Chapter Thirty-Nine
A gust of cool wind lashes at me from behind when I step out of the cab, making a mad mess of my hair.
It’s the last leg of August, and after a rather sticky, airless July, I admit the weather thus far has been near perfect. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right. This evening, however, is bizarrely windy—it keeps messing up my bloody bangs. At half past eight, in the sun’s absence, the lights of the city grin with delight, twinkling up at the sky, outdoing the stars that are almost never seen here.
Now that we’re official, Jaxon doesn’t just disappear without warning anymore. He gives me the courtesy of a heads-up that he’s going to be gone for X amount of time and will not be able to contact me during the period of his absence. Even so, getting an advance notice doesn’t make me miss him any less.
After waking up without him two mornings in a row, and missing him with all the energy in me, I couldn’t have been happier to hear my sister ring me this evening. She flew in three days ago for an award show and—yay!—we’re having drinks tonight. She’s everything. And I’m obsessed with my little nephew, Abel. Eight months old, chubby as a Teletubby, and so darn cute it’s tempting to run off with him. I babysat for her earlier while she was at the show.
One hand pressed to my bangs to keep them down, I straighten my peacoat, power-walk through the elegant and opulent doors of the imposing Roosevelt Hotel, and navigate up to the rooftop lounge, Mad46.
I’m found as soon as I’m off the lift. By Thomas, the loyal muscle man who’s been working for my sister since the start of her career. He clears me from the check-in entrance, and we make small talk as he guides me to Ma—my nickname for my sister since childhood.
The buzzing chatter of boozed patrons, mixed with the windswept notes of Sia’s “Chandelier,” creates the typical after-work ambiance. There are cocktail shrimps and martini glasses everywhere, the scent of french fries and melted cheese in the air.
Ma has an entire section roped off for herself—of course. A massive L-shaped sofa that can easily seat a party of eight, runs along the low wall of the rooftop, backed by tall, groomed shrubs. An even larger C-shape sofa that seats about ten sits across from it. Considering how the other patrons keep craning their necks and staring over at our corner, cell phones pointed and snapping pic after pic, I can understand why she sectioned off almost half the roof to herself.
When Thomas and I finally reach the section, we stand there for more than a minute, neither my sister nor her husband aware of our presence. That’s because her husband has his tongue so far down her throat I’m surprised she’s able to breathe, all while he cradles their son in one arm.
It’s only when Thomas clears his throat for about the third time that they break apart. Both rest their foreheads on each other’s, catching their breath. Then, as one, they both turn and face us—Ma with a smile, her husband with a scowl.
The scowl I take no offense to—he’s always scowling. But…breathtakingly beautiful. Both of them. One of the hottest and most loved couples in the world—Saskia and Jahleel, aka Sahleel to their fans.
Her blond curls are wild, long, and bountiful. Mine can’t compare. Her eyes are big gray disks, her skin flawless, with a perfect nose, mouth, and cheekbones. In my eyes, she’s as perfect as it gets.
Jahleel—let’s not even attempt to describe his beauty. Mere words would not do him justice. He has gold eyes—really, his eyes are gold—full, wavy hair bouncing on his shoulders, a razor-blade jaw, sculpted lips, a Roman nose…and a bad-boy attitude. Jahleel Kingston makes women go insane.
And my sister has him.
They both have each other, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.
Gesturing to the eight-month-old in his lap, I ask, “Is it appropriate to have him in this environment?”
Ma laughs it off. Jahleel just continues to scowl.
Ignoring his stupid scowl, I set my purse down and round the coffee table to lift my nephew out of his hands. Abel comes easily to me with a gummy grin, but Jahleel is reluctant to let go.
“Hey there, little man,” I croon. “Look at you, hanging out with the grown-ups.”
“A na naan ta!” he garbles at me, his arms flailing. “A daaada. A da da da da da ta. Mna.”
“Of course, it’s dada,” I say through a laugh. “Your dada is infamous for breaking all the rules and doing whatever he wants.”
“Ooh, he sold you out, JK,” Saskia sings, laughing at him. “And he hardly ever sees Timber. Better be careful, Dad.”
With a barely there smile, Jahleel gets up and pries his son from my hands. “That’s it, no more grown-up scenes for you.” And, unexpectedly, he plants a kiss to my temple before leaving us, muscle man number two moving alongside him.
I doff my coat and toss it over the seat, moving to sit next to Ma. “That was…uncharacteristic. What’s up with him?”
She smiles, gazing after him. “Hell if I know. He’s still an arse, yeah? But ever since Abel, he’s been having these reoccurring moments of being obsessively grateful.”
“Well, it’s kind of strange,” I say. “He’s usually so bloody rude and unpleasant.”
Now that her husband is no longer in view, she gives me her full attention. “I like it.”
“Good thing. You’re the one who has to live with him.”
A howl of wind sweeps across the rooftop, threatening to blow us all off the edge. I grab my coat and drape it across my lap for warmth.
Big gray eyes zone in on me, twinkling, assessing. Her grin is as wide as a ruler.
To hide from her, I open and scan the menu. “What, Ma?”
“What, what?”
“You’re staring and grinning like Jerry does every time he outruns Tom. It’s creeping me out.”
Grin still in place, she waves at the menu. “Why don’t you hurry on up and order. Then you can tell me all about this bloke you’re shagging.”
I almost choke on my tonsils. Blushing profusely, I shift across the seat, putting more space between us. “I—uh, what?”
With a knowing smirk, she picks up a half-empty bottle of sparkling water and takes a sip. Then says, “I’m not stupid, Timber. I figured it out. Been trying to put my finger on what’s different about you since I first saw you two days ago. No incessant chatting. No fact spewing or auto-correcting. You’ve matured. And then I saw it—in your confident posture and secret smirks. You’ve given up your V-card. You’re shagging. Your brain isn’t filled with random facts anymore. It’s filled with sex. And possibly thoughts of love. That’s the change in you.”
She pauses and waits for me to refute her conjecture. When I don’t, she goes on. “I know what it’s like when you think you’re in love with someone. Thoughts of that person fill you up and consume you. For a while, you forget who you are, forget your purpose. You know only him, feel only him, think only of him. You’re lost in his spotlight. It’s a nice place to be, all up in your feels. But it’s also a very, very dangerous place to be.”
My heart thuds ponderously in my chest. “I… I—”
“No, no.” She wags a finger. “Not yet. Order first. Then we talk.”