Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (3 page)

I walk out the door, my heart beating so fast I can barely breathe. What just happened in there? One minute I was sitting at the bar, pathetically alone, trying to ignore the dipshit hitting on the girl at the table behind me. The next minute, I’m telling some guy what kind of Scotch to drink.

And he was literally the hottest man I have ever seen in my entire life. The kind of man you don’t see in places like Jetty Beach, or anywhere that actually exists. If I looked at him straight on before I spoke up, I doubt I would have been able to get a word out. He would have ordered his stupid expensive Scotch and been on his way, leaving me a drooling idiot in his wake.

But I
did
talk to him, like a crazy person. I told him what to drink, and how to drink it. Of course, I’m fucking right. But that’s beside the point. He looked at me like I grew a second head.

And then moved to sit next to me.

I keep walking, fast, away from Danny’s Tavern. I don’t think I can handle it if he follows me out. The walk to my house isn’t long, and it’s a good thing I didn’t drive. The few drinks aside, my head is spinning. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but he smelled better than he looked. His clothes fit perfectly, straining just slightly in all the right places.
All
of them. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and I knew he had a set of delicious abs under that button down shirt.

I’ve never met a man who was so instantly appealing.

It was fun trading a little flirty banter with him. Until he told me, flat out, that I was going back to his hotel with him. That made me stop in my tracks. I wasn’t offended. I liked his bold attitude. He was cocky as shit, and that shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did.

I left because I was fucking scared.

When he uttered those words, I wanted nothing more than to do exactly what he said. This feeling swelled up inside me, a burning need. In half a second, I imagined it all: following him to his car, letting him drive me to his hotel, going with him into his room, enjoying a night of mind-blowing sex with this perfect specimen of a man.

I’ll probably never have a chance like that again. I’m not usually one to jump in the sack with a guy the first time we meet (those few one-night stands in college aside). I love good sex as much as anyone, and holy shit it has been too long, but running off to sleep with a stranger is a stretch for me.

Except with Jackson Bennett, I wanted to. Oh my god, I wanted to.

And when he touched my arm… I don’t even know what that was, but it made me feel like I was melting.

I hug myself against the chill night air. He was overwhelming, filling my senses. And son of a bitch, my panties are so wet I’ll need to change when I get home. Tonight might be a night for my little battery-powered buddy. I’m so agitated, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.

A few cars pass, and my back clenches each time. Is it him? If I see him again, if he looks at me with those insane blue eyes, I know I’ll be powerless to refuse him. And that thought terrifies me.

By the time I make it home, I’m pretty convinced I imagined the whole thing. There’s no way that man was in Danny’s Tavern. And if he was, there’s no way he talked to me. And furthermore, if did talk to me, it is positively impossible that he wanted me to come to his hotel with him.

No way. It didn’t happen.

I shuffle inside and toss my phone on the couch, heading straight for bed. A shower sounds good, but there’s the slightest whiff of his cologne lingering on me. It’s probably in my hair. It didn’t happen—Jackson Bennett did not exist—but I’m not quite ready to let go of the dream.

***

I get up the next morning feeling more like myself. After a little DIY time last night, I went to sleep fairly relaxed. I try not to think about the fact that I dreamed of a mysterious man with piercing blue eyes all night. It’s over, and I didn’t take the chance. On to the rest of my life.

My phone rings, and I pick it up, sitting down on the couch and putting my feet up. I really need to change my ringtone. This one is getting old. It’s Nicole.

“Hey, Nic. What’s up?”

“Hey, did you get my email?”

“Um,” I say. I open my laptop, squinting so I don’t have to see the dick pic again, and quickly close out of the dating site. I click on my email. “Just saw it.”

“Okay, no big deal,” she says. “I just sent you some ideas for bridesmaid dresses.”

Right. Bridesmaid dresses. Lovely. I love that she asked me to be her maid of honor, but fancy dresses aren’t really my thing. And isn’t the wedding, like, next year? “Cool, I’ll take a look. But you know this isn’t my area, right? Just tell me what to wear and I’ll cope with it.”

