September 18

Fifteen minutes. This is all that stands between Jack and me, because he just texted that he’s on his way to pick me up. Earlier in the week, I had wanted to give him an out, so I drafted and deleted eleven text messages. I was going for light and friendly with a generous sprinkling of absolutely no pressure, and I finally decided on Hey Jack! LMK if we’re still on for Friday – no worries if not!

Heart pounding, I’d waited for his reply and received one within minutes: Of course we’re still on. Looking forward to seeing you. The relief that had washed over me then left me feeling weak and grateful, and I’d chided myself for being so damned needy and not keeping this in perspective. I sent another text telling him I’d meet him there, and he responded that he’d be picking me up in his truck if I was okay with non-glam transportation.

I am more than okay with non-glam transportation.

Eleven minutes. I’m in the kitchen, looking down at Murphy who has finished his dinner and is contentedly washing his face with his paw. I pick up his food dish, put it in the pantry and then hurry upstairs to put on my dress. I did my hair and makeup an hour ago and have been wearing my L. L. Bean robe since I knew I’d be a bundle of nervous energy and didn’t want to sweat through my gown (current number of deodorant applications: five). With my penchant for clothing stains, I figured I’d give myself every advantage.

I enter my walk-in closet and slip the dress off the hanger. It’s a Badgley Mischka that I found online—more than I usually spend, but when I tried it on, it fit perfectly and made me feel sexy and elegant. I really needed to feel that, especially since I was going to the gala date-less when I ordered it. And now...the person I would most want to see me in this dress will see me in it.

My iPhone chimes from the bureau. Oh, God—what if it’s Jack, texting to tell me he’s changed his mind? Sweating again, I go to pick up my phone and am simultaneously relieved and pissed. It’s not Jack, but Paul. Hi. Thinking about you and wanted you to know.

Jesus. The only thing keeping me sane about this unwanted text is the fact that it’s been a while since he’s contacted me, so maybe his persistence is fading. I can only hope. I clench and unclench my fists, delete Paul’s text without responding and trash any thoughts of my ex-husband. I have much nicer things to focus on.

Eight minutes. I’m in in my bathroom—the bathroom that Jack built. Over the past few weeks, I’d come in here to just stand and look, brushing my gaze over his workmanship, my eyes lingering on the shower and my thoughts lingering on what we did in there. Wallowing a little too much in the past, but right now, I have to be grateful for the present, which for a few hours will include Jack Decker.

I’d told Mum about the gala—mentioned that I was going with “just a friend,” and my tone caused her to tactfully refrain from asking me any of the questions I know she was dying to ask. She always loved being there for my semis and formals and proms, so I take a selfie and send it to her. Seconds later, I get a text back with BEAUTIFUL – Daddy agrees xoxo and three red hearts. I smile. Guess you never outgrow parental approval.

I lean in to study my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Hair down, loosely-curled...eyes look decently enhanced but not overdone with a little taupe shadow and mascara. I add a little lip liner and melon-colored gloss and then take a last look in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The dress is chiffon and mermaid-silhouette style, off the shoulder with a sweetheart neckline. There’s some cleavage, which I’m quite sure Jack will notice. And it’s coral, like the bikini I was wearing when he took that picture of me.

Of course, all of this is irrelevant since this is purely a platonic date, right?

I am choosing not to answer that. It’s my own question, so I can totally ignore it and put on my sterling silver, coral cuff bracelet and matching earrings, slip my feet into my silver, pointy-toe pumps, and this Cinderella is ready for the ball.

All I need is my prince.

And right on cue...the doorbell.

My heart is doing back handsprings as I hurry down the stairs, gathering my dress up a little so I  won’t trip. Murphy is at the kitchen door, tail up and rubbing his nose against the door frame as if he knows who’s there. I try to force the corners of my lips down in an attempt to keep from looking like the Cheshire cat, but when I open the door, I can’t keep from smiling as a rush of what can only be described as joy pours through me.

I am so not prepared for Jack Decker in a tuxedo. My. God. He is heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Everything about him is crisp, sharp, sexy, from his white shirt and black bow tie to his shiny black shoes. He looks red carpet-ready, smooth and confident...I half-expect to see paparazzi jump out from my shrubbery to snap photos. Even his usually-unruly hair looks in place, which makes me smile even more to think he used a hair product in it.

