Chapter Thirty-Four

NOELY

“Mommy doesn’t exist for the next few hours, but she loves you, don’t forget that. She loves you so much she wants you to leave her alone. Bye, bye.” Dylan hangs up her phone and plops it in the cup holder of her chair. Leaning her head back, she soaks up the sun.

Fall in Malibu doesn’t necessarily scream pumpkins and apple cider; it’s maybe a few degrees cooler, but that’s about it. That’s why Dylan and I are hanging out on the beach, toes in the sand, faces pointed toward the sun, soaking in the sun’s rays. The breeze makes it a little chilly for a bathing suit, so instead I’m wearing a pair of small denim shorts and a red V-neck shirt, perfect for the seventy-five-degree weather.

Huffing next to me, Dylan says, “God, I love those kids, but if they call me one more time while I’m trying to bury the sun into my pores, I’m going to go home as a bitter woman and pee all over their toys.”

“That’s horrifying, but for some odd reason, I’m envisioning it in my head.”

“Am I wearing a carpet vest? As a bitter, peeing mom, I feel like I would wear a carpet vest.”

“Uhh . . .” I pause from the odd question. “I never thought about clothes for you.”

“You want me to be naked? Typical. You’re such a pervert.”

I can’t even with her.

“Fine, you have a vest.” I roll my eyes and sip my water.

We sit in silence, our feet warming from the sand, the waves crashing, echoing through the quiet beach. We chose a deserted location, intentionally staying away from tourists. In all honesty, we chose a private residence beach. Dylan’s friend owns a beach house and is out of town right now, so we might have jumped their fence with our chairs and cooler, then hiked it down the steps along the cliff that brought us down to their private beach.

I’m not proud of it, but I’m very happy about it, especially since I don’t have to listen to random tourists yell at their kids to be careful.

Dylan pops open her e-reader and starts reading, her sunglasses helping protect her eyes from the brightness of the sun. Seeing she’s distracted by her latest historical romance infatuation, I pull out my phone. Since my last message, I haven’t heard anything from NY152 and it’s making me slightly apprehensive. Did I scare him away? Does he not believe me?

What I’ve come to realize over the last few weeks while messaging him—whoever he is—is that it isn’t about if he’s The Suit or The Rebel anymore. It’s become more about the man I’ve gotten to know. The man who’s opened up, who’s joked, and who’s stolen my little romantic heart with his gestures and words.

Feeling sad there isn’t a message from him, I decide to type my own message out.

 

NY152,

I’ve had an obsession lately, and I’m not about to tell you this so you start sending me baskets full of them, but because I want to know if you happen to have the same taste buds as me.

Do you . . . like Butterfingers? (holds breath)

Noely

 

I press send and wait for a response. Looking toward the ocean, I think about one of NY152’s previous messages, about how childhood seems so close, yet so far away. I can remember going to the beach with my parents, with Alex, building sand castles, burying our dad in the sand, and running through the short waves on the shoreline, never letting the water get past my knees. They were simpler times, times where you didn’t have to worry about things like finding someone to share your life with, or worrying about a job, or winding up alone. It might sound ridiculous, to worry about finding the counterpoint to your soul with all the other things happening in the world. But growing up with loving parents, parents who still adore each other, they set the bar high for me. They’re what I so desperately want to replicate.

Ding.

A message.

Smiling, I open it up.

 

Noely,

Butterfingers, hmm . . . what if I told you I had a bag of them in my cabinet right now? Would that score me some brownie points?

Me

 

Not able to hold back my smirk, I type him back.

 

NY152,

Are you saying that just to say that? Or do you really have Butterfingers in your cabinet? If so, we might be a match made in heaven.

Noely

 

Exiting out of the app, I set my phone down on my lap and reach for my drink just in time to see a familiar figure walking in my direction.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What?” Dylan asks, eyes still trained on her e-reader.

Walking up to us, wearing worn, tight-fitting jeans and a light blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, is Jack Valentine. Boy, does he look good.

“I thought that was you,” he says when he reaches our beach chairs. Dylan lowers her sunglasses and eyes Jack up and down. A noncommittal grunt comes from her before she turns back to her e-reader.

“Jack, what are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, adjusting my shirt as I turn to face him in my chair.

He motions to the house behind us. “Well, this is my neighbor’s house, and this is his private beach. He’s out of town, and said I’d keep an eye on his house for him. When I saw two women camping out in his sand, I figured I’d see who the squatters were. To my surprise, it’s the hosts of Good Morning, Malibu.” He searches around, a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Are you two doing a segment on a weekend I don’t know about? How to break into someone’s private beach?”

“Ehhh . . .” I look at Dylan who doesn’t seem to care at all about what’s going on. With my foot, I poke her to gather her attention, but she swats me away. Nervously laughing, I shrug my shoulders, “Uh, is this not the proper thing to do? Crash out on private beaches?”

