1
I had a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day.
It was Valentine’s Day, and I, China Mack, had a boyfriend.
My boyfriend and I were going on a date, on Valentine’s Day.
No matter how many times and ways I said it inside my head, it still felt like a fairy tale. I was one of those people who ignored Valentine’s Day. If someone brought it up, I shrugged it off as a “Hallmark Holiday.” Then I’d go home and shoot up men on Halo. A lot of men (I was pretty darn good at Halo).
But tonight, there would be no first-person-shooter games for me, because I had a real-life boyfriend who was taking me to a real-world brick-and-mortar restaurant for a classic, romantic Valentine’s Day date.
I’d even been promised roses and chocolates. (Yes, I’d asked for them, but still. He could’ve said no.) There would be flowers and candy and a boyfriend and wine and dinner and fantastic, toe-curling sex afterward with my amazing, wonderful, handsome, brilliant, and, did I mention rich? boyfriend.
It was going to be perfect.
As soon as I squeezed into my dress.
“Stop wriggling,” Mia complained. “You’re going to get your skin caught in the zipper, and that’ll hurt like hell, trust me.”
“It itches,” I complained.
“So what? You look amazing. You’re wearing it, and I don’t care if it itches. Now hold your hair so it doesn’t get caught in the zipper. And be careful! I worked hard on those curls.”
Mia was my sixteen-year-old niece who’d gotten all those “girl” genes that had skipped right over me. My hair was coal black, thick, and long. Usually, my hair style of choice—and ability—was a ponytail. Tonight, Mia had spent an hour with various heating and styling implements to turn my hair into a work of art. And I had to say, she’d succeeded.
Long curls in an artful disarray streamed down my back, while the sides were pinned up behind my ears. Some twisting strands were left loose and framed my face, making my jawline appear delicate and feminine—two adjectives I had trouble pulling off on the best of days.
My usual attire was jeans, a T-shirt, and a button-up shirt layered over that because I was perpetually cold. Tonight, I was guaranteed to freeze because the dress Mia was currently zipping me into had less fabric than my summertime Endor Star Wars pajamas.
I had one “real” dress (Mia’s description) in my wardrobe, bought for a work-related-undercover-kind-of-thing. Though in reality I had four—if you counted the Dalek dress I’d had specially made for Halloween, my Uhura miniskirt dress from Star Trek, and Princess Éowyn’s wedding gown from The Return of the King. I’d wanted to wear the work dress for tonight. Mia had firmly vetoed that plan.
“Jackson’s already seen you in that dress,” she’d said.
I didn’t see why that was a reason for Jackson—the aforementioned boyfriend—not to see me in it again, but I’d been hauled out to the shopping mall despite my quite logical argument that if I continued with this “rule” of not rewearing garments Jackson had seen, I’d soon be out of space in my closet. Mia had ignored me.
She’d chosen this dress, and while I’d been skeptical, she was right. As usual. It was a deep midnight-blue, which she said “brought out” my eyes, which were also blue. Silver threads were woven through the fabric (and were the source of the itching), but weren’t visible until light hit them in just the right way, so no matter which way I turned, I sparkled. It was a cap sleeve with a V-neckline that showed more cleavage than I usually displayed. And since I usually displayed none, I hoped Jackson appreciated the view, because it was darn cold. Since I barely topped five foot two on a good day, Mia said I needed a short hem, which was the only part of the dress not clinging to me like a second skin. Floaty and overlaid with a filmy blue fabric, the skirt stopped an inch above my knee and flared when I spun in a circle, which I’d done too many times to be appropriate for my age. I was twenty-four, not six.
So, the bottom line was that the woman looking back at me in the mirror when Mia was (finally) through with my makeup looked nothing like the China Mack (that’s me) that I saw every day, which I suppose was the point. It was a holiday, after all, even if it was just a Hallmark one. Not for the first time did I wish I could handle wearing contacts instead of glasses, just to show off Mia’s mad makeup skills.
