Engagement Rate (The Callaghan Green Series Book 1) Page 7

  "It was no problem," he said. His hair was down, looking as groomed as it did when he was at work. Jeans and a green t-shirt that clung to his biceps were enough to make me feel far too warm and his aftershave was going to be one of those smells that invoked memories when I was in my nineties. "It's not every day you get to take a fine lady out on the back of your bike. I'm getting a new one in a few weeks."

  "Are you?" I asked, as if it was something I should've known.

  "A custom Harley. I'll take you out on it when it arrives," he said as he beckoned Amelie to our table. "My usual coffee for me and Gran, what's your poison?"

  "Do they have a license to serve alcohol this early?" She was on fine form this morning, probably due to having been picked up by Jackson although her inappropriate sense of humor was an everyday standard. "Damn," she said as Amelie shook her head. "I'll have a pot of tea then. I'm not a coffee addict like my daughter."

  "You mean granddaughter."

  "Shush, I can get away with being your mother!"

  Jackson laughed, his eyes dancing. "She can," he said to me. "There's a few of my stepmom's friends she could teach about anti-aging without resorting to surgery." He was right: my gran could pass for twenty years younger in looks and attitude. Her hair had faded from the same thick dark brown as mine to ash and she still wore it long enough to be tied back. Her skin was tanned from being outside in her garden and the local markets so often, the lines attributed more to laughter than age.

  "They should live in Derbyshire," she said. "The air's good for your skin and the ale's better. I have to say though, from what I've seen, the men are better down here." She raised an eyebrow at Jackson who had the indecency to blush.

  We bantered through breakfast and then headed to the Victoria and Albert Museum, the crowds thickening around the tube stops and food outlets. London baked in the heat and I was glad of the vest I'd worn, although I wished I'd opted for shorts. I caught Jackson looking at me a few times and then my gran looking at Jackson looking at me, then raising an eyebrow, her favorite form of non-verbal communication.

  "He's a keeper," she said as we walked around the part of the exhibition dedicated to corsets. Jackson had excused himself to make a phone call to a persistent client who wasn't getting the hint that it was weekend. "Much better than that twit you were living with. He had a rod stuck so far up his backside you could see it when he yawned."

  "Why didn't you say something before?" I asked, semi-annoyed.

  She took her phone out of her handbag. "Because you wouldn't have been for listening. And sometimes we've got to keep kissing the same frog just to make sure he's not going to turn into a prince. Then low and behold, the prince arrives without ever having been a frog in the first place!"

  "I've only known Jackson two days."

  "I only knew your granddad two weeks before we got married." She lifted up her phone and took a selfie with a corset in the background. It would be on Facebook and Instagram in less than two minutes with some lewd comment. I suspected the selfie with Jackson was already set as her profile picture. I dreaded checking.

  "Somehow I don't think I'll be getting married in two weeks."

  "No, you won't because that's you. You'd need to plan a wedding with military precision and half a dozen lists. But you might get your leg over, which is something you could do with. You're sitting too tight; you need to relax. I've told you before what the best way to do that is." She snapped a couple more selfies with different backgrounds.

  My mum had died when I was six and with my dad working away on business I was left to the care of my grandparents. It wasn't a bad childhood; I missed my mum and my dad was sad, but my gran, with her practical, busy manner, taught me how to make the best of a bad thing. "You bought me a box of condoms when I was in college and told me the best way to get a good grade was to relax the night before." I had died of embarrassment.

  "And was it good advice?"

  I said nothing, not wanting to give her the satisfaction that it had been good advice. I'd been dating a boy who had recently started playing professional rugby and although he'd been a perfect gentleman – I was seventeen and he was nineteen – I'd been panicking about the planning of my first time. He'd found the box of condoms in my room when he'd been looking for a pen and then I'd relayed the conversation I'd had with my gran. Fortunately, he'd found it hilarious and then proceeded to relax me very well. I'd enjoyed sex, until Richard, when it had become more about him than me. I'd accepted that, thinking it was part of the course of getting older and working together. With having a business, you couldn't have it all, could you? Now I was changing my mind. It didn't matter what you could have; it mattered what you wanted.

