Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (5 page)

Jackson and I talk back and forth for days. At first it’s all Twitter. He mentions me in some of his tweets, usually when they’re pictures of his drinks.

A glass of Scotch—without ice.
What do you think, @sassygirl555? Could the Longmorn top the Glenlivet 21?

A frosty mug of beer, sitting on an outdoor table.
Some nights are beer nights. I think
@sassygirl555
would agree.

A thin slice of the most decadent-looking chocolate torte I’ve ever seen.
Dessert for one. @sassygirl555

That last one makes my breath catch. Am I reading too much into it, or does it mean he wishes he was having that dessert with me?

He sends me a lot of private messages, too, until he declares his Twitter app “annoying” and asks for my number so he can text me. I balk for a moment at giving it to him, then roll my eyes at myself. He figured out where I live. Why should I worry about whether he has my phone number?

We text each other every day. He asks about my day or what I’m doing. Sometimes he texts about work—complaining about idiots he has to deal with, or saying he had a meeting that went well. He asks random questions, like whether I like chocolate (yes), or sushi (no), or am a vegetarian (hell, no). Our brief conversations usually go from small talk to playful banter. He teases me about living in the sticks. I hit back with quips about him being a suit. We talk about movies and music. I find myself looking forward to those little moments, the short messages shining at me from my phone screen. One morning I panic, realizing I forgot to charge my phone overnight and the battery is dead. I’m as excited as a fucking kid at Christmas when I manage to get the phone to turn on again and find he texted me twice.

The following Thursday—thirteen days after I met Jackson at Danny’s, and no I’m not counting—I wake up to my phone dinging with a text. I smile before I even look. Of course it’s him.

Got up for an early meeting that took five minutes. Assholes.

I laugh.
That’s shitty. You should charge them more money somehow.

Good plan. I think I will.

God, why do his texts make me feel all tingly? He’s telling me about a meeting, for fucks sake. That shouldn’t turn me on.
Well, now you’re up and you can tweet pictures of your decadent breakfast.

I’d rather be doing something else.

I lay back against my pillow. I want to see where this goes.
Tell me.

Do you really want to know?

Yes. Tell me.

There’s a pause before his next message.
If I had my way, I’d start at your toes. I’d inch my way up your body with my lips. My tongue. My teeth. Do you want to hear more?

Fuck yes, I want to hear more.

I’d get to your thighs and I’d gently push open your legs. I’d use my tongue—I’m very good with my tongue. I wouldn’t stop until you screamed my name.

Oh my god. Is he for real?
Don’t stop there. We’re just getting started.

I’d flip you over and push my cock inside you. You’d be so hot and wet. I’d grab your hips and pound my cock into you—harder and deeper than you’ve ever had before.

My breathing quickens. This is getting intense, fast.
Don’t stop, Jackson. I want more.

Fuck yeah, you want more. I’d bring us both to the brink of climax and then I’d make you wait. I’d pull out and stop. Push in again. Out. In. I’d turn you over so I could put my mouth on your breasts while I fuck you. I’d run my tongue over your nipples and grab your ass while you shudder with pleasure beneath me.

I am shuddering, all right. He has me going crazy and all he’s doing is texting me. Is this sexting? The idea sounded so dumb, but this is hot as fuck.

That’s right, captain. You give me that hot, throbbing cock and show me how it’s done
.

Melissa, I’m about to get in my car and drive down there right now.

Oh shit, is he serious?
You are?

Fucking hell, I can’t. Meetings that I can’t blow off.

Damn it. Heat builds between my legs, and my panties are wet. Even if he was able to leave, he’s three hours away. And can I honestly say I’d do it? After a couple weeks of tweets and texts, would I really let this man fuck me?

Yes. Yes, I would.

I take a deep breath and rub my hands over my face to calm down. This is one way to wake up.

I text him back, feeling like I need to cool this off.
That sucks. Would have been good. Too bad you live so far away.

Too bad is right. Shitty. Pretty sure I’m going to have to lock my office door and jack off before I can concentrate on work. I can’t think of anything but you.

That makes me laugh. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Maybe because it seems so ridiculous. I’ve seen his Twitter feed—the constant parade of women. He’s as charming as the fucking devil, and I have no idea if he’s any more trustworthy.

Still, I can’t think of anything but him either.

***

Saturday morning, I stop by my dad’s house. He’s about to leave for a fishing trip. He’ll be gone for a week, maybe ten days, and I like to check in with him before he leaves, when I can. He assures me his back is holding up fine—he tends to have pain these days—and I can tell he isn’t lying. So I wish him well, give him his customary kiss on the cheek for good luck, and head home.

I turn onto my street and see a car parked out in front of my house. To be fair, “car” hardly seems like the right word. I have no idea what it is—I don’t recognize the logo. Bugatti? I’ve never heard of it, but it’s the hottest car I’ve ever seen. And I know instantly who it is.

My belly tumbles with a sudden case of madly flying butterflies. I almost drive my truck right by without stopping. How long has he been here? I glance at my phone. He hasn’t texted. At the last second, I turn up the driveway and pull into my garage. I let the garage door close behind me and go inside. I need a second to catch my breath.

The knock comes as I set my purse down on a side table. I swallow hard and my heart beats so furiously I’m sure it will echo. The curtains on the front window are closed, so I can’t see him. I walk to the door, my hands trembling. Why am I so nervous?

Should I count the reasons?

I open the door and there he is. He looks incredible, dressed in a cream button-down shirt with the top two buttons decadently undone, and a pair of sleek gray slacks. Piercing blue eyes, his jaw covered in stubble, his lips parting over his perfect teeth in a smile. He looks like he stepped out of a fucking magazine. Which he kind of has; I saw his Seattle Weekly cover.