I slipped on the silver ballet flats Mia had made me buy to go with the dress—I’d put my foot down at the mention of heels, literally—and eyed the silver clutch purse she was holding.
“It’s not big enough to carry anything,” I complained. I never used a purse. A backpack was much more practical, and easier.
“All you need is your phone.” She put it in the purse. “Your keys.” Those went in, too. “Lip gloss and powder.” She handed the clutch to me. “All set.”
“When do I put on the makeup?” I didn’t usually wear the stuff, having never quite gotten the hang of “smoky eyes” and “pouty lips.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you. After dinner, in the bathroom. Don’t ever touch up makeup at the table, and you can reapply the lip gloss more than just once—hint, hint.”
“For as much as it cost, I’d better.” The little tube had been almost forty bucks.
“Jackson is going to flip when he sees you,” she said with more than a little satisfaction, looking me up and down. “I am so good.”
I laughed outright. “And modest, too,” I teased, but she just shrugged.
“You look stunning. Let’s take a selfie.”
Thus began about ten minutes of her posing us and posting on various social media platforms, at one point turning us both into puppy dogs via Snapchat. Mia’s long, blond hair and Barbie-perfect face—even without makeup—were a stark contrast to me, and usually I felt dumpy next to her statuesque beauty. But not tonight. Tonight, I felt pretty.
I kept glancing at the clock. Jackson was never late, and I was anxious to see him. He’d been out of town for a couple of weeks, and though we’d FaceTimed every day, I’d missed him. Missed his arms around me, his warm kisses, and his smile that was just for me when we were alone together.
It was straight-up seven o’clock when the doorbell rang. My stomach flipped over in anticipation, and I was across the living room and foyer of my duplex in three seconds flat, my cheeks hurting from the huge grin I couldn’t help.
I threw open the door and stopped breathing.
Jackson Cooper was six feet of pure male perfection, with thick, wavy hair the warm shade of chestnut and eyes the golden brown reminiscent of Edward’s “vegetarian” diet in Twilight (without the special effects, of course). His shoulders were wide, his waist narrow, and his body lean, lithe muscle. Said body was currently wrapped in an immaculate tuxedo that I knew had to be designer and tailored. Jackson wasn’t shy about liking nice things, and since he could afford to buy them, he did.
“Wow,” I breathed. If I’d been a cartoon character, my eyes would’ve morphed into red hearts.
He didn’t say anything at first, and his eyes widened. He looked me down, then up, then made the journey all over again . . . slower. When his eyes met mine, there was a gleam in them that made my tummy flip again.
Shy under his silent scrutiny, I went for my nervous tic of reaching up to tighten my nonexistent ponytail.
“Don’t touch it!” Mia called out sharply, making me jump. I’d forgotten she was in the living room behind me.
I yanked my arms back down.
Jackson cracked a smile, his low chuckle warming the air between us. “I see Mia’s been making you even more beautiful than you already are,” he said.
And the man could turn a phrase. Jackson ticked all the boxes on the Man of a Woman’s Dreams list and then some. Lucky for me, he was my Dream Man . . . and my Valentine date.
“Doesn’t she look awesome?” Mia popped up over my shoulder.
Jackson’s gaze was still on me. “Indeed, she does.” His voice held an undertone of promise that made my cheeks grow warm.
Mia snickered.
He suddenly brandished a small bouquet of pink mini-roses and offered them to Mia. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said.
She squealed with delight. “Awesome! Thanks!” Then she was off, padding into the kitchen to put them in a vase.
I waited, expecting more flowers. But his hands were empty.
Oh.
Well, that was okay. Flowers were technically already dead once they were cut. Really, it was an illogical expenditure. Still, though, no one had ever bought me flowers before.
“Are you ready?” he asked. “It’s cold. Let me get your coat.”
He brushed past me and retrieved my one dress coat from the closet. It was also a new expenditure—a cream wool swing coat that was warm and didn’t make me look short. He held it for me to put on, his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he lifted my hair free of the collar. A shiver went through me at the light touch.
