“Is everything okay?” Wait, of course, it wasn’t. He wouldn’t just pop in uninvited for no damn reason. Clearly, something was amiss. “Is Maine Lane on fire? Is there a hurricane coming? Oh Jesus, did Genevieve release a pack of skunks in the carriage house? Because she’s threatened to do that. Truth.”
He nearly smiled. Then realized they had an audience.
“What time do you get off?”
Wendy chuckled at his wording—a direct result of her loose lips regarding their Friday night fun—and Chloe glared at her.
“Since I’m the boss around here, any time I want.”
Quickly throwing her iPad into her bag, she reached for her purse, bracing for the worst. “The house is gone, isn’t it? You can tell me. I didn’t even hear sirens. Did you guys hear sirens? What kind of fire engines don’t use sirens?” she asked in near hysteria.
“Chloe,” he said, the devastating grin on his face having a major effect on Eliza.
The woman picked up an old copy of Bride Magazine and fanned herself.
“I think I paid the homeowners insurance this month,” she added. “I hope I did.”
“Chloe.”
She stopped mid-way toward the door.
“The house isn’t on fire. At least, it wasn’t when I left this morning.”
“Oh, thank God.” Relieved, she laid a hand over her chest. “Good news because I’m positive I didn’t pay my insurance yet this month. They give you a ten-day grace period,” she pointed out when the room looked at her in judgment.
Like they all paid their bills on time.
“Wait. What about the skunks?”
He grinned, slowly shaking his head. “Again, not as of the last time I was home. About the same time you left, actually.”
Confirmation that they lived together, but not really together, had Eliza’s wheels turning, and she sprang to her Louboutin-clad feet.
“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” she said, approaching Jameson like a hungry tiger spotting a juicy steak. “Eliza McShane.”
He backed up a step and nodded at Chloe. “I’m with her.”
He was?
“You are?” Eliza’s hand dropped to her side when it was clear Jameson wasn’t going to touch her, even if it meant being rude.
Smart guy. She was a viper.
And when she turned, genuine puzzlement on her face, Chloe shrugged.
“I’m surprised, too,” she said, responding to Eliza’s shock. Then felt the need to point out the truth, yet not sell herself short. “We’re not really together. We just have sex. Well, had sex. One time. In this decade, I mean. But ten years ago, rabbits had nothing on us.”
Bridezilla’s mouth dropped open and, as if it were too unbelievable to take Chloe’s word for it, looked to Jameson for verification.
“What can I say? She’s got great tits. And a super tight—”
“Oh-kay,” Chloe interrupted, holding her hand up to stop his flow of words. “Let’s keep some things private, all right, sweetheart. This is a place of business, and I have an A rating with the Better Business Bureau. Don’t give them a reason to downgrade me to triple X.”
She said the word sweetheart through gritted teeth, then looked toward an amused Wendy for help, softening her tone.
“A little assistance, please? Things are spiraling here.”
“Eliza, why don’t we schedule an appointment to finish up the flowers later this week. As you can see, Chloe is going to be getting, uh, real busy here soon, so let’s wrap up, shall we?”
“Sounds great,” Chloe said, her tone that of an upstanding professional. “I’m confident we’ll make final selections you’ll be thrilled with.”
Wendy led her outside with assurances they’d find the perfect lavender tulips even if they had to fly to Holland and plant the bulbs themselves, then popped her head back in the door. “I’m gonna run over to Doug’s office quick. See if he can pick up the kids from daycare. I’m not feeling well.”
“Are you okay?” Chloe rushed toward her, concern wrinkling her brow. “I’ll drive you home then pick up the kids. Take them out for dinner so you can rest.” As their godmother, she was on the approved pick-up list in case of emergency.
They were adorable kids with their mother’s beauty and their father’s brain. Three-year-old Miranda melted her heart. One-year-old Micah broke it.
It wasn’t his fault, though. It was the fault of the man standing behind her.
“I’m good. Got my crackers.” And then she was gone.
Chloe might think the excuse was Wendy’s way of giving them privacy, but her pale face and slow movements said different, and she watched out the window to make sure her friend safely crossed the street and entered the law office.
“She sick?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with her then?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Suddenly, the air thickened.
“Oh.”
It was all he said. Oh. One syllable, not negative nor positive in connotation, nor did his facial expression or body language change. In fact, Chloe had no idea how he felt about it, one way or the other. He was fucking Switzerland. Too scared to choose a side, so he chose the one where he didn’t have to decide.
Somebody else could figure it out as long as it wasn’t him. A familiar reaction.
She had an excellent memory, as well.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, going back to her desk and the work awaiting there. “What do you want, Jameson?”
Watching her with an odd expression, he didn’t offer an answer.
“You wanna get out of here?” he asked instead, hitching a thumb over his shoulder, his tone persuasive. “Take a ride with me, okay? It’ll be fun.”
She looked at him like he had two heads. “Is the house still standing? Because you’re acting really weird.”
“The house is fine. I’m not fine, but that’s another matter entirely. Now, do you wanna get out of here? Let’s go, cupcake.”
“Where?” she asked warily.
He hesitated. “Do you trust me?”
“Not as far as I can throw you.”
“That hurts. I’m former US military.” And full of charm and charisma today, too. “And I was a boy scout. Even got the badge for trustworthiness.”
He shooed her out of her chair easily—because of that charisma and all—and she grabbed her purse and hit the lights.
“Fine.” Locking the door behind them, she felt a zing of excitement, fearing she’d go anywhere with Jameson. “But Wendy knows I’m with you, so don’t bother murdering me at a second, unknown location. You won’t get away with it.”
“Aww, cupcake,” he drawled, his hand at her back, guiding her toward his truck parked at the curb. “I’m former US military, remember? You already know I’m gonna get away with it. You don’t stand a chance.”
“Comforting,” she deadpanned. “I’ll try to survive until the SWAT team my dad hires shows up and saves me.”
“SWAT.” He scoffed as if they were slackers.
And like a gentleman who’d not taken her to ecstasy and back in a near-violent sexual encounter only a few days prior, he opened the passenger door for her, guiding her in and buckling her seatbelt as if she were a child. Or made of glass.