The only reason I don’t feel embarrassed about smiling like a crazy person is because Jack is smiling, too. It’s as though we haven’t seen each other in years instead of weeks. It feels like there’s a current running between us—electric, almost palpable. There is a lightness in his eyes that I can almost feel skipping across me as he does a visual body scan. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows once, twice. Just having him in my house again, not to mention looking like the hottest celebrity Hollywood could ever imagine, makes me want to rush into his arms, stand on tiptoe and kiss him until I can’t catch my breath. I feel my self-control slipping out of my silver pointy-toe pumps when he takes two steps forward and gathers me against him in a tight hug. 

I squeeze my eyes shut as unexpected tears threaten to trickle out. He feels so good, smells so incredibly delicious that I throw caution to the wind, wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his lapel. I feel his lips on the top of my head, and I don’t think I’m imagining the sigh he makes as he breathes in the scent of my hair.

He steps back—much too soon—and looks down at me, still smiling. Murphy rubs against Jack’s legs, purring, and Jack bends down to pet him.

“I have a lint roller,” are the first words out of my mouth, which is probably the safest thing I can think to say at this moment.

Straightening, he grins at me. “Looks like someone missed me.”

I’m blushing furiously, but I’m determined to remain cool on the outside. “Yes, my cat seems really glad to see you.”

He puts his index finger to his mouth, licks it and makes a scored point sign in the air. We both laugh, and I’m trying very, very hard to ignore that I just saw his tongue.

“So, Callaway. You look great. It’s nice to see you again.”

And you look like a Greek god. I’ve missed you more than you know, more than I can say. I am clinging to all the willpower I have not to jump you right now, beg you to take me right here on the kitchen table...

“Thanks, Jack—you look great as well. It’s really nice to see you, too.”

I go to the pantry for the lint roller and hand it to him. He gives Murphy one last scratch behind the ears before using the roller on his pant legs.

“Is this an event where you want to arrive fashionably late?”

I have discovered I don’t even care about going to the gala. If it were up to me, I’d stay in. In bed. With Jack.

“We can go anytime you want. There’s a cocktail hour before dinner. And dancing later. I mean, if you want.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I might not want to dance?”

“I’m suggesting it’s totally up to you.”

“I appreciate that. And I’m looking forward to dancing as well as eating. I’m guessing the food is good?”

“It’s excellent.”

“Not as good as what Madeline Callaway makes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. I’ve already had the best.” He flashes me a devilish grin. “And your cooking, too.”

I chalk up a point for him. “We’re even.”

“Not for long. You know how I like to be on top.” He winks.

I can’t help but giggle because that one-liner just put him ahead. And I can’t help the little tingles I’m getting because he’s flirting, which is going to make it very difficult for me to see this as a platonic date.

“Your chariot awaits, Callaway. If you have a vivid imagination and can picture a Ford Super Duty a chariot.”

“I can’t imagine a nicer ride.”

His big black truck is gleaming in the overhead garage light. I have missed that big black truck parked there. Jack follows me to the passenger side and takes my hand as I carefully step up on the running board. It looks spotless on the inside, too, like he’s had it detailed. I find this—him—irresistibly sweet.

“So this shindig’s in Ellsworth?”

“Yes, at the Tarratine Club.”

“Short trip, then.” He gives me a half-smile before backing out of the driveway.

It is then that I really wish the ride was longer so I could keep him all to myself. I’ve discovered that when it comes to Jack Decker, I am not good at sharing.

We ride along the lengthy stretch of Newbury Neck Road, Jack fiddling with the heat control and asking me if I’m warm enough. There’s a rock radio station playing, the cab of the truck smells heavenly with the scent of Jack’s cologne, and I’m brimming with eager anticipation.

God, I already don’t want this night to end.

“So how are things at Maine Coastal? Slowing down any since summer is over?”

“It’s still been pretty steady, but I do expect the usual cold weather lull. How about Decker Renovation?

“Going strong as well.”

“I’m guessing your customer satisfaction is still, um, very high?” I can’t help myself. There’s a slightly bitchy edge to my tone, and I can’t help that, either.

Decker Renovation takes it all in stride, chuckling and shaking his head. “You crack me up. I’ve been keeping my clients happy, yes, but not in the way you’re insinuating.”

We reach the yield sign at Morgan Bay Road. Just before pulling onto Surry, Jack turns his head to look at me.

“I’m on a self-imposed hiatus, Callaway.” His gaze is earnest, sincere.