Nicole laughs. “Sure, but I want you to love it, too. Or, if you refuse to love it, I want you to be comfortable. Anyway, I think all the ones I sent would look amazing on you.”

“Whatever you say.”

“So, what did you do last night?” she asks.

“I made a profile on a dating site,” I say.

“Awesome,” she says. “Did you get any messages?”

“Um, yes. Three. A socially awkward guy who wants to know if I’m fat, and a serial killer.”

“Oh shut up, he wasn’t a real serial killer,” she says.

“He looked like one. He had a face tattoo, Nic.”

“Ew,” she says. “You said there were three. Who was the third?”

I start laughing before I can even tell her. “He sent me a dick pic.”

“A what?”

“He sent me a picture of his junk.”

“No.”

“I swear,” I say.

“Wow,” she says. “That’s horrifying. Now I feel bad for suggesting you do that.”

“It really was horrifying, but it’s okay. It’s not your fault some guys shouldn’t be allowed to have contact with other humans. I ended up going out for a couple drinks at Danny’s.” I pause. Should I tell her? Why the fuck not. “A hot guy bought me a drink.”

“Ooh,” Nicole says, her voice going all squee-ish. “Tell me more.”

“Eh, there’s not much to tell. This guy came in and tried to order a stupid expensive scotch. So like a dumbass, I jumped in and told him not to order it.”

“That sounds like you,” she says.

“Yeah, he looked at me like I was nuts, but whatever. I told him what to order and he insisted on buying one for me.”

“And…?”

“And, nothing,” I say. “We talked for a little while and I left.”

“Didn’t you even get his number? Or give him yours?”

“No.” But shit if I don’t regret it.

“Well that sucks,” she says.

“It kinda does,” I say. “I’m not gonna lie, he was fucking gorgeous.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“He looked right at me and said, ‘You’re coming with me to my hotel later.’ And damn it, Nicole, I had to prove him wrong.” More to the point, I had to get myself out of there before I did exactly what he wanted.

“Wow, bold.”

“I know,” I say. And way more of a turn-on than I want to admit. “Oh well. He was amusing and the Scotch was good.”

“Did Mr. Expensive Scotch have a name?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to remember. “Jack. No, Jackson. Was it Benson? No, Jackson Benson sounds weird.”

“Jackson Bennett?” Nicole asks.

“Hey, good guess,” I say. “That was it. Jackson Bennett.”

Nicole goes silent.

“Nicole?”

“Did you just tell me that Jackson Bennett bought you a drink at Danny’s last night?” she asks.

“Yes…”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Sure it was who?” I ask.

“Jackson Bennett.”

“That’s what he said. Why, am I supposed to know him from somewhere?”

“You’ve never heard of Jackson Bennett?” she asks.

“Um, no. Why would I?”

“Only you, Melissa,” Nicole says. “I don’t even know how to explain him to you. Just Google him.”

I groan, but type in his name. Half a second later, the page loads. “Holy shit.”

“Right?”

I scroll through the results and my throat tries to close up. There he is, smirking at me from a hundred angles. This is definitely him. “Is that a magazine cover?”

“Yep.”

“Listen to this,” I say. “
Jackson Bennett is one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors, but will a woman ever be able to tame his wild ways? Known for his lavish parties and late night excursions, as well as his tell-all Twitter feed, Jackson Bennett is one to watch
. What is this guy, some kind of rich playboy?”

“That’s exactly what he is,” Nicole says. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

“You’re surprised?” I say. “This isn’t the sort of thing I pay attention to.”

“Go to his Twitter feed,” Nicole says.

“I don’t do Twitter,” I say.

“That’s not the point,” she says. “Just look.”

I bring up Twitter and fumble around, trying to figure out how to search.

“Did you find him?” she asks.

