a nude lip. I
’
m rocking a tight red crop top and a high-waisted black leather
skirt that fans out from my body. A pair of vintage black peep-toe pumps finish
off the look, though I
’
ve got a pair of flats stashing in
my studded clutch just in case. All told, I
’
m pretty
content with my ensemble. I
’
d better be, too, because Jack
will be over any minute to pick me up.

Since that intense moment in the car a few hours ago, my
mind has been reeling with the possibilities tonight might hold in store.
Despite the fact that we
’
ve known each other for our
entire lives and have enough charged sexual tension between us to power New
York City for a year, we
’
ve never been on a proper date.
The timing has never once been right between us. But now, at last, maybe that
could change. Maybe it
’
s
finally
time for us.

Unbidden, a memory of Avery comes sweeping into my mind
’
s eye. The two of us are sitting in the car we shared in high
school, the afternoon she found out she
’
d be playing
Juliet to Jack
’
s Romeo.

“You should tell him how you feel
,” she told me that
day, gazing out the window as we soared through our hometown.

“I could never do that
,” I replied. “
He
’
d never be interested in me that way.”

“Huh
,” She said, “
That
’
s
weird. I never realized before that you
’
re totally,
completely blind. You think I would have noticed a thing like that.”

“It
’
s not gonna happen. End
of story,”
I insisted.

“We
’
ll see,”
She smiled
in reply. “
We
’
ll see.”

“I guess we
will
see, after all,” I whisper to my
reflection, so close to Avery
’
s these days.

A hard knot rises in my throat as I think of how excited my
sister would have been, knowing that Jack and I might finally be making a go of
it. She only ever wanted us to be happy, and somehow she was convinced that
what we needed to be happy was each other. Maybe she could see something back
then that we couldn
’
t. I wish I could ask for her guidance
now. I
’
ll just have to rest easy knowing that she
’
s cheering us on from afar. From wherever she is now.

“Wish me luck, Ave,” I sigh, blinking away my tears before
they can run over and ruin my careful makeup. “I might need it.”

And right on cue, there it is—a knock at the door.

The swarm of butterflies raging through my belly propels me
across the main room of the suite. I feel like I
’
m in high
school again. I haven
’
t been this excited for a maybe-date
since...
ever
. Smoothing down my hair, I swing open the door, babbling
away at Jack.

“Hey! Hi. So, I wasn
’
t sure what the
dress code was, and—Oh...” I trail off as I realize that it isn
’
t
Jack who
’
s come to my door at all. Instead, I find
Lionel—our impassive, gray-haired driver—
staring back at me.
“Sorry,”
I blunder on, “I was expecting. Um. Someone else.”

“My apologies, Miss Benson,” he says evenly, “For what it
’
s worth, I think the way you
’
re dressed it
quite fetching.”

“Um, thanks Lionel,” I smile, eyeing the note he
’
s holding in his hand. “Is that for me?”

“Indeed it is,” he says, passing me the card. I flip open
the message and read, intrigued.

Let Lionel give you a
lift. I
’
m waiting with a surprise for you. —
J

I grin down at the note, my confusion giving way to
excitement. A surprise is the best kind of romantic gesture in my book. The
fact that Jack
’
s gone through the trouble of orchestrating
something for our night on the town
must
mean this is more than a casual
outing. Right? I
’
m becoming more and more certain that
this is our first official date.

“Lead the way, Lionel!” I say happily, shrugging into a warm
shearling bomber jacket.

“Of course, right this way,” the driver nods.

I practically skip along behind him as we head downstairs
and out onto the street. Slipping on my gigantic sunglasses, I step out into
the fading sunlight, expecting to find the usual town car waiting for me. But
the only ride I see is a spotless black limousine—not an uncommon sight outside
of The Rogue. I assume that Lionel is parked around the corner...until he goes
to the limo and opens the door for me.

“Wait. What?” I stammer, staring at the limo with my jaw
hanging open.

“Complements of Mr. Cole,” Lionel replies.

“Man. Most guys usually just pick up flowers or something,”
I mutter, stepping up to the limo and sliding inside. “But hey, I
’
ll
take it.”

The spacious ride is empty, save for me. But even so, I spot
a whole bottle of champagne and a single flute sitting on the built-in bar.
Scooting over to the chilled bottle of bubbly, I find another note waiting for
me in Jackson
’s signature hand.

Imagine what your
post-collegiate, broke-ass self would have thought if she could see you now.
Cheers!

I laugh out loud at this, and help myself to a glass of
champagne. Settling back against the sleek leather seat, I allow myself a moment
of proud reflection. Just five years ago, I was hustling around these streets,
trying to get even a scrap of barely-paid acting work. Now, I
’
m
the leading lady of a major motion picture. Not such a shabby turn-around, if I
do say so myself. Even if my ascent has been a little—OK,
very
—unconventional.