Just the fact that he tells me this, that he cares enough to want me to know, pushes tears into my eyes. I smile as though I wasn’t worried at all, turn toward the window and blink hard.

Jack insists on dropping me at the lobby entrance while he parks the truck, so I wait and smile at the couples entering: the men in black tuxes and the women in gowns of varying lengths and styles: fuchsia cocktail, rose gold sequin, the vibrant statement of flowy red chiffon. A couple of the men dart their eyes in my direction—quickly, so their dates won’t see. I am mildly amused but quickly turn my attention to the male coming in the door now, getting stares of his own from the women. Girls can play that game, too, boys.

My breath catches in my throat at this beautiful man...my date for the night. As he walks toward me, I can feel the jealous eyes of women, gay men and even a few straight ones, and I know I’m being hated a little bit.

I’m okay with that.

Jack puts a hand lightly on the small of my back as I present our tickets to the smiling woman at the table outside the ballroom entrance. We go to the silent auction room first to make a few bids—Jack on a ski weekend at Sugarloaf, an Old Town canoe and Patriots tickets, me on two nights at the Samoset, a pub crawl for four and a gorgeous watercolor painting of an apple orchard—and then we enter the grand ballroom.

It’s classic, elegant, opulent—stunningly-remodeled and 19th century with regal, dark mahogany woodwork, ornate chandeliers glittering with crystal teardrops and antique paintings of racehorses. Jack is looking overhead and nodding in approval, clearly impressed with the coffered ceiling. “Wow—beautiful workmanship.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Just seeing this is worth the price of admission.”

“Would you like to be alone with the ceiling? I could step out for a minute, or...”

“Ha! Nicely done, Callaway. Speaking of the price of admission...I’m just remembering that I still haven’t paid you for my ticket.”

“And you aren’t going to—I invited you. You’re doing me a favor by coming.” I pause, smirking. “And yes, I realize what I just said.”

“Coming is my absolute pleasure. Believe me. I love to come.”

I burst out in completely unladylike, snorty laughter, and Jack is grinning from ear to ear. This is utterly juvenile and totally silly, but I love it. I love being like this, with him.

We’re standing there smiling at each other. I’m vaguely aware that there are lots of other people around, walking past us, and that all of us have a purpose for being here. But right now, all I can see, all I can think of, is this beautiful tuxedo-ed man with uncharacteristically well-behaved hair, standing in front of me.

Deep sigh, and then I reluctantly come back to reality. “Want to find our table and then get a drink?”

“Sure. You’re in charge tonight.” He winks. “I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Oh, Jesus. Here we go again. “Whatever I want, Jack? Are you sure you won’t regret that statement?”

He bends down, puts his lips next to my ear. His breath tickles, his words ignite me. “Highly doubtful, Callaway. Because there’s a very good chance that what you want is what I want as well.”

The fire that he started within me has apparently seared my brain so that any rational thought is fried. God, I wanted to stay cool tonight, but Mr. Mercury here is making that virtually impossible.

Cue the sweating. Again.

Thank God Jordan suddenly appears to rescue me, like some angel sent from Heaven.

“Hey, Maddie! Have you seen any other Maine Coastals yet?” She’s smiling brightly at me, trying like hell not to gape at Jack. I have to bite my lip to hide my smile.

“Not yet—you’re the first.” I introduce her to Jack, the two of them shake hands, and when Jack is distracted by a waiter with an appetizer tray, Jordan catches my eye and mouths oh my GOD! Blushing, I nod and smile, remembering I had a very similar reaction when I saw him for the first time. And basically every time after.

We each take a stuffed mushroom, and Jordan points out her boyfriend sitting at one of our two reserved tables in the far corner before heading over there herself.

I turn to my date. “Ready for that drink?”

“Absolutely.”

As we walk to the bar, he again places his hand at the small of my back. It fits just right there.

“I’ll take a Jack and Coke, please.” Jack turns from the bartender to wink at me, grinning.

“I have no doubt that drink was named after you. Cosmo for me, please.”

The bartender prepares our drinks. I look up to smile at Jack and discover that he is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite place—humor blending into something else more intense, serious. It rattles me a little, so I sweep my gaze around the ballroom. There is so much to fill the senses, tonight. Color, sparkles, candlelight. Tables set in gold and ivory, with a bright burst of fall flowers at the center. Jazz music from the ensemble in the corner, the rustle-y sounds of women walking in dresses, fairy lights twinkling in the potted ficus trees. So much, and yet none of it compares to the man next to me.