“You might want to check the pockets,” Jackson said. “I thought I felt something in one of them.”
I pushed my hands into the pockets, and sure enough, one of them had a small box in it. Puzzled, I pulled it out. It was a black box, to be precise, with an elaborate “HW” imprinted on the top. I glanced up at Jackson, who winked.
“Open it,” he said.
Carefully, I lifted the lid, then stared in shock at the diamond tennis bracelet inside. I’d never had a piece of jewelry in my life, much less diamonds. I had no idea how much this had cost, but it sure must have been a heck of a lot more expensive than flowers would’ve been. And diamonds were significant in a relationship (I’d been reading back issues of Cosmo lately). Any kind of jewelry was a Big Deal.
“Jackson, I don’t know what to say . . . ,” I finally managed, unsure how to react or what his gift meant. “You didn’t have to spend so much money on me.” Maybe he’d bought it just because he could. Though I made a good salary—a really good salary—I wasn’t even close to Jackson’s league when talking about net worth.
I’d grown up on a farm north of Omaha, and money had always been tight. I’d made my way through my three undergrad degrees and MIT by scholarship, so landing a job that paid six figures was a welcome relief. And even though I’d bought some pretty expensive things—my life-size Iron Man Mark IV replica suit hadn’t been cheap—I was relatively sure I could’ve bought a half dozen Iron Men for what Jackson was currently fastening around my wrist.
“Of course I didn’t have to,” he said. “I wanted to.” He pulled the edges of my coat, making me step closer to him, slipped off my glasses, then leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.
Now this was what I’d missed . . .
Jackson’s lips were warm and his tongue hot. My hands slid up his shoulders to his neck as I melted into the kiss. I stretched up to my toes, trying to get closer to him, and felt his hands at my waist inside my coat.
He smelled good, and his jaw was freshly shaven, the skin soft to the touch. His hair was cold and slightly damp, the strands like silk against my fingers. The kiss was deep and languid, making me rethink the whole idea of leaving rather than dragging him up to my bedroom.
When he broke the kiss, it took me a moment to come back to earth from the cloud I’d been on. Nothing else seemed to matter when I was with Jackson, and when I finally met his eyes, there was more than desire in their depths. Warmth and softness radiated from him as he lifted a hand and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, then slid my glasses back up my nose.
“Aww! You two are so sweet!”
Mia’s words were an abrupt reminder, and I hastily stepped away from Jackson. She was standing in the entry from the kitchen to the living room, vase of roses in her hands, and gazing at us with the expression of an adoring puppy.
“Time to go,” Jackson said, and I figured it was probably the only time in his life he’d ever been called “sweet.” Forbes’s Ten Most Eligible Billionaires list had used words like “sexy,” “aloof,” “mysterious,” and “genius” to describe him, not sweet.
I expected his usual car when we went outside, but instead, there was a shiny black stretch limo in my driveway. I’d never ridden in one before, and as a car aficionado, I immediately itched to see inside.
“I thought I’d go all out,” he said. A driver was waiting by the car door and opened it for us as we approached. I didn’t recognize him.
“Where’s Lance?” I asked. Lance was Jackson’s man and took care of the household and drove for him.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave him the night off. The rental came with a driver anyway.”
The inside of the limo was gorgeous black leather with sparkly lights that looked like stars on the ceiling. I gasped when I saw not one, not two, but three huge bouquets of red roses placed strategically around the interior. Their sweet scent permeated the limo.
I scooted over on the back seat, wide-eyed, as Jackson climbed in next to me. The driver closed the door behind him, and we were alone.
I felt overwhelmed. No one had ever done something so romantic for me before. “I feel like Cinderella,” I said.
“You’re much prettier than Cinderella,” Jackson replied, his fingers grazing my jaw.
I turned toward him and it hit me then, how much I’d missed him. Two weeks had felt like an eternity.
Reaching up, I pulled him down to kiss him again. This time it wasn’t languid. It was urgent and wet, and I wanted him desperately.
