Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (10 page)

I lay sideways on the bed, my head on Jackson’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. His fingers trace little circles on my arm and every so often he leans in and kisses my forehead.

He’s nothing like I expected.

Granted, his body is as glorious as I thought it would be. All hard, sleek muscle that ripples and flexes. Fucking hell, it’s perfect. How a man can be endowed with that body,
and
that cock—it simply isn’t fair to the rest of mankind. He stretched me in all the best ways, like he’s made to fit inside me.

I was so hot for him, I knew an orgasm was a foregone conclusion, whether he worked to get me off or not. But he did. He wasn’t a selfish lover. He touched me, teased me, used his fingers and his tongue—oh my god, his tongue. He wanted to make me feel good, like he enjoyed my pleasure as much as his own.

And the way he kissed me. So many men discount the power of the kiss. I love good sex—and I like it hard and a little rough—but his slow, sweet kisses were absolutely decadent. A new feeling creeps in around the edges and I try to shove it away. I’m not going to let anything ruin this moment. My body hums with contentment, Jackson is warm against me, and this is just the beginning of our week together.

He holds me close, his arms strong. Another surprise. He doesn’t get up and get on with the day. He lingers. His breathing is even, but the way his fingers caress my skin, I know he isn’t asleep. He doesn’t try to fill the silence or grab his phone. He just holds me.

That feeling springs up again—the one I don’t want to acknowledge. Suddenly, I want to get up. I want Jackson to snap a picture of me and tweet something, bragging about conquering @sassygirl555. I want him to make a phone call, and then gripe about stupid people. I want him to walk around with that swagger, toss out a credit card like it means nothing, and buy something expensive, just because he can.

Because this Jackson—this quiet, contented, affectionate Jackson—is suddenly too much for me.

I lift myself up, gently pushing his arms aside.

He gives me a lazy smile. “You don’t have to get up. We can stay here as long as you want.”

“Yeah, I just … bathroom.”

“Sure,” he says, running a finger down my arm.

The way he looks at me makes my heart beat faster. He no longer looks like he’s ready to devour me—his passionate hunger seems sated. But his eyes take me in and a smile crosses his face. He looks … happy.

That shouldn’t send me running for the bathroom, but it does. I close the door behind me and try to catch my breath. It’s fine. I’m simply overwhelmed by the amazing sex we just had. And let’s not forget that I’m in a mansion on the beach, the sound of the waves carrying through the walls.

This is good. I can do this.

After breakfast—some of the best food I’ve ever had, I shit you not—we wander down to the beach. I wear the lavender sun dress and carry my sandals in my hand, feeling the sand beneath my feet. Jackson is dressed casually, in a blue t-shirt and long shorts, a pair of sleek sunglasses on his face. The waves run up and down the beach. I put my feet in the water, letting it splash against my calves. It’s pleasantly warm—I’ve never felt anything like it. I grew up on the beach, and it’s the same ocean, but this is nothing like the ice-cold water I’m used to.

Jackson never stops touching me. He holds my hand, rubs my back, runs his fingers down my bare arms. He pauses behind me, threads his arms around my waist, and leans down to kiss my neck. He takes pictures—mostly me, but a couple selfies of both of us—and tweets a few. My phone is in my purse, but I’m not sure I want to see what he’s tweeting anyway.

What is he saying about me? I’m just his latest diversion, and building me up as some kind of mystery is probably fun for him. I let it go. I knew what I was getting into, and being the object of his followers’ fascination is part of the deal.

Twice I notice people taking pictures of us. They make no attempt to conceal what they are doing—just walk closer, hold up their phones, and point them at us as we walk by. Jackson doesn’t say a word, but deftly puts himself between me and the gawkers, a protective arm around me. We don’t walk much farther before he mutters something under his breath about idiots with cameras, and turns me around so fast I almost trip.

We go back to the villa, and he calls for a car so we can do some shopping. We both need more clothes. A driver arrives in a black limo and holds the door open for us. Jackson plays with my hair and kisses my fingers as we drive.

The car pulls to a stop and he moves away. I take a deep breath, blinking hard. His touch leaves me feeling dazed, and it takes me a second to remember where I am. The driver lets us out at a large open-air mall, the walkways lined with palm trees. Jackson tips him and slips on his sunglasses.

We walk past a few stores, and I try not to stare. Some have names I recognize—Coach, Burberry, Gucci—but I’ve never been in any of them. Others look just as designer, but I’m so out of my element, I don’t even know what they are. Jackson walks next to me, his hands in his pockets casually. He might as well have a sign on his chest that says
Rich as fuck
. He doesn’t do anything to flaunt it. But the way he carries himself—the way he walks, the way his sunglasses fit his face like they’re custom made, the way his clothes drape off his ridiculous body—make him look like he has a halo of money surrounding him.

Other people notice him, too. Heads turn; men stare at him as much as women. He glances in the windows of a few stores before he seems to decide on one. He holds open the door for me, and I walk in.

Men’s clothing takes up one half of the store, women’s clothing the other. I’m used to places that fill the floor with racks of clothes, using up every inch of retail space. This is positively empty by comparison. The walls and floor are soft beige, and two dark wood doors stand along one side—dressing rooms.

Mannequins display beautifully put together outfits, and the racks of clothing are spaced well apart. A stunning woman with long, dark hair and olive skin stands behind a small counter. She wears an impeccable white blouse, her lips a deep shade of red.

Jackson doesn’t so much as look at the clothing on the racks. He walks up to the woman, leans his elbow against the counter, and takes off his sunglasses.

“I need six or seven shirts and pairs of shorts, and throw in a few pairs of slacks.” He pulls out his wallet and plunks down a card. “And whatever she wants.”

The woman glances at the card and smiles. “Of course, Mr. Bennett.”

