Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (6 page)

“Fuck it,” I say. “I’m in.”

He gives me that panty-melting smile again and I almost die.

“Perfect. Let’s go.” 

“Wait, we’re not leaving right this second, are we?” I ask.

He stands by the door, one hand on the doorknob. “Yeah. Why not?”

“I haven’t packed or anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just grab your purse or whatever. You don’t need anything else.”

“But—”

“Melissa,” he says. His voice is soft, but there’s an unmistakable air of command. The playfulness is suddenly gone and he’s all business. “We’re going. Right now.”

I cast my eyes around, trying to think of anything I shouldn’t forget. I’m mid-cycle, so hygiene products won’t be necessary. I’m not on birth control, and my barren sex life over the last year means I don’t have anything on hand. I’ll have to make sure Jackson takes care of that, if that’s where this is going.

Of course that’s where this is going, dumbass. He’s about to take you on a fucking sexcation!

I grab my purse, my phone, a light gray hoodie, and slip sandals on my feet. I lock the door behind me and follow Jackson out to his car, feeling like I’m floating.

He holds the car door open for me. I sink into the seat and draw in a quick breath. It is literally the most comfortable fucking thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Screw the sexcation, I can just sit in this car forever and never get out.

“This car is … I don’t know if I have the vocabulary,” I say when he gets in on the driver’s side.

“Yeah, it’s sexy as fuck, isn’t it?” he asks. “It’s fast as hell, too, but I try to keep it mellow. I can probably outrun anyone on the road, but who needs that kind of drama? I think I’m the only person in the state who has one, so it’s not like they wouldn’t be able to track me down.”

He points his phone at me and then types something.

“Are you tweeting this?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says. “If you don’t want me to show your face, I can crop it out. That’s kind of hot, anyway. Makes you seem mysterious.”

Before I can answer, he puts his phone down and starts the car. It purrs. It absolutely, motherfucking purrs. He pulls out onto the road and it feels like we’re gliding across ice, rather than driving on pavement.

I start a text to Nicole. What do I even say to her? She’ll kill me if I don’t tell her, but she’ll probably kill me for going. Before I finish typing, my phone
bing
s with a text from her.

Is that you in his car?

Is she stalking his Twitter feed?
Um, yes? How did you see that so fast?

What do you mean, um, yes?

I laugh.
Yes, I’m in his car. He picked me up. I’ll see you in a week.

A week?!?!?!?!?! WTF, Melissa!

Overreact much?

It takes a minute for Nicole’s next text to come, so I know it’s going to be a good one.
I am NOT overreacting. Where are you going that you will be gone for a week? What do you even know about this guy? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you know what you’re doing?

I don’t know. Enough that I’m doing this. Yes, I’m sure. Maybe.

“Let me guess,” Jackson says. “Sister, or best friend.”

“Best friend,” I say. “I don’t have a sister.”

“Tell her she has nothing to worry about,” Jackson says. “I’m going to take excellent care of you.”

He says he’s going to take excellent care of me and you have nothing to worry about.

You’re insane. Fine, but we need a code word. If you’re in trouble, just call or text and say cocker spaniel. That’s how I’ll know you need help.

I laugh out loud. Nicole is the sweetest.
Cocker spaniel? Really?

Why else would you ever say that to me? It’s perfect.

And she thinks I’m the one who’s insane.
Okay, deal. Nic, don’t worry about me. This is crazy, but I think I need a little crazy in my life right now. I’ll text you all week.

All right. If you’re sure. Love you, girl.

Love you too.

I glance over at Jackson. His eyes stay on the road, his hands on the sleek steering wheel. Fancy hasn’t ever been a big temptation for me, but even I have to admit this car is unreal.

“So, is this when you tell me where we’re going?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, just turns the corners of his mouth up in a sly grin.

This is getting ridiculous. I know the point of this little jaunt is to be spontaneous and a little bit crazy, but we hopped in his car without any luggage. Where is he taking me?

“Where have you already been?” he asks. “How much have you traveled?”

“Not much,” I say with a shrug. “I went camping a lot as a kid. Nicole’s family took us to Disneyland when we were twelve, and I went to Cabo with friends once in college.”

“Good,” Jackson says. “That keeps our options open.”

“Options?” I say. “I thought you already knew where we’re going.”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

My mouth falls open. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Completely fucking serious,” he says.

Oh god, that voice. It’s almost like he’s growling at me. The man positively radiates sex, but he hasn’t so much as touched me yet. The anticipation is killing me.

“So, what, we’re just driving?” I ask.

“No, I know where we’re going in the car,” he says. “After that—well, that remains to be seen.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so I watch out the window. I know we’re heading north, but that could mean anything. What does he mean by
after that
?

For the next two hours, I try to ask questions, but he deftly deflects my attempts to find out more. We pull off at a town along the freeway to get lunch, and he takes a few pictures of me.

“You’re a little Twitter-obsessed, you know that, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, my followers are going nuts,” he says. “They’re commenting with suggestions on where we should go.”

“What, are you serious?” I ask. I think about opening Twitter on my phone, but it’s too weird. I don’t want to see what people are saying about us.

“Everyone wants to know who my mystery girl is,” he says, flashing me that smile.

“The faceless girl. How lovely.”

He just winks at me.

After lunch, we get back on the freeway and keep driving. We’re less than an hour away from Seattle. I wonder if he’ll take me to his house first. Where does a man like Jackson Bennett live? He said Queen Anne, which is one of the hill neighborhoods in Seattle. I don’t know much about it—I’ve never lived in the city—but it must be nice. Judging by the car, it’s probably a hell of a lot more than “nice.”

