There’s pride in his voice, and it’s hard to believe there was ever a time I thought he would say something demeaning or regressive; he’s never been anything but my biggest cheerleader.
“Come on.” He presses a kiss to my temple and stands, pulling me up. “And for the record, I know you hate the whole Saturdays thing, but how can I be sorry for it? If Tom and I hadn’t come up with that nifty little catchphrase way back when, you’d probably still be wasting time with what’s-his-face instead of here with me.” He rubs my upper arms, eyes shining with mischief. “Remind me to thank that guy, actually. What was his name? Butt?”
I slant him a look, swatting his chest. “His name was Brett.”
He waves a hand as if to say, Same difference. “Am I supposed to be sorry that Butt was an idiot? Butt’s loss is my gain.”
I refuse to laugh; it’ll only encourage him. But speaking of butts . . . You know what? Screw it. I slide my hands into his back pockets and squeeze. Mmm. He’s got a highly squeezable heinie. “I’m so glad my pain and suffering is amusing for you. Maybe next time I can raise the stakes and be publicly humiliated.”
“Next time, huh? Already planning to get rid of me?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before lowering his mouth to mine, claiming it—claiming me—for his own.
Never, I think to myself as I wrap my arms around his neck and lose myself in him. I’m never letting you go.
There’s something about kissing Jack that eclipses everything else. I lose time when it’s happening; I dream about it when we’re apart. He’s passionate yet tender, hungry but still gentle, his touch somehow both inflammatory and healing. It’s like I’m hypnotized, but I’ve also never been more awake. It’s the most intoxicating dichotomy. I can’t get enough of it. I can’t get enough of him.
When we finally break apart I feel woozy, unsteady on my feet. I have to drag my eyes open and come back to myself, so thoroughly have I forgotten where I am (you know, in public, in broad daylight, with small children around). It’s getting harder and harder to stave off this feeling, to satisfy this craving I have for him. Attraction is one thing, but this is like an addiction. I’ve never felt such a staggering need.
“Speaking of public humiliation,” I mention casually once I’m able to stand upright without assistance and we’ve resumed walking, “your buddy Eric Jessup’s been in the news this week.”
Jack tips his head back and groans at the sky. “I knew the I told you so was coming on this.”
“Why would I need to say that when I’m always right sounds so much better?” I taunt.
The story dominating the gossip headlines this week is the Eric Jessup–Olivia Sherwood engagement, which (if you believe the tabloids) has apparently imploded in spectacular fashion. The prevailing theory cited for the split is that Eric “wasn’t ready to settle down,” with sources describing Olivia as “devastated” by the breakup. I have to admit, I was disappointed to hear it. Maybe it’s this blissful honeymoon stage I’m in, but I actually wanted to believe in their fairy tale.
“Look, am I happy that Eric Jessup has proven himself to be just another womanizing creep who screwed over his loyal, long-suffering hometown girlfriend? No. But I’m also not surprised.”
“We don’t actually know if it’s true,” Jack points out as we maneuver around a dog walker struggling with a giant tangle of leashes. “He hasn’t confirmed it.”
“He hasn’t denied it, either, which may as well be a confirmation.”
He shrugs in concession. “Well, if it is true, then I feel bad for the guy. It didn’t seem like a fake relationship to me.” He snaps his fingers. “That reminds me. There’s a playoff game next week and I thought I’d see if Greg wanted to go, if you’re cool with it?”
“Is that even a question? I’ll be sister-in-law of the year. Are you sure, though? Don’t get me wrong, it’s really sweet of you, I just don’t want you to feel obligated . . .”
He waves a hand. “I always have to see the same people at these things. Trust me, it’ll be way more fun for me to hang with someone who actually wants to be there.”
We’ve arrived back at his building now, and as soon as I see Cliff’s on duty I tug on Jack’s arm to wait, then start digging through my bag. “I found you a really good one,” I tell him gleefully.
“You spoil me,” Cliff says, rubbing his hands together as he comes out from behind the desk.
I’ve been at Jack’s apartment so much lately that Cliff is basically my new best friend (and a major reason why Make enough money to live in a building with a gently paternal, elderly doorman has rocketed up my list of life goals). During one of our nightly exchanges I learned that he keeps an extensive matchbook collection, so now I do my best to nick one from every restaurant Jack and I visit.
“It’s embossed,” I tell him, presenting my spoils as reverently as a bronze star.
“Ooh, those are the big bucks,” he says and holds it up to the light, scrutinizing it like a rare coin.
Jack’s shaking his head at us. “Here I am thinking I’m dazzling her with my scintillating dinner conversation while she’s plotting how to score you matchbooks.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Cliff says, shooting me a wink. “Don’t let this one go, sir.”
The elevator dings and I wave goodbye as Jack tugs me inside—then yelp as he hauls me against him.
“I don’t intend to,” he murmurs, lowering his face to mine as the doors slide shut behind us.
Chapter 15
It’s one week later and I’m staring into my bedroom mirror, dressed to the nines for the Siren event and feeling equal parts excited and sick to my stomach. Was this such a good idea? Guess we’re about to find out.
This week’s been ridiculously busy, with all Siren employees working around the clock to prep for the event, which seems to get a little bigger and more prestigious every year. When Cynthia first conceived of the idea, it was as much about building Siren’s name recognition as it was as an excuse to get a bunch of influential women into one room. Now, years later, it’s grown from honoring one woman annually to spotlighting a handful of trailblazers and tastemakers in the categories of technology, music, entertainment, entrepreneurship, and philanthropy. It’s a thrill to have the opportunity to rub elbows with so many powerful and inspiring women, but it’s also an insane amount of extra work on top of our regular responsibilities. I’ve stayed late every night this week, writing and editing the extended profiles on each honoree, weighing in on endless drafts of Cynthia’s remarks, coordinating PR opportunities with our marketing team, and on and on it goes.
As a result, I’ve barely had a minute to spare for Jack, so I’m extra excited to see him tonight. I miss his face. (Not that I think he’s suffering too much. Last night was the aforementioned baseball game with Greg, and I got a late-night text from Christine that read: I think my husband’s gonna leave me for your boyfriend, so I’m guessing it went well.)