  "Sorry ladies," Jackson came up behind us. "I really didn't want to take any work calls today. My phone is now off." He looked from me to my gran and back. "Have you been causing trouble?"

  My eyes flicked towards Gran and I realized how guilty we both looked. Me because I was wondering exactly how relaxed Jackson could make me; as to my gran, I did not want to know where her guilt was stemming from.

  "Only what you'd expect," she said, tucking her arm through his and leading him through the rest of the exhibition, pointing out some of the garments, what she had first-hand experience of and, when we reached the more modern underwear, making not so subtle hints about what would both look good, and feel good. To his credit, Jackson didn't flinch, seemingly taking on board her advice.

  We had enough time to grab a late afternoon tea at The Shard, Jackson switching his phone on and ignoring the incoming emails to make a call and find us a table. After overdosing on two corpse revivers and a glass of champagne, Gran assured us that she would be able to navigate the tube successfully to Euston and would set an alarm so she didn't miss her stop off the train when she got back to Sheffield.

  Gran was correct; she navigated everything successfully, with photographic evidence as proof. Once on the train, she posted a stream of selfies of her with a series of random tube and train workers, plus the odd police officer and even a human statue. She really was her very own marketing campaign, complete with hashtags. I figured I had inherited my talent for marketing from her, she'd amassed that many followers and knew what would work in a photo or a caption.

  "So," Jackson said as we sat on the banks of the Thames in a pub, both drinking beers. "I've finally got you alone."

  "You had me alone last night," I said. "And it was your choice not to make it more alone." The woman who had lived with Richard for so long would never have been as honest, but my grandmother had reminded me of who I was before: fearless and forward.

  "I didn't want you to think I was only after one thing," Jackson said, one hand scratching a shoulder. He was being watched by a group of three women drinking prosecco and while I didn't feel jealous, I was enjoying knowing that the odd touch I gave him or he gave me was adding to their angst.

  "Maybe I wanted you to be after only one thing," I said, resting back my head and looking more casual than I felt. A clipper passed by on the river, all its passengers outside for a change.

  "Maybe I don't just want one thing," he downed the rest of his beer. "Maybe I wanted more than just..." he leaned forward, putting a hand on the back of my head and pulling my lips to his. I let him, anticipating the first touch of our lips and inhaling his scent, male and musky.

  The kiss was slow and deep, and although the only points of contact were his hand, our knees, and our lips, the whole of my body combusted. His beard was rough against my skin and I couldn't help but imagine how it would feel between my legs and how he would take control with more than just a kiss.

  Jackson pulled back, his eyes dancing with humor and arousal. "What do you want to do tonight?"

  More of that. But maybe a little lower too?

  "Something quiet. It's been a busy few days," I said, trying to act nonchalant. "A quiet night in."

  "On your own?"

  I debated calling his bluff. "Maybe. I could be prepared
to spend some time with just one other person, possibly."

  He checked his watch. "What's Sophie doing tonight?"

  Confusion rankled me. "Do you have plans?" I stood up, putting my now empty glass on the table. If he was playing with me I'd be putting Alice in charge of running the whole rebrand.

  Jackson pulled his hair back into a bun with his hand and looked up at me, a naughty smirk on his face. "Yeah, I have a hot date but I think she might be busy."

  I glared at him, pulling out what I thought was my best cross school teacher face.

  "She said she wanted to spend a quiet night, but maybe not with me. And now she's angry and I don't know why..."

  I took a step forward to get close enough to mess with his hair and he pulled me down into his lap, laughing hard then kissing me, not with quite the same depth or intensity as before but there was more sweetness and if there was anything left of me to melt it was in a rivulet running into the Thames. "You're such a..." I kiss him back, omitting the insult.

