But she returned less than a minute later, carrying an armload of supplies, and frowned when she noticed he hadn’t moved from his spot.
“Was there something else you needed?” she asked, not bothering to mask her impatience as she began to unload her supplies - coffee filters, cups and plastic lids, napkins, and other assorted paraphernalia.
Jackson hesitated, then told himself he sure as hell wouldn’t get another opportunity like this one.
“Yeah, matter of fact there is something else. It’s, uh, actually the real reason that I’m here in Berkeley. And why I’m here right now. You are Scarlett Strohman, right?”
Those incredible blue eyes widened in surprise that he knew her name, but just as quickly she glanced away. “Oh, great,” she grimaced. “Now I have a stalker. How the hell do you know my name? And what do you want? I know you aren’t a bill collector, ‘cause I don’t owe anyone a dime. No credit cards, no loans. No money, either.”
He shook his head. “I’m not a bill collector. Or a stalker. My name is Jackson Gilmore. I’m from Phoenix, and my family owns Gilmore Construction. We build condos, houses, offices, malls, you name it.”
Scarlett looked puzzled. “Are you here to recruit me for a job then? Because I’m still a year away from getting my degree. Plus, I have to complete an internship, pass my boards and get my certification. So I think you’re at least two to three years ahead of schedule, Mr. Gilmore.”
“I’m not here to offer you a job,” corrected Jackson quietly. He glanced around anxiously, knowing that what he was going to say next would almost certainly provoke an outburst. “I’m here on behalf of your - well, your father.”
“My father?” hissed Scarlett. Her eyes narrowed to rather dangerous looking slits, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and her mouth contorted into what could only be described as a menacing snarl. She was both terrifying and startlingly beautiful in her rage, a rage brought on by the mere mention of the man who’d abandoned her before she had even been born.
“Yes. Your father. His - his name is Neil Brockmeyer. Now, I realize that’s not the name you were told but I can explain all that. Could we maybe talk - ”
Scarlett wagged a finger at him in warning, her blue eyes practically flinging out shards of ice. “I don’t give a shit what his real name is,” she spit out. “His name could be Bozo the Fucking Clown for all I care. And if you think for one minute that I’m going to willingly listen to anything you have to tell me about that worthless bastard then you can just go join him in hell. I don’t want to have anything to do with my so-called father.”
She pronounced that last word as though it was the foulest obscenity ever spoken before turning her back to him again.
“Scarlett. Please, I know how much you must despise the very thought of your father,” consoled Jackson. “Believe me, when he told me about you, how he’d acted before you were even born, I was pretty disgusted myself. But this - why I’m here – it isn’t about your father. I wouldn’t have even considered coming here this way just for his sake. This - well, this is really about someone else. Your sister, to be exact. A sister for whom you’re the very last hope of survival.”
Chapter Five
Even as she shoveled another mouthful of sweet and sour chicken into her mouth, quickly followed by an even larger forkful of beef chow mein, Scarlett silently cursed herself yet again for having agreed - very reluctantly - to this meeting. It was only the promise of dinner anywhere she chose, coupled with the rumbling deep in her belly that reminded her she’d only consumed a bagel and a rather stale granola bar the entire day, that had made her agree.
‘And come on, Scar. You can admit to yourself, maybe just a tiny bit, that this guy is pretty hot. A pain in the ass for sure, not to mention arrogant and cocky and waaay too full of himself. I mean, come on. Who the hell wears a pair of pleated khakis and a polo shirt in Berkeley? Not to mention those leather loafers. Those stupid shoes of his probably cost more than your food budget for six whole months.’
But in spite of Jackson Gilmore’s obviously expensive clothes, plus the air of entitlement and privilege that fairly clung to him, he was undeniably sexy and all male. Oh, he wasn’t quite as buff and muscular as the guys who worked out at Isaiah’s gym a few doors down from Café Santosha - which was owned and operated by Isaiah’s life partner and Scarlett’s boss - but Jackson Gilmore was still very, very fit and wore those pricey clothes of his very, very well. Besides, she reminded herself as she refilled her cup of green tea from the ceramic pot, she’d never been attracted to any of the bodybuilder types who patronized both the gym and the café. Not that it would have done any good if she had been, thought Scarlett with an internal smile. As protective as both Isaiah and his partner Ananda were of Scarlett, there was no way any patrons of his gym would have dared to ask her out or even flirt with her. If anything, the beefy, often tattooed guys who wandered into the café in their muscle tops and track pants were as protective of Scarlett as Isaiah and Ananda were.
“Were you planning to eat that last egg roll?” she asked Jackson now, pointing to it with her fork.
He shook his head and gallantly transferred it to her plate. “It’s all yours. You, uh, were hungry, weren’t you?”
Scarlett glared at him even as she dipped the egg roll into the puddle of soy sauce on her plate. “Matter of fact, I was,” she mumbled as she chewed on the generous bite she took of the egg roll. “Got a problem with that, Gilmore?”
“Not at all,” replied Jackson smoothly. “I’m just a little surprised to see how much you can actually eat. Given, that is, um, well, you’re not exactly - ”
“Healthy looking?” offered Scarlett sarcastically. “Hey, call it like you see it, Gilmore. I hate when people try to bullshit me, or skirt around the truth. Nothing pisses me off more. Well, there’s a lot of things that piss me off, to be honest, but that’s definitely one of them. So, come on. Say what you mean. I’m skinny as hell, no boobs or ass to speak of, and, yes, I can easily count my ribs when I don’t have a top on. Something, by the way, you’ll have to take my word on. And the answer to the question I can see floating around in that cute head of yours is no. I do not have an eating disorder. I am neither anorexic nor bulimic. I’m not sick. And I sure as fuck don’t starve myself so I can fit into a size zero. Only a moron would do that.”
Jackson grinned. “I agree wholeheartedly. And do you really think I’m cute?”
She snorted before shoveling the last of the sesame beef onto her plate. “Seriously? That’s what you took from that little speech I just gave? That I might think you’re cute? Well, duh, of course you’re attractive. I’m guessing I’m far from the first female to tell you that. Plus, I assume you figure that out every time you look in a mirror. Actually, though, I was attempting to explain to you - not that it’s any of your damned business - why I’m so thin. We’ve already checked eating disorder, illness, and idiotic vanity off the list. Which leaves just one reason.”