“Hang on.” I find his name, and that is definitely his profile picture. Clicking on it brings a line of tweets, or whatever they’re called. Some are just text, others are photos. In one, he’s surrounded by bikini clad women, in another he’s holding a glass of champagne, that little smirk on his face.

“Holy shit, Mel, look at his tweets from last night,” Nicole says.

I scroll back up.

Flying solo at the beach. Boring as fuck. Heading out to find … something. #lonewolfontheprowl

“Lone wolf on the prowl?” I say. “Who is this guy?”

Nicole laughs. “He has a huge following. Look at all those comments.”

I roll my eyes. The comments are a mix of women throwing themselves at him, and men giving him the equivalent of a bro fist.

“Oh, what the fuck,” I say.

Jetty Beach not without the hotness. Sassy girl schooled me on Scotch.
The tweet is followed by a lot of requests for pictures.

“Oh my god, is that you?” Nicole asks, practically squealing again. “You’re
sassy girl
!”

“He twittered about me?” I say. I try to sound mad, but it’s kind of exciting.

“Oh, calm down, Mel,” Nicole says. “He didn’t use your name or anything. He didn’t even take your picture.”

Who is this guy? Playboy isn’t even the word. Half his twitter feed is filled with photos of him posing with gorgeous women at parties—the sort where people dress up and little lights twinkle in the background and they serve expensive drinks. What the fuck was he doing at Danny’s bar? And more importantly, why did he talk to me?

“You should respond,” Nicole says.

I laugh so hard I snort. “I don’t Twitter, Nicole.”

“The verb is
tweet
,” she says.

“Whatever.”

“Create an account,” she says. “Can you imagine how funny that would be? He’d never expect you to reply. Oh my god, make your user name sassy girl!”

“Seriously?” I say. Although it does sound kind of fun. If he even notices my comment. There are so many people commenting on his tweets, mine will probably get lost in the shuffle. Still, there’s no harm done if he never sees it. And if he does….

“Okay, fuck it, I’m doing it,” I say.

Nicole laughs again. “This is so great.”

I fill out the information to create a profile. User name, @sassygirl555. “Do I have to have a profile picture?”

“Yeah, are you on your laptop?”

“Yes.”

“Just find a picture you already have,” Nicole says. “You can crop it or whatever.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

I don’t want to put too much effort into this little stunt, so I find a picture that includes me, and crop it to my head and shoulders. Okay, so I do make sure it’s a cute picture. But I don’t scroll through my files looking for one that makes me look particularly sassy. Nope, not at all.

“Okay, apparently I am now on Twitter,” I say.

“Stop the world, I need to get off,” Nicole says. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Clever,” I say. “Okay, now what do I do?”

“Just click the little button that lets you reply to his tweet,” she says.

“But what should I say?”

“Obviously something sassy,” Nicole says.

“Oh, obviously,” I say. “But I’m not using a stupid hashtag.”

I stare at the screen for a second, then type in a reply and hit enter.
Hey, what’s a sassy girl to do? You needed some schooling, captain.

“Captain?” Nicole asks.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what I called him last night.”

“So flirty,” she says.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait to see if he replies,” Nicole says.

A man’s voice says something in the background and Nicole answers. It sounds like she’s holding the phone away from her. She giggles and goes silent.

“Gross, Nicole,” I say, raising my voice. “Stop making out while you’re talking to me.”

I
am
happy for her, but those two. They can’t keep their hands off each other and don’t seem to care who’s around. Or on the phone.

I am definitely not jealous. Not at all.

“Sorry,” she says with a laugh. “Okay, I have to go. Stop it, Ryan. Mel, put the Twitter app on your phone so you don’t miss his tweets. Ryan, you’re so bad. I’m on the phone. Mel, text me when he replies.”

“Okay.” I try not to sound too enthusiastic, but a thrill runs through me, imagining the look on Jackson’s face when he sees I tweeted back at him. Will it make him smile that crazy hot smirk?