“We should’ve stayed at my place,” I murmured against his lips.
He didn’t answer. Instead he pushed my coat off my shoulders and dragged me onto his lap. I knelt, straddling him, still kissing. Then his hands were on my bare thighs and sliding up underneath my skirt, sending a rush of heat between my legs. Two weeks was too long.
He suddenly froze and pulled away, a strange look on his face. “What are you wearing underneath that dress?”
I remembered then, and grinned. “Oh, just a little something I picked up.” I lifted my skirt so he could see my black satin bikini panties. They had words printed on the front in large white letters.
“Use the Force,” Jackson read, then burst out laughing. His laugh made me smile wider. I loved hearing it, especially when I was the one who’d amused him. Amusing him on purpose was even better.
I squealed when Jackson picked me up and reversed our positions, kneeling in front of me. His smile turned wicked as he tugged the panties down my legs.
“Wait, what are you doing?” We were in a car, for crying out loud. Yes, a limousine, but still. The driver was right there up front, even with the divider separating us.
“I thought I’d head downtown first.”
Usually euphemisms went over my head, but it was hard to mistake Jackson’s meaning when he spread my knees and put his mouth between my legs.
My eyes slammed shut at the touch of his tongue. I bit my lip to stay quiet, but Jackson moaned, pressing closer. His . . . enthusiasm . . . for this particular activity translated into an awesome benefit for me.
I stopped caring about where we were and who might hear about five seconds after he slid a finger inside me. I opened my eyes and watched him. The sight of his head between my thighs sent my pulse into overdrive. His eyes had been closed, too, but now they looked right at me, watching me watch him kiss the most intimate and sensitive part of me.
It was enough to send me over the edge. I clutched his head and came apart.
The look of smug satisfaction on his face when I was able to open my eyes again was enough to make me chuckle.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” I said.
“Considering how loud you were, I think I have the right,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the inside of my knee.
But instead of being sated, I wanted more. Leaning forward, I tugged at his bow tie.
“Please tell me wherever we’re going is far away,” I said.
“It’s however far you want it to be.”
Good enough.
I yanked his jacket off his shoulders and discarded it along with the tie. Then I pushed at his shoulders.
“Up there,” I said, motioning to the long seat that ran along the length of the limo. “I want you up there.”
Jackson’s lips twisted at my bossiness, but he did as I said, leaning back against the seat and looking much too sexy for a man who wrote computer code for a living. His tie was gone and I’d managed to get the top three buttons undone on his shirt, showing an enticing glimpse of his chest that made my fingers itch to touch him. His eyes were at half-mast, watching me, his lips slightly swollen from our kisses.
If I sold a picture of him looking like this, I’d make a fortune. Good thing I was too focused on stripping him to grab my phone.
I got the rest of his shirt unbuttoned and tugged it from his slacks, not bothering to push it off his shoulders. I could get to his chest now, and I spent some time admiring the view. I traced the muscles of his pectorals and abdomen with my fingers, his skin warm to the touch. Then the length of his erection straining at his slacks caught my eye.
Since I’d been partly satisfied, I took my time, teasing him. Slowly unbuttoning his trousers and carefully lowering the zipper. When my fingers touched him, he sucked in a breath, and I smiled.
“Miss me?” I asked.
“You have no idea.”
Being short had its advantages, so when I straddled him, I didn’t have to bend my neck to not hit my head on the roof. I looked into his eyes as he guided himself into me, and it felt as though more than our bodies connected.
I kissed him, and he grasped my hips, lifting me, then letting me slide back down.
“Oooooh,” I breathed. “That feels . . . nice.”
He grunted. “Nice? Really? Just nice? I guess I’ll have to try harder.”
Taking me with him, he moved to the opposite seat, effectively switching our positions. I clung to him with my arms and legs, sucking the skin covering his clavicle. I really didn’t care what position he wanted us in. I just didn’t want to miss a moment.