I want to fill my senses with him.

I want to taste him.

I slam on the brakes before this streetcar named desire goes careening out of control. Platonic. Platonic. P-l-a-t-

“Your Cosmopolitan, miss.”

“Thank you.” I smile at the bartender, take my drink and have a generous sip. I can feel Jack’s eyes on me.

We mingle for a bit. Most of Maine Coastal has arrived, and some of them casually wander over to be introduced. Angie clasps his hand warmly, beaming. Jack charms them all, including my senior agent Walter, who can be a bit on the grouchy side. Conversation flows easily, with topics ranging from house flipping to rental properties to a question one of my agents has about installing plank flooring. The emcee, the director of economic development for Ellsworth, goes to the mic at the podium and thanks a list of sponsors before announcing that dinner will be served soon. The jazz trio starts up again, and we go to our table, Jack sliding out one of the cloth-covered chairs for me.

“You are a true gentleman,” I tell him. “If this was an actual date, I’d be very impressed.”

“Don’t be fooled, Callaway. I’m not thinking very gentlemanly thoughts right now.” He raises his water goblet to his lips, looking past me benignly, and I have to wonder if anyone actually went into cardiac arrest from being flirted with, because I feel like I could.

The mouth-watering aromas of warmed bread and baked chicken, mingling with the essence of Jack Decker, are doing glorious things to me. I am feeling delicious, relaxed...like everything is right in the world. And the night has only just begun. Even though I know I shouldn’t have any expectations, I allow myself to stray from the present moment and think about the possibility of slow-dancing with Jack—to be in his arms, next to his body. His hard, masculine body...

Damn it.

“Wow.” Jack dips his spoon into the lobster bisque. “Hands down, best I’ve ever had.”

“First the ceiling, now the soup...I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.”

“How do you know I was talking about the soup?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Now you’re just going for more points.” I wrinkle up my nose at him and give him a little shoulder bump. I’ve done well so far keeping my hands off him; I figure touching him with my shoulder doesn’t really count.

The servers bring the main course, and I give myself a silent high-five for keeping food off me—made it through the stuffed mushrooms and the smoked trout cucumber cups with only a few brush-able crumbs on my bodice, and no drips from the orgasmic lobster bisque. We toast to the steadily-improving real estate market and decreasing interest rates; we eat, laugh and drink. I’m on my second Cosmo, and between that and champagne, I feel a pleasant buzz starting to spread through me. The alcohol may be clouding my senses, but it seems like Jack is leaning into me an awful lot—talking to me with his lips practically brushing my ear or his mouth inches away from mine. Closer than necessary, really.

I’m not complaining.

We’re finishing our chocolate mousse when the emcee takes the mic again, thanks the jazz band and introduces the deejay. The dancing will start momentarily. I take my last spoonful of heavenly dessert. Most of it makes it into my mouth, except for the dime-sized splotch that’s found itself a home on the coral material an inch above my right nipple. My God. Jack is engaged in conversation with Walter about mill rates, so maybe he won’t notice. I discreetly dip the corner of my napkin into my water glass and dab the spot.

“I’d consider it a victory, Callaway.”

I look up to meet Jack’s gaze.

“You got all the way to dessert without a wardrobe malfunction.”

I try like hell to glare at him, but the amusement on his face is contagious.

“The way you wear food is one of the cutest things about you.”

“Stop.” I’m dabbing at the stain which seems to be spreading a bit.

“I’m serious. And if it’ll make you feel better...” He takes his dessert spoon, scoops up the remaining bit of chocolate in the dish and swipes it against his shirt. “There. Now we’re twins. Mine’s even a little worse—brown on white.”

I start to giggle. “My God. You’re crazy.”

“You have that effect on me.”

He flashes me a dazzling smile that makes me feel like I have champagne in my knees. Still giggling, I wet the corner of my napkin and clean up his spot as best I can. “I’m not taking you on the dance floor looking like this.”

“Oh, we’re going to dance, are we?”

“Yes. Right now.”

“Bossy.”

“In charge. Remember?”

“I do.” He takes a sip of water and stands up to follow me to the dance floor, which has become quite crowded. Jordan and her boyfriend join us. The alcohol, AC/DC and my dance partner have all combined to make me totally intoxicated. Jack, not surprisingly, has great rhythm and hot dance moves.