Jack’s smile lights up his entire face as he shakes his head. “No. It can actually get you put in jail, you know, trespassing on private property. That’s if someone calls you in.” He reaches in his pocket, takes out his phone and starts flipping it in his hand.

“You hearing this, Dylan?” I poke her again with my foot.

“Stop poking me. I’m at the good part where her milky breasts are revealed.” Once again, Dylan swats at me, leaving me out to dry.

“You know”—Jack rocks on his heels—“how about this? I don’t call the cops on you if you come up to my house for a drink.”

Looking up to the cliff, to the residence behind us, I take in the two houses that flank each side, both beautiful, both houses I could only dream of having. I bet the view is amazing from up there.

Just to make his point clear, Jack adds, “Good Morning, Malibu’s hosts being booked for trespassing doesn’t necessary scream good ratings to me.” He smiles, confident in his proposal.

“You wouldn’t call the cops.”

“Try me.” He holds up his phone and even though I’m 99.9% confident he wouldn’t make that call, I’m actually quite interested to see what his house looks like. Plus, we’re friends now, right?

Standing from my chair, I gather my purse and phone. “Jail doesn’t seem fun right now, so I’ll take you up on that drink.”

“Smart.” He takes in Dylan. Pointing at her, he asks, “Is she going to be okay here?”

“She’s going to be perfectly fine.”

“After you, then,” Jack says, his voice light, his demeanor almost giddy. It’s odd, seeing him like this, but also kind of infatuating.

***

Have you ever looked up a realty website, stuck in the most expensive budget, and just drooled all over the houses you wish you could own?

Jack’s house is one of those.

Whoever built his house spent every waking minute constructing it so no matter what room you were in, you had an almost panoramic view of the crystal-blue ocean. The living room has pocket doors that span the length of the house, opening up to a gorgeous deck with clear glass walls, white concrete flooring, and the most beautiful rectangular fire pit I’ve ever seen. And when I say fire pit, I mean fire comes out of glass rocks. It’s so gorgeous. The bedrooms and bathrooms have stunning views as well, the master opening to the length of the deck, adding another outdoor/indoor living space. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The house is bright with its white walls, light grey accents, and chrome features. There isn’t much on the walls, really anything at all actually. He’s a minimalist, because it looks as if he just moved in.

Jack opens one of the most expensive-looking fridges I’ve ever seen and asks, “What would you like to drink?” Taking a glance in his fridge he cringes. “Damn, I should have thought this through. I have water and that’s pretty much it.”

“Water is fine.”

He hands me a bottle and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, I kind of just moved in, so I’m still working on stocking up on things.”

Just moved in . . . huh.

“Uh, that’s okay. No problem at all.” I uncap my water and take a sip of it. “I guess that would explain the lack of décor on the walls.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, still working on that as well. I’ve never been much of a decorator, so I have no idea what I’m doing. I might hire someone to do it all for me.”

“No, don’t do that.” I shake my head and start nervously peeling the label off my water bottle. For some reason—even since our dressing room bang—Jack makes me incredibly nervous, but not in a bad way. From the moment I met him, there’s been a nervous, electric energy that’s pulled me toward him. “Take your time learning your style, find pieces and décor you like and slowly put it together. You’re going to be so much happier if you’re the one who decorates your house over time rather than a random stranger coming in and trying to decipher your taste.”

“But I know nothing.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s your house, you don’t have to know anything except what you like.”

Leaning on the counter, his dark eyes sparkle at me. “You’re right.” He shakes his head and continues, “I don’t know why I thought I needed to impress anyone. I should do what I like, so if I want to put up a poster of Superman, I can.”

“Wait a minute now.” I tamp him down with my hand. “You should decorate with what you like, but in good taste. If you decorate with Superman posters, you can guarantee your chances of getting laid will go down at least forty percent. I don’t know if that’s a percentage you’re willing to risk.”

He sips from his water bottle, the water making his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Why that’s sexy to me, I will never know.

When he caps his water, he looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Noely, there is only one person on my mind when I think about getting laid.”

Those eyes, that jaw, his lips, oh hell, my body is drawn toward him.

“Care to join me on the deck?” He nods behind him.

“Uh, sure.” I swallow hard and roll up the water bottle label in my hand. “Where’s your trashcan?”

“Under the sink.” Turning to the sink behind me, I open the cabinet and pull out the trash can and toss my water bottle label on top of a Butterfinger wrapper.

Still, as if the air around me is disappearing, I stare at that wrapper, wanting to rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things. Looking up, I glance around his kitchen.

A candle.

Leather scent.

Turning, I take in his living room.

A wicker basket holding magazines.

Holy shit.

HOLY SHIT!

“I need to pee,” I panic shout, standing tall and accidentally slamming the cabinet door shut too loudly.

“Uh, is everything okay?” Jack asks, moving from the deck opening back to me.