However, having sex in a limo isn’t as easy as it sounds. He couldn’t quite get enough leverage or the right angle, and at one point, my skull cracked against the ceiling. But the rest of what he was doing felt too good for me to care. We were both too into each other to mind if it was awkward or that we had to adjust a few times. I giggled when he muttered a curse under his breath, then he must’ve found a sweet spot because he was thrusting inside me so fast and hard, I didn’t care if I bonked my head another half dozen times.
I bit into his shoulder when my orgasm hit, stronger than the first, and his body jerked into mine. We’d never had a simultaneous orgasm before, and I thought it was just a myth . . . until now. And OMG. It was worth all the hype and Harlequin odes of joy.
“Best . . . Valentine’s Day . . . ever . . . ,” I panted into his ear.
His soft chuckle made me smile as his lips pressed against my neck. “God, you feel good,” he said.
I didn’t know if he was referring to holding me or to where his penis currently resided, but I decided against asking for clarification. It might ruin the moment, which was pretty darn good.
“Was it the diamonds or the sex?” he asked.
“If you have to ask, then you must be in need of affirmation of your sexual prowess.”
“Unless you’re a really good actress, I believe I’ve had all the affirmation I need,” he drawled.
I laughed, then we got on with the business of putting ourselves back together, though the only lighting we could figure out was how to turn the roof lights into a flashing rainbow. Six college degrees between us and we couldn’t figure out the control panel. Finally, we were clothed again and I was digging in my purse.
“Yes!” I pulled out the small bottle of antigerm gel that Mia knew me well enough to include. “Hand me some of those cocktail napkins,” I said.
I squirted some gel onto the napkins Jackson handed me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching me.
“I’m sanitizing,” I explained, carefully wiping the seat where we’d . . . enjoyed each other.
“Of course you are.”
I didn’t think that required a response, so I continued with my task. A few moments later, I heard a champagne cork pop behind me.
“I think Valentine’s Day requires champagne,” Jackson said, handing me a flute filled with sparkling golden fluid.
I set aside my napkins, sanitation accomplished, and accepted the champagne while he poured his own glass.
“To an amazing woman who makes me miss being home,” Jackson said, clinking his glass against mine.
“To a man who’s made my first Valentine’s Day super special,” I replied, and took a sip of the champagne.
Jackson frowned, not taking a drink. “What do you mean, your ‘first Valentine’s Day’?”
“I mean, I’ve just never had a boyfriend before on this particular . . . holiday.”
He smiled. “Well, then, I guess I’d better make this night one to remember.” He set aside his flute and reached for one of the vases of roses, removing a small box from behind it. He handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Something to make the evening memorable.”
I rolled my eyes. “Um, I think two orgasms has already made the evening memorable, especially since we were in a moving vehicle at the time and violating all kinds of seat-belt laws.”
“I’m aiming higher,” he said, nodding toward the box I held.
Slowly, I lifted the lid. I hadn’t received gifts for Valentine’s Day since my mom was alive and had given me a teddy bear that sang “P.S. I Love You” when you pressed its paw. I’d been five years old at the time. I still had that bear.
I sucked in a stunned breath when I looked inside the box. A pair of eyeglasses was sitting on black satin. But not just eyeglasses. These had wire rims and perfectly round lenses. My hands turned cold, and there was a buzzing inside my head.
“Jackson . . .” I trailed off. I had no idea what to say. “Is this . . . ?” I couldn’t say the words out loud.
“It is,” he said. “It took some convincing for Dan to part with them, but he has another pair. Or more. He was a bit cagey about that. Plus, it wasn’t as though he could turn down a very sizable donation for Demelza House.”
“That . . . that’s his favorite charity,” I stammered. Jackson smiled.
“I know.”
I looked back down at the glasses. The diamond bracelet was beautiful, but this . . . this meant something more to me, and that Jackson knew that about me made tears spring to my eyes. I wasn’t the crying type, but being given Harry Potter’s glasses was worthy of taking a moment.