And then, a slow song.

We are both breathing hard. Jack is looking at me, half-smiling. Suddenly, I feel a flicker of guilt. I don’t want this to be forced. I don’t want him to feel like he has to slow dance with me. We’ve had fun tonight, and this is supposed to be just a low-key, friendly date of two people who used to have no-strings sex with one another. Slow dancing is intimate and something we’ve never done before. I don’t want Jack to feel pressured.

But oh, I want to dance with him.

I’m just about to say something that will give him an out when he steps forward and pulls me against him, wrapping his left arm around my waist and taking my right hand in his. He is holding me unexpectedly, breathtakingly close. I feel both my heart rate and my arousal climb to the coffered ceiling.

“I’m supposed to be in charge,” I whisper.

“Sorry. Old habits with you, I guess.” He pulls me in tighter. I can feel him. I can feel him there. “You don’t really mind, though, do you?”

“No.” I breathe in the warm scent of him, my nose pressed against his lower chest. His chocolate mousse sympathy spot is just above my head. There is a sweet, sweet ache in my stomach, radiating into my chest. And between my legs. Most definitely, between my legs.

He dips his head lower to murmur against the nape of my neck, making me shiver. “I lied, before.”

“What do you mean?”

“At your house, when I said you looked great.”

“I don’t look great?”

“No. You look absolutely stunning. Enchanting. I just couldn’t find the words, then.” The tips of his fingers press into my waist. “Still can’t.”

I have to fight the gasp that’s climbing up my throat. “Thank you,” I manage.

“Thank you, Callaway, for inviting me. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since...” He trails off and doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. I think I get it.

The song ends, and it is the very last note when we gently disengage from each other. It’s hot on the dance floor with all the people; Jack loosens his bow tie and takes off his jacket, going back to our table to drape it over the back of his chair. I feel a thrill spiraling up my spine as he walks toward me. I can’t stop myself from thinking that tonight, he is mine alone.

“Jack Decker?” A squeal from behind me. I turn to look. A brunette in a low-cut, form-fitting bright blue dress is heading for my date. She’s carrying twins—her infant-sized boobs—and teetering rather dangerously in her stiletto heels. I’m trying to clamp down on the bitch inside me that’s silently hoping she’ll trip, because who is she, and what’s her connection to Jack?

I need to know, but I don’t want to know.

“Hey, Tonya.” Jack is smiling like seeing her is no big deal. This makes me feel a bit better, because I don’t want it to be a big deal.

Tonya is apparently oblivious to me standing there. Throwing her arms around him, she crushes her twins against his chest. “It’s soo good to see you,” she croons. “How long’s it been? A year?”

“Pretty close to it. Still liking your kitchen?” He gives her a quick, stiff hug and takes a step back.

“Oh, definitely. You were amazing. In the kitchen, and in, um, other rooms.” She giggles, and I decide I hate her.

“Thanks. I’m glad I was able to do some work for you.”

He tries to sidestep around her, but she’s not having any of it.

“I’ll be calling you soon, Jack...I’ve still got alimony payments coming, and I thought I’d put those toward more renovations. That way, I’d get to see you.” She sidles up to him, lays a perfectly-manicured hand on his arm—the arm that tonight, is supposed to belong to me.

“My schedule’s pretty full, but sure, give me a call.” Jack looks at me over Tonya’s head, lifting his eyebrows at me as if to say, can you believe this chick?

What I can’t believe, Jack, is that you slept with her.

The delicious, warm feeling inside me has soured and cooled. But I can’t let Tonya and her bouncing baby girls ruin tonight. I have no right to be pissed about someone before me. And honestly, no right to be pissed about someone after me, because I am not with Jack.

Say it with me, Self: I. Am. Not. With. Jack.

So I will do my best to just enjoy the rest of this evening, and I’ll dance and laugh and drink and drink some more and be glad for the chance to have seen him again.

It’s good in theory, of course. But in reality?

I’m not very good at faking things.

We do dance and laugh and drink, but Jack keeps sneaking quick glances at me, like he’s checking to see if I’m okay. When it’s over, we say goodbye to the Maine Coastal crew and walk to the parking garage. This time, he doesn’t put his hand on my back.

He catches my eye as he’s looking over his shoulder to back the truck out of the parking place. “Thank you, Madeline.”

“You’re using my first name. This sounds serious.”

