CHAPTER TEN
Chapter Seven
Vanessa
I woke on Saturday feeling deprived of more than just sleep. After Jackson had walked me home and made it clear that he wasn't going to come in I struggled to fall asleep. My brain replayed the kisses we'd shared, the feel of his hands on my ass, my skin and the breath of his words against my ear: I want to know how you say my name when I make you come. I should've yanked my vibrator from my underwear drawer, conjured up a fantasy where he did indeed make me come and eased the sexual tension that throbbed through me like the tide during a tsunami. No, I decided I wanted to wait until he did the job himself, which meant that my quality of sleep was second-hand-discount-store grade.
Jackson messaged to say he was on his way to pick up Gran from Euston Station. I'd passed the message on and she'd responded with a selfie of her and the man himself ten minutes later. I could see one of her hands holding the helmet; the other was out of the shot and I had my suspicions as to where it was placed. My gran could always be trusted to get a crafty feel in when an attractive man was concerned and she got away with it simply because she was old.
But certainly not stupid.
I left my apartment and headed to Amelie's, determined to keep my hands to myself while Gran was around for the day. Any hint of anything other than friendship and Gran would be all over it like a rash. But after she had headed home, all bets were off: Sophie was right, it was time to dust off the lady parts and see if they were still in full working order, or if it was something else that Richard the dick had irreparably damaged and another thing to add to his bill.
It was a warm late spring day, the London I'd loved since moving here for my master's degree was in full swing; even though it was still early, the streets were starting to bustle with a business that lacked the usual desperation of a weekday. I'd opted for skinny ripped jeans and a vest, a long necklace I'd picked up on a holiday in Marrakesh dangled in between my breasts and if I said I hadn't picked the outfit with Jackson in mind I'd be lying.
Amelie's café was busy with tourists getting an early breakfast before heading off to Greenwich or the London Eye or one of the other attractions that served the millions of visitors that came to London each year. I wasn't a Londoner; the biggest part of my heart lived in Derbyshire, just near Bakewell, and I'd grown up a country girl in the midst of the Peak District. But I loved my adopted hometown and the fact that there was always something to do on a Saturday when work wasn't screaming too loudly or Richard hadn't persuaded me to spend the day further down the Thames with his boating friends from his private school, not something I'd generally enjoyed but did out of duty.
Amelie showed me to a table big enough for four and provided coffee without me asking. It seemed that if you worked with Callaghan Greene she automatically understood that you needed fuel in the form of caffeine to function. I wasn't going to complain. "He's a nice man, Jackson," she said, smiling. "He doesn't realize it but he needs to settle down. He's lonely."
"I'm not sure he could ever be lonely," I said, nibbling the cinnamon biscuit she'd provided with the coffee. "He's surrounded by family and with people nearly all the time. He's anything but lonely."
"But sometimes," she said, sitting down next to me. "Sometimes the loneliest place to be is in a crowded room. He's used to a big family, and although he's not the oldest, he's the one they all come to with their problems and worries. Who does he have?"
"How do you know them so well?" I asked. Amelie was around my age, I'd guessed. Her hair today was washed light pink, nails painted in a leopard print design with pink instead of browns.
"Sugar, I've known Maxwell, Jackson, and Claire since I came out of my mother's womb," she smiled. "Let Jacks tell you the story sometime. I need to prep breakfasts for the starving." I watched her walk to the counter wearing a long hippy style skirt and a broderie Anglaise sleeveless top, confused as to how she'd known them for so long when she seemed so unlike the Callaghan's.
I was lost in thought when Jackson arrived with my grandmother who appeared to have acquired his leather jacket and was smoothing her hair down like she was one of the Pink Ladies in Grease. I raised my eyebrows at her, saying nothing, mainly because I didn't want to know the answer.
"Well, honey, that was almost the ride of my life. Nearly beat the time I was on the back of Lawrie Turner's Harley back in '72," she said, sitting down opposite.
"I'm not going to ask, Gran," I said, warning her with my tone. "Have a look at the menu and see what you want for breakfast."
She eyeballed me and picked up the menu. Jackson entered a couple of minutes later, helmet free and smiling. "I've left the bike at the offices until tomorrow. I don't think the traffic cops would like me taking you and your gran on the back of it at the same time."
"I think you'd have to pull in a few favors if you were caught."
He sat next to me, immediately putting his hand on my back and moving close enough so that our legs were touching. My gran gave me a look that told me she knew exactly what was happening underneath the table and she approved. "How was your train journey, Gran?" I said. Jackson kept his hand on the small of my back, his thumb softly stroking me.
"Not half as exciting as how I got here from Euston. Thank you for that, Jackson. It was kind of you to help an old lady out and save me from the heat and chaos of the tube," she said, nodding towards him. Like my gran needed saving. She was one of the most capable people I knew and she thrived off the chaos in London and the stories it gave her to tell her friends over bridge and sherry. Or tequila shots, on one occasion that I had nearly obliterated from my memory.
"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.