“Peachy.” I laugh uncomfortably. “Everything is nice, just nice. But I have to pee pee, like now.” Christ, don’t say pee pee.

“Bathroom is down the hall,” he says, pointing to where I need to go.

“Yep.” Half-sprinting, half-walking, I make my way to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn toward the mirror, which is almost non-existent thanks to the span of windows overlooking the ocean.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, trying to get my head around this.

The new house, the Butterfingers, the leather candle, the wicker basket . . . he’s NY152. The Suit, Jack Valentine, the man who wanted nothing to do with me after our first date, is the one who’s been making my heart melt, causing my little romantic heart to go pitter-patter. He’s the one who’s been making me fall for him through his words and wooing ways.

Did I already say . . . holy shit?

It’s all making sense now. His mixed signals every time I ran into him, his ability to create a new profile on the app—hello, he owns the damn thing—his urging to want to be friends, to want to get closer to me.

Jack Valentine is NY152; he’s my very own Joe Fox.

To say my mind is blown is an understatement. From the way things ended with us, I never considered it could be Jack. Especially after seeing Beck the other day. But he came after me in the dressing room. He took me because he couldn’t resist any longer. He asked me to go out with him.

Hand pressed to my forehead, I look out the window, almost feeling dizzy from the realization. That’s when I spot Jack, leaning over the glass wall of his deck, hands typing away on the screen of his phone, a smile on his face.

His posture seems so much more relaxed, at ease, as if he’s finally happy.

Ding.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and see a notification. Looking back at Jack, I watch as he puts his phone in his pocket and then stares out at the ocean, hands pressed in front of him.

HOLY SHIT!

Unable to wait a second longer, I open my app and read his message.

 

Noely,

From the get-go, I’ve thought we’re a match made in heaven. I’m trying to get you on board and if that means I have a lifetime supply of Butterfingers in my cabinet at all times, then I’ll start ordering right now.

Me

 

I read his message a few times, my heart pounding out of my chest, my breath catching in my throat with each pass. Needing to talk to someone, I quickly dial Dylan and pray she picks up.

“If he’s captured you, tied you up, and is asking for ransom, then that’s the only reason I won’t be mad at you for calling when I’m reading my stories.”

“Dylan,” I whisper, not wanting to be too loud. “It’s him.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Dylan, wait.” I say in a panic. “Jack, he’s NY152.”

There’s silence on the other end. I check my phone to make sure I’m still connected and she didn’t hang up on me, which she didn’t.

“Dylan, please say something. I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you sure it’s him?” she finally asks, sounding only marginally annoyed that I interrupted her “stories.”

“Yes,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. “There have been clues from our letters; it’s too much to explain but it’s definitely him. I just watched him send me a message through the app too.”

“Really? Okay.” I can hear her shift on her chair. “Where are you now?”

“In the bathroom.” I watch Jack, whose back muscles are rippling under his shirt with every movement he makes. “I excused myself when I figured it out. I don’t know what to do now. Should I leave?”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Um, I mean . . . not really.” And if that truth doesn’t shock me, I don’t know what will. I’ve done everything in my ability to avoid this man, but for some reason, I keep finding him in my presence. Or perhaps, he has kept finding me. Could the Going In Blind app really be right? The first date is the best match. Despite my turbulent feelings toward The Suit, it’s NY152 I’ve gotten to know, who I’ve started to fall for.

“Okay, then go enjoy yourself. What’s the problem?” She makes it seem so simple, but for some reason, it feels less than simple.

“But, do I tell him I know? Do I confront him?”

“No,” Dylan’s voice is stern. “He clearly has a plan, something he’s trying to execute. You didn’t think you’d ever want to go out with him again. You couldn’t stand him. And from the way you treated him, I wouldn’t blame him wanting to take a different approach when it came to winning your affection. Let him do his thing.”

“So, just go on as if I know nothing? Won’t that be weird?”

“Only if you make it weird. Instead of worrying about the romantic gesture he’s making, enjoy his company. Try to find the chemistry you had when you went out on your first date, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy than after your first date with him.”

She’s right, she’s absolutely right.

“Let it happen, Noely. Don’t overthink it; let it be.”

Hanging up with a goodbye and thank you, I take one last look in the mirror and fluff my hair, mentally giving myself a pep talk as butterflies start to float around in my stomach for this man once again.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. We’ve been on a date. Hell, he’s seen me with a horrible perm, he’s had his way with me in my dressing room, and he’s made it quite clear his intentions are to get to know me all over again. So what’s holding me back? A miscommunication? He’s already explained his reasoning. So it can’t be that.

Maybe it’s what Beck said. Maybe I’m too scared about failing, I’m not quite ready to give my relationship with Jack another go in fear it won’t work out.

But . . . what if it does?

At this point, the positives are outweighing the negatives of my internal dialogue. I’m going to do what Dylan suggested. I’m going to let Jack do his thing and, in the meantime, get to know him on a more personal level.