“I am serious. I had a great time. I’m glad you invited me.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely. The question is, are you glad you invited me?”

“Why would you say that?”

He turns on the radio, motions for a BMW to cut in front of us and grins at me. “Callaway, you wear your emotions the way you wear food on your clothes—right out there for everyone to see.”

“That’s not—why would you—” I’m sputtering, trying to find words to deny it.

“If you’re thinking I’m going to hook up with Tonya again, I’m not. I’m not even going to do any more work for her. The only reason I said she could call me was to make her go away. So I could get back to you.” He pauses. “Do you believe me?”

I nod. “Yes. I do.” I’m kind of astonished to realize that I do believe him.

“Good.”

But there’s more going on here than just Tonya.

I hate that this night is almost over, that the ride home is only ten minutes long. I hate that he knows I’m upset.

Most of all, I hate that he’s being so calm about all of this.

It slaps me, then—an icy-cold wave of wake up, Madeline—that maybe Jack is acting like he doesn’t care BECAUSE he doesn’t care.

And this is what I hate most of all.

I reach toward the dashboard and stab the volume button with my finger to turn down the music. “Okay. How do you do it?”

“Do what?” He looks bewildered, wary.

“Just—just move on from relationships, like they don’t matter.” Like I don’t matter.

I’ve hit a nerve. I can only see the right side of his face, but the muscles in his cheek are tight.

“It’s not that they don’t matter. It’s just that...I don’t know. I guess I’ve trained myself to let go. It’s a matter of protection. Survival.” His voice softens. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, I know. But you’re not the only one with trust issues, remember?”

“I never said I was.”

“Bad things happen to people, Jack. It hurts. It sucks. But you learn to move on.” I feel this crazy sense of desperation, like I need to convince him of this right now. “You learn to move on so you can enjoy your life. So you can be happy.” I feel a stinging in my nose. “I want you to be happy, Jack.”

“I appreciate that, Madeline. And I’m fine.”

“Fine and happy are not the same thing.” The clench of his jaw makes me realize I need to stop. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

But of course, it isn’t. I’m trembling inside my coat, hoping he won’t notice. By the time we pull into my driveway, the sense that I’ve fucked everything up is bubbling inside me like hot lava. There’s nowhere for it to go but out.

He puts the truck in park and starts to take off his seatbelt. Since he left his vehicle running, it’s clear he’s not staying but just wants to be a gentleman and open my door for me. This brings me to my boiling point. He probably went tonight because he felt sorry for me and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Little did I know that this charity gala would also turn out to be a charity case. For me.

I don’t need his pity.

In the way back of my mind, I know there’s a very good chance I’m completely wrong, but when you’re feeling this sorry for yourself and in the throes of PMS, rational thought takes a back seat.

“You don’t need to walk me to my house, Jack. I’m fine—just like you.”

“What is going on with you?”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Charity? What the fuck are you talking about, Madeline?” His eyes are stormy—the ocean in January kind of stormy. He turns off the ignition and gets out of the truck, slams the door.

I walk quickly to the side steps, fumbling in my purse for my house key. Jack is right behind me. I push open the door, furious with myself for ruining what was a really wonderful night, and he follows me into the kitchen, banging the door closed behind him.

I turn to face him. I’ve never seen him angry—there is a wildness about him that’s disconcerting. And sexy as hell.

“This hasn’t exactly been a cake walk for me, you know.” He’s glowering.

“Really? I thought you were ‘fine.’”

His mouth opens as if he’s going to shout at me, but all that comes out is an unintelligible growl. He shakes his head in frustration, raking a hand roughly through his hair so that it’s back to looking untamed.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to the gala, Jack.”

“I could have said no.”

“You’re probably wishing you did.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Madeline. This isn’t all your doing. If I hadn’t gotten involved with you, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

For some reason, I find that word offensive. “Situation? Is that what we are? A goddamned situation?”

The tears come then. I feel like crumpling into a pathetic heap on my kitchen floor, me and my tear-stained, chocolate-stained dress. “Just get out. Please leave, Jack. Go be fine somewhere.”

I can’t stand it anymore. I hate having him see me like this. I turn away, practically running toward the living room when I’m grabbed from behind.

“Madeline...don’t. Please don’t.” He spins me around, clutching my shoulders, his face blazing with anguish.

“This is so stupid, Jack.” I’m sobbing. “So fucking stupid.” I put my hands on his chest, try to push him away, but his grip is tight. “Let go of me.”