  "Seriously, what do you want to do?" he said quietly, keeping on his lap.

  "You've gone along with our plans all day, you tell me." His hand was on my waist, under my vest top, the other pulling slightly on the waist of my jeans. I was hoping I knew what he was going to say.

  "My place? Take out? If you'd rather go somewhere quiet I know places, but it might be a nice night to sit on the patio and watch the boats."

  "You live riverside?" I said. I knew he had money but places like that were expensive, seven-figure sort of prices.

  He nods. "I'd like you to see my home. You can tell me how it'd look in a magazine, you know in one of those cheesy articles where you talk about how inspirational your life is and where your furniture is from, as long as it's not Ikea." His face was deadpan, totally serious and I started to giggle.

  "You need to stop laughing," he said, and I realized he wasn't joking.

  "Why? Oh." He pressed me closer to him and I felt his erection through his jeans.

  "Bouncing around on my knee with that top on and my hands on your skin is not making the walk to my house a pain-free one."

  I rested my head between his neck and shoulder, felt the sun on my back and wished I could freeze the moment forever. I nipped his neck, tasted his skin with my tongue and heard him take a sharp breath.

  "Let me go home and freshen up, grab a bottle of wine," I said, forcing myself to move. "Text me your address."

  Jackson shook his head. "Go home and grab what you need. Freshen up at mine." He swallowed, holding my eyes with his. "Bring a change for tomorrow. I'm having Sunday lunch with some of the siblings. Come with me."

  It wasn't a question and I wasn't used to someone instructing me. In all the years I'd been with Richard he'd never given me a calm command, one that cleared a path and made a decision easy to take. With Richard, there was always a disagreement, or it was left entirely up to me, or there was a huge passive-aggressive fuss about something I'd decided that he thought wasn't right but didn't say at the time. Jackson's command at first made me want to argue, to fight against it, but then whatever genes I'd inherited from my grandmother kicked in. "Maybe," I said. "I'll pick some stuff up and change at yours then. I hope you've got a good shower."

  "You can let me know if it meets your standards." Jackson stretched with a wince. Still hard. I lost trying to hide a smile and he raised his brows at me. "You won't be laughing later."

  "You're incorrigible! Text me your address."

  I walked off, leaving him laughing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Chapter Eight

  Vanessa

  "Why's half your wardrobe scattered across the sofa?" I jumped as Sophie popped her head into my room. She'd been out with her ex-husband, who was also the financier behind her salons and was then heading to the opening of a new restaurant, so I hadn't expected to see her. And to have to explain.

  I held out a playsuit. It was fairly demure; navy blue and button up with pockets, shorts that hit just below mid-thigh. "Do you think this is okay for a Sunday lunch?"

  "Who with?"

  I twist my mouth.

  "Jackson? Is it a client thing?" Realisation brightens her face. "You're staying over there tonight and going for lunch from his tomorrow. You dirty girl. Go you!"

  "So is this suitable?" I was anxious to get over to Jackson's as soon as possible. Some calm away from Sophie's apartment – while I appreciated her having me stay immensely – would be lovely, as would spending time with him.

  "Who else will be there?"

  "Probably some of his brothers and sisters. I've met nearly all of them so nothing formal." The playsuit is winning in my head.

  "Go for it. It shows off your legs which should not be hidden and emphasizes your cleavage." She nodded approvingly. "Don't try to be too modest. I'll leave you to it. I need to freshen up before we head over to Olivetti's." And with that, she was gone.

