Claire

2018

This is happening.

It’s really happening.

Jaxon Bennett is my limo driver.

I’m standing on the front porch, pretending to check my purse for the essentials—ID. Cellphone. Money. Emergency Credit card—while my dad chats him up, nodding and smiling. Reaching up to clap a hand against his enormous shoulder. They’re standing at the foot of porch steps, less than ten feet away and it doesn’t take long to realize my father recognizes him.

... mother must be proud.

... always impressed with your dedication to Simon.

... always wondered what happened to you.

That makes two of us.

The thought makes me laugh, the sound of it bubbling past my lips and Jaxon’s head snaps up at the sound. He’s still wearing his sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes but I don’t have to see them to feel them. He nails me with a look so sharp, I can practically feel it pierce my skin.

I roll my lips over my teeth in response because I know what it sounded like. It sounded like I’m crazy. Like I’m somehow affected by his sudden and unwelcome appearance, and I’m not.

I.

Am.

Not.

“Oh, Claire.” My dad spots me while I push myself across the porch. “You remember Jaxon, don’t you?”

“Hello, Claire.” A hand appears in front of me. A very large, very strong hand, offering to help me navigate my way down the steps.

So much for being forgettable.

I hesitate, cursing Bri and these godforsaken shoes. The only thing I want less than to touch Jaxon Bennett is for him to see me trip down the stairs like a deer on roller skates. Making up my mind, I slip my hand in his, aiming what I hope is a puzzled expression in his direction.

“I’m sorry,” I say, giving him my best Grace Kelly. “Have we met?”

His hand tightens, his long, wide fingers squeezing around mine, almost hard enough to hurt. As quickly as they constrict, his fingers loosen. “See, Dr. St. James,” he says on a laugh while his thumb sweeps over the soft underside of my wrist. The gentle pressure is intimate. Designed to remind me of all the other intimate things I let him do to me. It works. I suddenly can’t breathe. “I told you she wouldn’t remember me.” He aims an easy smile at me. “You used to babysit for my… Simon.” He does it again, skims the pad of his thumb over the pulse hammering away in my wrist, and it takes everything I have to keep my knees from buckling completely. I give him a blank look, silently willing myself to stand my ground.

Finally, splitting an apologetic smile between him and father, I pull my hand free from his. “I remember Simon, but I don’t remember you,” I say, feeling fierce and savage when I see his smile go hard around the edges. “What was your name again?”

“Jaxon.” He says it carefully, like the sound of his own name is sharp against his tongue. “Jaxon Bennett.”

“Hmmm…” I cock my head, twisting my lips like I’m trying to remember him. Finally I right my head and shrug. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Claire—” The admonishing tone my father uses on me makes me feel like a child. A bratty, spoiled child.

Turning toward him, I lean over to give my dad a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t wait up,” I say before blading myself between the two of them, heading toward the open door of the limo where I can see Bri waiting.

“... apologize. Claire’s had a rough couple of years. When Brianna left, she...”

Hearing him apologize for me makes me want to scream. Hearing him categorize my king-sized abandonment issues as a rough couple of years makes me want to cry. Especially since he’s explaining them to the one person who’s leaving hurt me the most.

I risk a look out the open door as I slide across the seat. Jaxon is looking right at me. “No apology necessary, sir. There wasn’t much about me worth remembering back then.”

“That certainly isn’t the case now,” my dad says, offering Jaxon his hand. “I’d like to thank you for your service.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jaxon smiles at my father and takes his hand, offering him what sounds like a rehearsed response. “Your gratitude is appreciated.”

So that’s what happened.

Jaxon went into the military.

Mystery solved.

“We better not lose our reservation.” I look up to find Bri frowning at her cell phone. “I had to book it six months in advance.”

Actually, I booked it, and it was nearly nine months ago, but I don’t point that out. I’m too busy watching Jaxon. He leaves my father at the bottom of the porch steps, walking toward me at a fast clip.

“Relax, we won’t be late,” I say to her, still looking up at Jaxon through the open car door. His jaw is clenched tight and even thought I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them, dark and intense, trained on my face. He’s angry. Feels rejected. Confused.

Good.

Now he knows what it feels like.

“I’m sure Lurch is an excellent driver,” I say and I have the satisfaction of watching his jaw go slack, right before I shut the door in his face.