“You don’t want that.”

His voice has changed, thickened. Through a teary haze, I can see that his eyes have changed, too. They’re burning, but not with anger or concern. “You want me to fuck you.”

He drops his hands to my waist, pulling me against the growing hardness in his pants. It’s as if he is electricity and I’m the wire, helpless to do anything but take what he gives me. It doesn’t matter that he’s arrogant, or that I hate both of us, or that my tears have ruined what was a damned good make-up job...all that matters at this moment is that he wants me, and I want him, and we’re going to do something about it.

But there is still the matter of my pride. “I don’t want anything from you,” I choke out, trying to ignore the surge of wetness between my legs. “Not one thing.”

“Bullshit,” he says softly, smiling, and bends down to crush my mouth with his own. He kisses me, drinking me in like he has this insatiable thirst, with lips that are both strong and soft. Oh, God! How I have missed his mouth, and everything attached to it.

The truth in me escapes in a low moan. His hands go to the back of my gown, and I feel his fingers working to undo the clasp. He’s breathing hard against my mouth, his tongue probing mine, and then he pulls back to mutter, “Jesus, Callaway...you fucking rocked this dress tonight, but right now, I just want it off you.”

Hastily, I reach my own hands behind my back to unhook. He slides the zipper down, and I step out of my dress so I’m only in my push-up bra, panties and heels, my bare skin and anticipation making me shiver.

Jack wrestles off his coat, unbuttons his shirt to reveal those chiseled pecs and abs. I have missed those, too. There is a thin sheen of sweat on his chest and impulsively, I press my nose against him, loving the clean, masculine scent of his skin.

His voice is low, gravelly, full of desire as he spins me around, bends me over the back of the couch and presses his now rock-hard bulge against my ass. “I wanted to fuck you the second I saw you tonight. And you wanted that, too. Didn’t you?”

I can barely breathe. “Yes,” I whisper.

“I’ve got to fuck you now, Madeline. Got to fuck you hard.”

My Christ. I am drenched—a helpless, hopeless pool of arousal. I couldn’t get away from him even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. Ever.

His hand goes to the back of my neck, twisting my hair around his fingers and holding firmly. I feel him yank down my panties, and the flesh on my bare bottom prickles with the cool air. His fingers curve under my mound, lightly tickling my clit and then pushing inside my vagina. He expels a sound that’s a perfect blend of sigh and groan. “Jesus...you’re fucking soaked.”

I feel his hard, smooth head poking against my wet opening. His hard, smooth, bare head. I tense up for a second. We’ve never done it unprotected before.

“Madeline...I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t know we’d...God, I just want you so bad. I’ll pull out, I promise.” His voice is ragged, raw.

I’m a few days away from my period, so I don’t worry about pregnancy. And I trust him. “It’s okay.” I can hardly breathe. “I just want you. Please, please just fuck me, Jack.”

I spread my legs and he groans again, tightening his grip on my hair. Grunting, he slides his bare cock into me. I gasp. He feels so big, so hard, so good.

“Take it, sweetheart,” he’s groaning. “Take all of it.”

And I do. I open my legs wider as he fucks me, his thrusts becoming harder and deeper as though he’s trying to prove something—like this is an urgent reclaiming on the fringe of desperation.

“Madeline...Christ, you feel so good. So hot, so wet...” He pounds into me over and over. I have to bite my lip not to cry out, because I feel like I’m being stretched to my max.

I am turned on beyond belief.

He’s holding my hips as he fucks me. He’s hard as steel, and I know he’s almost there. I’m riding the crest of my own crescendo, tightening around him, begging him to fuck me harder. With a few more deep thrusts, he groans my name and pulls out of me just before we both come.

I lean over the couch, trying to catch my breath. When I turn around, Jack is standing there with hands on hips, pants still down at his ankles and his massive erection slowly waning. There are damp pieces of his hair curling on his forehead. I go to him, looping my arms around his firm waist and feel his lips on the top of my head.

“Jack...” My eyes are burning. I’m not sure what else to say.

He takes my chin in his hand, tipping my head back so I’m looking into his eyes. I look deep, deep—searching for something I hope is there.

“We’re quite a pair, huh?” He smiles ruefully.

After a moment, I respond with another question. “Where does this leave us?”

He doesn’t answer. But from what I see in his gaze, I can guess what he’s thinking.

Nowhere.