“I-I don’t know what to say.”
“I told him you’d take very good care of them.”
I carefully replaced the lid on the box and set it aside, then I threw myself at Jackson.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” I squeezed him as tight as I possibly could, and he hugged me back.
“You’re very welcome,” he wheezed. I abruptly loosened my grip.
I didn’t know how I could possibly thank him enough, but I thought he understood what I couldn’t put into words, because his smile was soft.
The car slowed to a stop, and I glanced outside. We were parked in front of a fancy restaurant, and the valet opened the door for us. I wasn’t about to leave the glasses behind, so I emptied the makeup out of my little silver purse and carefully put them inside.
He held out a hand to me, and I took it.
I expected we’d be seated at a table, but instead we were led to a private room in the back. When I walked through the door a waiter was holding open for me, I gasped.
Jackson had re-created the Yule Ball from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
I stared in wonder. Everything was covered in ice and dripping with icicles. A huge tree stood at the far end of the room—it had to be at least twenty feet tall—its branches laden with snow. Arches of ice gleamed above us—tiny lights, like stars, twinkling through.
Jackson swung a warm fur around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Is it everything it should be?”
I looked up at him, my jaw still agape. “I can’t believe you did this. It must’ve cost—”
“The cost doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “Now, may I have a dance before dinner?”
Music swelled and I recognized it from the film as he turned me around on the floor, which actually wasn’t ice, but somehow looked as though it was. It must’ve been frosted glass, maybe? I was living my own fairy tale at Hogwarts, complete with a Champion to open the Ball.
I felt as though I were floating as Jackson led me to a table. Dinner was wonderful and perfect, and they didn’t serve me anything weird like oxtail or anything that swam (I wasn’t a fan of fish). Just good ol’ Omaha beef and the best macaroni and cheese I’d ever had. Jackson ordered wine, and we shared a dessert that was made tableside and included flames. At first, I’d argued they shouldn’t use fire in a room full of ice, but the engineer had come out and explained to me that it would be okay. Only then did I let the poor waiter finish making the crêpes suzette.
It was the most perfect evening of my entire life, and I had to pinch myself. How did I, China Mack, end up with arguably the Best Boyfriend Ever?
I was pleasantly relaxed from the wine and lethargic from the food when I returned from the ladies’ room to the table. (Thank goodness the ice hadn’t extended to the toilet seat.) Jackson was waiting for me and I slid in next to him. His hand rested on my knee and I cuddled close to his side. I was sure that if I’d been watching us, I probably would have hurled at the sappiness of the scene, but I couldn’t help it.
“I have one more thing for you,” Jackson said.
I looked at him in disbelief. “If the Batmobile is outside, I’m going to pass out.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not this time. It’s something quite a bit smaller.”
He slid out of his chair and I watched in dawning realization as he knelt in front of me on one knee.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my eyes widening.
“China, I want to ask you something,” he began.
I stopped breathing.
“I love you and can’t imagine my life without you,” he continued. “Will you marry me?” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small box. He opened it, revealing a diamond ring that elicited audible gasps from the waiters hovering nearby.
I froze. We hadn’t discussed marriage since our disastrous argument on Halloween when he’d talked about the future as though he was “off the market,” then had gotten upset when I wasn’t as sure about us as he was. But people were watching, most of them already smiling, and now it was starting to get weird because I hadn’t said anything. I couldn’t breathe and the walls were closing in. The ring stared up at me the same way everyone around us was.
Marriage. It wasn’t the institution that frightened me so much as its . . . permanency, and expectations, and so many unknowns. And he’d just sprung it on me out of the blue. Spontaneous and surprise weren’t in my vocabulary.
“China?” he asked, his brows gathering into a frown as he looked up at me.
Suddenly, someone burst through the door. Another waiter, though this one not clad in Hogwarts attire. Jackson stood, shielding me as if the man was a threat.
“What are you—?” Jackson began, but the man shouted over him.
“The president’s been shot!”