“When did you move to Seattle?” I ask. If he won’t tell me where we’re going, maybe he’ll tell me more about himself.

“After college,” he says. “Mostly I moved out here to piss off my dad, but I loved it, so I stayed.”

“What’s he like?”

“My dad?” he asks. “He’s a typical rich asshole. I don’t talk to my parents very much.”

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“Not really,” he says. “I take it you’re close with your family, but we were never close, not even when I was a kid. I had nannies and went to boarding school.”

Wow. That’s … kind of sad. “Brothers or sisters?” I ask.

“Okay, so we’re doing the get-to-know-you thing,” he says. “I have an older brother, Davis. He’s the heir to the Bennett family throne. He works alongside my dad in Chicago. He’s arguably a bigger asshole than my father. I have an older sister, too. Lindsay married some dude with old money and lives out in Boston. I haven’t seen her in a few years.”

“Wow, that’s awful,” I say.

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s too bad that your family is so distant. I guess it’s hard for me to relate. I don’t have a big family—it was always just me and my dad—but we’ve always been close.”

“What about your mom?” he asks.

I look down at my hands. It’s hard to tell people about my mother. “She died when I was four.”

“Oh, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he says. The concern in his voice is so genuine.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I mean, it
is
sad. But I don’t remember her, or remember being sad about losing her. Not really. It was much harder on my dad.”

“So your fisherman daddy raised you in Jetty Beach, all by himself,” Jackson says.

“That he did.”

“Is that why you still live there?” he asks. “To be close to your dad?”

“Partly,” I say. “It’s home.”

“I’ve never had a place like that,” he says. “I grew up in Chicago, but it never felt like home to me. I got out of there as soon as I could. I can’t imagine going back.”

“What about Seattle?” I ask.

“I like living there,” he says. “What the fuck do I know? I have a penthouse condo with a view of the entire city. It’s pretty amazing. I’d say that’s a damn good home.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I say. “Now will you tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

My jaw drops when he takes the exit to the airport. The thought crossed my mind, but I dismissed the idea outright. He can’t be taking me to get on a plane. We didn’t bring anything with us. I have my ID on me, but only because I grabbed my purse. Other than that, I have a few bucks in cash, some lip gloss, a hair tie, and whatever miscellaneous things I left in my handbag over the last few months.

“Are we going to the airport?”

“Of course,” he says.

He doesn’t take the exit to the main terminal, instead driving toward the off-site parking lots. He turns into the driveway of a tall building. It ends with a large, closed garage door. Jackson taps a few buttons on his phone, and the door opens.

He glides the car inside. It isn’t a parking garage in the traditional sense. The floor looks more like marble than concrete. The finished walls are painted a soft beige, with art hanging in front of each parking spot. Jackson pulls the car into an empty spot—there are about a dozen all together, with two other cars parked further down. Nearby is a black limo with a driver in a suit standing next to it.

Jackson gets out, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt while he walks over to open my door. I’m not a fan of the whole door-opening thing some guys do—I can open a door for myself, thank you very much. But in this moment, I’m too dazed to even notice. I get up, remembering at the last second to grab my purse. Jackson puts a gentle hand on my back, his touch adding to my jitters.

The driver opens the limo door for me and Jackson guides me inside. He stands outside the door for a moment, talking to the driver. I don’t hear what they say, but I see another man come out of a door off to the other side. Jackson talks to him too, and I think I see him slip him some money. A tip, I suppose.

I sink into the black leather seat. It’s almost as comfortable as Jackson’s car, but I don’t think anything can compare to that. The L-shaped seat goes along the back and one side. The other side has a counter. A bottle of champagne sits in a silver bucket of ice and a dark wicker basket holds small, packaged snacks.

I wait while Jackson speaks to someone on his phone. My heart races. What is this? The last time I went to the airport, I parked at a cheap lot two miles away and a stinky ride-share van took me to the terminal.

“Sorry about that,” he says, sliding into the seat next to me. The driver shuts the door and, seconds later, the car starts moving.

“That’s okay, but … what is all this?”

“Yeah, sorry, this isn’t mine,” he says. “This was the best they could do on short notice.”

I stare at him, mouth wide open, while he checks something on his phone. A little voice in the back of my mind says I should text a picture of this insanity to Nicole, but I can’t think straight.

The drive to the terminal is all of five minutes. Jackson gets out and pauses next to the open door. He offers me his hand and I let him help me out of the car. His hand feels strong and warm. It anchors me to some sort of reality—a reality that is quickly spinning out of control—and I don’t want to let go.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice soft and low, as if we aren’t standing in front of a crowded airport with cars rushing by.

“I think so.”

With his hand on the small of my back, he guides me inside. His touch does nothing to ease my tension. His hand lingers, teasing just above my ass, first so light it almost tickles, then harder, his hand pressing into me with more authority.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he says. We walk up to the premium counter of one of the airlines. He pulls a card from his wallet and hands it to the ticket agent. “We need a flight.”

The woman takes his card. “Of course, Mr. Bennett. Where are you traveling today?”

He looks at me and grins. “Where should we go?”

I probably look like some ditzy airhead, staring up at him like an idiot. “I … I don’t…”

He turns back to the woman. “What do you have leaving in … ” He looks at me again. “What, the next two hours? We don’t want to wait around too long. Do you have a passport?”

I blink at him, then dig through my purse. I have a passport, but I don’t carry it with me. Why the fuck would I need a passport on a regular basis? “No, not on me.”