  Jackson's home was a terrace in Rotherhithe Village, set over five floors and looking out over the Thames. It was close enough to walk to, especially on such a beautiful evening with the sun's rays hitting the water of the river. I tried not to be surprised by the house, having a rough idea how much real estate cost in the area, let alone a place like this. I rang the bell, backpack over my shoulder and small overnight bag in case I did decide to stay. That was why I didn't argue with him: I wanted to stay overnight, I wanted him in me and I wanted to know what I sounded like when he made me come, hopefully more than once and I didn't especially want to do a walk of shame the following day. It was seven years since I'd slept with anyone but Richard the dick and nine years since my last one-night stand. I was beyond waddling the walk of shame and not wearing overnight moisturizer. If I slept with Jackson then it was because I'd decided to, rather than gotten drunk and thought it was a good idea.

  He answered wearing sweatpants and a vest, automatically stretching out his hands to take my bags. I passed them to him and smiled; I considered myself a feminist but not letting someone else carry my bags a few feet just to prove I could do it always seemed a bit like I was losing out. Clearly, I could manage my bags, just like I could also do all my own ironing. Didn't mean I was going to. "I'm thinking you've planned to possibly stay."

  "It's good to have the choice," I said. "I assume you have a spare room."

  "I've got three. Let's put these down and I'll give you a tour, then we can get comfortable. Do you like Thai?" I was surprised he didn't rise at my teasing, which made me think as much as he might create an easier pathway to a choice, the decision would always be mine.

  "I eat most things," I said. "Thai would be good though." I followed him into a reception area, straight upstairs to an open plan kitchen and living area. Light streamed in from floor to ceiling windows, giving views over the Thames towards Tower Bridge. "This is amazing." There wasn't much more to say that could do it justice.

  "I like it," he said. "The light never gets boring and it doesn't feel like London living here – except for the Thames."

  The next set of stairs took us to the master bedroom, where he left my bags, and a large shower room. "This is the best shower to use," he said. "There's another bedroom and bathroom on the next floor, two more beds, and baths on the third and a roof terrace on the fourth. I'll see you there when you're ready." He leaned over and kissed my cheek and for a moment I wanted to simply grab him and pull him onto the huge bed nearby, forgetting roof terraces and Thai food. Then he stepped away and gave me a look that smoldered my bones.

  Five minutes later I was in Jackson's shower, making his bathroom smell of limes and coconut. The shower pulsed down on me, hard enough to almost massage my skin that was sun-kissed after spending the latter part of the afternoon outside.

  Music poured through what I guessed were integrated speakers as I towel dried my hair, moisturized and applied light make-up. I wore a blue lace underwear set; although I'd gone for casual and comfortable with the harem trousers and an oversize three quarter sleeved t-s
hirt that clung to the right places. If it was cold on the roof terrace than Jackson would have his own personal temperature gauge: my nipples. I didn't think he'd complain.

  He was lounging on an outdoor sofa, prodding a fire pit in the center of the terrace. His hair was tied back into a messy bun and he had two empty glasses on the table, an ice bucket with a bottle in next to him.

  "Shit," I said, covering my mouth. "I meant to bring wine."

  "I'm glad you didn't," he moved his legs and gestured sitting next to him. "My dad and step-mum are touring Niagara, planning to buy a winery. They sent a dozen bottles from different vineyards to try, so we're working through those. They want suggestions by a week on Monday else we're disinherited, apparently." He took out the bottle and began to uncork it.

  I laughed, accepting a glass. "This is something else, Jackson, the view is spectacular, especially on such a clear evening. And your house is huge. What made you buy it?"

  "The view is spectacular and the house is huge." We both laughed. "No, an acquaintance of my dad's bought it off plan then decided to move to Japan. He wanted to sell quickly to free up some cash and I was looking to move out of my apartment. This place appealed to me. Its location, the design – and it's plenty big enough for a family with good schools nearby should that ever be in my future."

  I made the mistake at that point of making eye contact with him and felt the lower half of my body pop into some form of female goo. With Richard I'd never considered children, they hadn't even factored into a conversation. It was all business, driven by me while Richard played golf in order to mix with potential clients. I'd known Jackson personally for three days – not even that – and he'd taken me closer to my something I hadn't labeled than Richard had in six years.