“Hi, Melissa,” he says.

I glance down at my own clothes. Jeans—at least they aren’t ripped—and a slim black tank top. My feet are bare; I kicked off my sandals when I came inside.

“Hi,” I say. His eyes bore into me, like he’s going to make no effort to look away. I meet his gaze and my tummy does another flip-flop. “This is a surprise.”

“Do you like surprises?” he asks. “I guess I should have asked that.”

I do, actually. I’m stunned, but also thrilled. “Yeah, surprises are good. Sorry, I’m just still trying to process the fact that you’re standing on my doorstep.”

“I know, I am too.”

Let him in, dumbass!
“Oh, god, sorry. Do you want to come in?”

“Thank you.”

He slips through the door, coming so close I can smell him. His scent almost makes my eyes roll back. It’s subtle, but so rich and masculine. I barely resist the urge to run my hand across his chest as he walks by me.

He puts his hands in his pockets and glances around. “Cute place.”

“Thanks,” I say. Shit, what am I supposed to do now? Offer him a drink? It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Ask him to sit down? See if he wants me to rip his clothes off? “Um, do you want some coffee?”

“Coffee would be great,” he says.

I go into the kitchen and stand there for a moment, not seeing anything. Is Jackson Bennett actually in my house? This is too strange for words. I blink hard to rouse myself from my stupor and put on some coffee. Suddenly, I wish I had a Keurig or something that would make coffee faster. I fidget, twirling my fingers while I wait for it to brew.

I pour two mugs, fill a little pitcher with cream, and add my grandma’s old sugar bowl, all on a wood tray. I bring it out to the living room to find Jackson leaning back on my couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, his arms stretched across the back cushions.

“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to go to all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” I say, putting the tray on the coffee table.

He takes one of the mugs and pours in some cream, then offers to pour mine. I hold out my mug for him, then add a little sugar. The act of doing something so mundane as making coffee with a man who looks like a fucking model is insane.

I sit down, my legs angled toward him. He takes a sip of his coffee, his posture so relaxed it’s like he does this every Saturday morning. His nonchalance puts me at ease, and I tuck my legs up and settle back into the cushions, cupping my mug in my hands.

“So, how was the drive?” I ask.

“Long,” he says. “I woke up early this morning and decided, you know what, fuck it, I’m going.”

“You decided to come down here just this morning?” I ask.

He looks at me with that ridiculous smirk. “Yep.”

“Wow. Well, I guess it’s a little early for Scotch.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “I don’t have anything on my schedule.”

Just as I’m about to ask if he considered whether I might have anything on
my
schedule, he speaks up again.

“What about you? Am I interrupting a busy day?”

“No, not really,” I say.

“Good,” he says, his grin widening. “I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you again. Our last meeting was too short.”

“Well someone came on a little strong,” I say.

“I know. I can’t remember the last time someone told me what I should order at a bar.”

I give him a playful smack on the shoulder. “Okay, captain.”

He puts his coffee down and adjusts so he’s facing me. “I love it when you call me that.”

Oh, fuck yes. Here we go. My belly flips again and my fingers tingle. I want to touch him, but I’m afraid to move.

“It seems like it suits you,” I say. “I take it you’re used to being the boss.”

“I am,” he says.

His eyes rove up and down. How can he just stare at me like that? He’s so intense, but his eyes positively dance. Is he imagining what he wants to do to me? I hope he’ll start acting on it soon. My blood is pumping, and my panties are getting wetter by the second.

“You know what,” he says. “I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“What are you doing this week?”

I blink at him in confusion. “This week? Like, what am I doing every day?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Do you have plans this week? Anything you can’t get out of?”

“No, not really,” I say. “I’m off work for the summer.”

“That’s perfect,” he says. His mischievous smile grows and he pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and holds it up to his ear. “Hey, Tammi. Yeah, good. Listen, clear my schedule for the week. Yes, the entire week. I’m taking off and I won’t be reachable. No, they’ll have to reschedule. That one, hmm … no, I can cancel that. It won’t matter in the long run. Yes, I know that will be a tight deadline, but you have everything you need from me already, don’t you? I thought so. Okay, so we’re good, then. Perfect.”

He hangs up and smiles at me again. He looks like a kid who just found out his parents are leaving him alone for the weekend.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“Come away with me,” he says. “Just for a week. We can go anywhere. The sky’s the limit. Let me take you on an adventure. It will be amazing, I promise.”

I gape at him. Just when I think he can’t be any more surprising. “Are you serious? Why would I do that?”

He leans closer. “Let’s be honest with each other. No bullshit. I think you’re fucking incredible and I can’t stop thinking about you. And I know you can’t stop thinking about me. Let’s just be crazy. Let’s take off and leave the real world behind for a while. It’s just a week. I’ve been dying, wanting to see you again. Give me a week, then I’ll bring you home.”

“Honest? No bullshit?” I say.

He nods.

“You’re right. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. But this is … this is crazy.”

“Yep.” He keeps smiling at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Just a week?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll bring me home?”

“Exactly.”

“No strings?”

“Not a one,” he says. “We’ll go, have fun, come back. Life goes on.”

This isn’t just crazy. It’s absolute insanity. I can’t just run off with Jackson at a moment’s notice.

Or can I?

I’m single, and I don’t have to go to work. I’ve been complaining that my life is boring. This is the polar opposite of boring. And Jackson—holy hell, he’s delicious. I can already taste him. What do I have to lose?