Champagne in hand, I gaze out the tinted windows of the
limousine. Curious eyes follow the car as it glides through city traffic. It
’
s still so strange, being someone who people pay attention to
all of a sudden. All my life, I
’
ve been more or less
invisible—the unremarkable artsy girl, the less popular twin, the black sheep
of the family. And something tells me that the whirlwind of attention is just
beginning. But you know what? It doesn
’
t scare me. After
nearly a decade on my own, I know I
’
m strong enough to
handle whatever stardom has in store for me.

Though I admit, it will be a hell of a lot more fun with
Jack by my side.

“Here we are,” Lionel says from the driver
’
s
seat.

I peer out into the gathering New York City night. We
’
ve left the fashionable SoHo streets behind for the grittier
landscape of Alphabet City. What could Jack possibly have in store for us over
here? I would have thought that his movie star lifestyle was more about hip,
fancy restaurants than rowdy, grungy watering holes. But then again, he did say
that tonight would be a surprise, so he’s on-point so far.

The limo door swings open, and I pull my bomber jacket
around me as I step out onto the curb. I peer around at my surroundings, trying
to get my bearings. As I glance up at the building just behind me, a crashing
wave of deja vu sweeps through me. I know exactly where I am. The question
is...what am I doing
here
of all places?

“Mr. Cole said that you
’
d recognize
this place,” Lionel says, nodding up at the crumbling little building before
us. “Is that the case?”

“Of course I recognize it,” I breathe, stunned by the sight
of this old, familiar haunt. “I practically lived here when I first came to New
York.”

The place in question is a tiny, ancient theater, tucked
away on a side street off Avenue D. It was falling apart when I first showed up
here to audition five years ago. It
’
s called The Ingenue,
and it
’
s where I had my one and only leading role as an
actress in New York City before I decided to go off on a different path.

I was twenty-two when I performed here in a
less-than-stellar production of
Hamlet
that hardly
anyone saw. But I didn
’
t care. I was living out my dream, playing
the tragic character of Ophelia in a real live theater. The few months I spent
working on that show were some of the best of my life. The question is, how
does Jack even know about that? Why did he think to bring me here? Did he quiz
one of my former roommates about my old hangouts or something?

I
’m sure I’
ll find out soon enough.

“He
’s just inside,
”
Lionel
tells me,
“You go ahead in. I
’
ll be waiting here
when you
’
re...finished.”

“OK. Thanks,” I say faintly, and walk up the few uneven
steps to the door of the theater. Sure enough, another note is taped to the
door.

Come on in. I
’
ll
be the one at center stage. —
J

I feel unaccountably nervous as I push open the heavy door,
its red paint chipping even further as I step through. Is it residual stage
fright that
’
s got my heart pounding a mile a minute, or
the prospect of being alone—
really
alone—with Jack? Maybe a little of
both.

The cramped lobby looks exactly the same as it once did, if
a bit shabbier. I pad across the springy, dirty carpet and push aside the
curtain that leads to the theater proper. My eyes struggle to adjust to the
near-darkness, and I feel my stomach fall. I don
’
t see a
soul. Maybe this has just been a prank or something. I
’
m
just about the retreat from the minuscule, 50-seat house when a blaze of light
erupts onstage with a satisfying electrical hum. Blinking up into the
brightness, I feel my hand fly to my mouth in delighted amazement.

There
’
s a rickety prop table set at
center stage, laden with a bounty of delicious-looking Italian food—heaping
plates of pasta, crusty bread and butter, colorful salads, and a few bottles of
wine to boot. And standing beside this unlikely spread is none other than
Jackson Cole, wearing a perfectly cut navy suit that puts this space to absolute
shame, and of course, his gorgeous lopsided smile. I stare at him, unmoving, as
he spreads his arms wide.

“So? You surprised?” he asks, his grin growing even wider.

“Just a little,” I laugh, finally managing to make my feet
move beneath me.

I walk down the center aisle toward him, feeling like a
bride approaching her groom at some bizarro wedding ceremony. Jack offers me a
hand and helps me up onto the stage I know so well. I look out across the empty
audience, then back at the incredible meal laid out onstage, then finally up at
Jack, standing right before me looking as gorgeous as ever.

“Wow,” I whisper. It
’
s all I can think
to say. “Jack, this is—”

“Amazing? Inspired? Fucking awesome?” he offers, helping me
out of my coat.

“All of the above,” I laugh, my skin prickling deliciously
as Jack
’
s eyes skirt along my bare midriff.

“I
’
m sure you have questions about my
location of choice,” he begins, draping my coat over one of the chairs at the
table.

“Tons,” I confirm.

“Well, save ‘em, would you?” he replies, pulling out my
chair, “And help me get started on this wine.”

“
No problem,
” I laugh, feeling like a
princess being rescued from her crumbling castle as Jack helps push in my
chair. “Though I did get a head start with that champagne. Thanks for that, by
the way. And for the limo. And—”

“It
’
s no trouble,
”
he cuts in, popping the cork of a crisp white wine. “I want tonight to be one
that you
’
ll remember.”