I stare at the clothes. The lack of selection is paralyzing. When I shop, I go straight for the sale racks and dig. You always find the best deals tucked in with the wrong size—the little treasures other people miss. I clasp my hands together and blink like an idiot.

The woman appears next to me, all smiles and white teeth. “What would you like to see?”

I have no idea. Jackson still leans against the counter, flicking his thumb across his phone.

“How about I bring you a few things to try?” the woman says.

“Um, sure.”

I know Jackson isn’t worried about the money, but I don’t want him to have to buy everything for me. This is a high end store, but surely I can pay for my own clothes. It isn’t like I have any other expenses this week.

I wander over to a rack with a few flowing peach-colored tank tops. I grab the tag to look at the price, and almost choke. Four hundred seventy-five dollars? What in the actual fuck?

Jackson looks up at me. My bewilderment must show because his eyebrows draw in with a look of concern. He walks over to me and put a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay,” I say. “This shirt is almost five hundred dollars. My first apartment didn’t cost this much.”

He looks around as if he has no idea what I mean—and he probably doesn’t. “Do you want to go somewhere else? I’m sorry, I just always shop here.”

“I…” My voice trails off. How can I buy clothes in a place like this? I can’t even afford one stupid tank top. Why did he bring me here?

He squeezes my arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything.”

He walks to the back of the store where the woman is draping clothes over one arm. They speak quietly for a minute or two and she nods along. He comes back, a triumphant smile on his face.

“There,” he says. “She’ll send what we need to the villa. You don’t have to do anything. I had her send more than we need, so if you don’t like anything, you can just leave it.”

I gape at him. I feel like I do that a lot, but I can’t help it.

He puts his sunglasses back on and clasps my hand, leading me out of the store. “I’m hungry,” he says once we’re outside. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” I say. I let out a breath, trying to clear my head. Lunch. That’s something I can handle—and pay for. “Let me pick the restaurant though.”

“Sure,” he says. “What sounds good?”

I have no idea what else is nearby, but I spotted a Cheesecake Factory when we first arrived. I’m sure that isn’t a Jackson sort of restaurant, but it’s perfect. I desperately need something normal. I lead him across the way, veering toward the bright red sign.

“Cheesecake?” he says. “Don’t we need lunch?”

I laugh. “They have lunch. They have a huge menu, actually. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

He shrugs and puts a hand on my back. “All right, if this is what you want.”

We go in and a waitress seats us at a booth. The hum of conversation buzzes around us.

“This menu is like a book,” he says.

“I told you.”

He thumbs through the pages, looking skeptical.

“You’ve really never eaten at a Cheesecake Factory?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I’ve heard of it, but I thought, you know, cheesecake. I hate cheesecake.”

I don’t know why I find that so funny, but I can’t stop laughing.

He lets his menu drop to the table and grins. “You’re laughing at me.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Okay, yes.”

“All right, sassy girl,” he says.

A waitress comes and takes our orders. I order a burger with fries and one of the beers they have on tap. Jackson doesn’t look at the menu again, just tells the waitress he’ll have whatever I ordered.

Our food comes and we chat as we eat. Jackson doesn’t seem to mind the meal, and the beer is good. When we finish, the waitress brings the check.

Jackson reaches for his wallet, but I snatch the folder with the bill sticking out of the top. “This was my choice, so I’m buying lunch.”

“Don’t be silly,” he says, reaching across the table.

“Nope,” I say, holding the folder out of his reach. I pull my debit card out of my wallet and stick it inside, then set the folder on the table.

The waitress walks by and takes the check.

“Melissa, you don’t have to do that,” he says.

“No, but I can, so I want to.”

He shrugs and looks at his phone. I think about texting Nicole, but the waitress returns. She holds out the folder, a tense look on her face.

“I’m sorry miss, but your card was declined.”

I die. Right there, in a booth at the Cheesecake Factory. Dead.

My stomach turns over and I grab the folder. “Are you sure? That can’t be right.” There is no way. I have money in my bank account. I know I do.

“Here,” Jackson says, reaching for the bill.

“No,” I say. I put it down and fumble through my purse. Did I give her the wrong card?

“It’s all right,” Jackson says. He hands the waitress his credit card and she walks away.

“What the fuck, Jackson?”

“Hey, it’s just lunch,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

It i
sn’t
just lunch, and I
am
worried about it. I’m so embarrassed, I want to crawl under the table. “I said I’d pay for lunch. I have money, I don’t know what’s going on. I have to call my bank.”

“Really, Melissa, I don’t mind.”

“That’s not the point.” I’m too angry to sit here while he pays for our lunch, so I get up and storm out of the restaurant. Tears sting my eyes. Fuck, this is not going to make me cry. I stop outside the doors and pull up the banking app on my phone. I log in and look at my balance. I still have five hundred dollars in checking, plenty more in savings, and I know my bills are paid. Why did they decline my card?

I’m so mortified. He probably thinks I have no money. Of all the times to have my debit card fail, it has to be in front of Jackson Bennett.

He comes out of the restaurant and walks toward me, slowly, like he isn’t sure of himself. “Hey.”

“I have money in my account,” I say. “I don’t know why that happened.”

“Of course you do,” he says. “But if you didn’t—”

“No,” I say, stopping him before he can say more. Plane tickets, villas on the beach, clothes that are so expensive I’ll be afraid to wear them—all of that is bad enough. He is not going to suggest giving me money. “Don’t even go there.”

He holds up his hands. “All right. I just mean you don’t have to worry about anything this week. I’ll take care of it. I want to.”

I know he does, but the embarrassment stings. I don’t want to be his little charity case. I take care of myself just fine. “Let’s just go.”

Jackson nods and pulls out his phone to call the driver.