Someone to Watch Over Me (17 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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“Hey, when are you coming back into the office?”
“I don't know. Why?”
She clicked her teeth. “Just asking.”
“You need me for something? Has Preston said anything?”
“No, no. Just . . . stay put. No worries.”
I was tired of playing games with Lexa. “Look, if there's something going on that I need to know about, I'd really appreciate a heads-up.”
Jacob glanced up at me for a moment.
Lexa gushed, “It's not rocket science, Tori, and Preston might not realize it yet, but you need to be
at
your job in this industry. I mean, I've had to wait a whole day for a response from you about this account. I think you know how big this is for me, for everyone at NetMarketing. We're trying to take this company to another level, and you're not here. You don't even reply to e-mails in a timely manner.”
“I already told
Preston,
who was my boss the last time I checked, that I'm in a small town where there's no signal except—”
“
Not
my problem.”
My lips curled with disgust. “This entire Inner-G account fiasco is your problem, Lexa. You should have done your homework and planned this whole movement better. Doesn't make sense to take on a huge client if you don't have the resources to make the campaign work.”
“Are you trying to sabotage me?” she accused.
“No. I'm trying to get you to slow down and go to the drawing board with this client. You can't use the same tactics with Inner-G that you use with, say, P-T-C Books. It's a totally different market, a totally different consumer you're trying to reach. You're going to need help—”
“I
have
help. I have
you,
if you'd ever come to work.”
She cut me off one time too many. “Listen, I am here to assist you,
not
lead this account. If you want to do your job right, you're going to have to start from scratch. I don't know what you've promised the people at Inner-G already, but you cannot proceed without backing up first. That's all there is to it. Good night, Lexa.”
She disconnected without another word. I slapped my phone onto the table and ran my fingers through the nape of my fro.
“Sounded like a heated conversation,” Jacob commented.
I released a prolonged exhale. “Just work as usual. I don't know how much longer I can keep up with everything.”
Jacob's probing gaze made me uneasy. “What?” I asked.
“Your entire facial expression morphed during your business chat,” he said.
Suddenly, the muscles in my face screamed from overuse. I intentionally relaxed them. “Is that better?”
“Much better. Does your job always make you so uptight?”
“Not usually. Just lately, since I've been telecommuting, there's added stress from my coworkers. I thought working away from the office would be heaven—and maybe it would be if I weren't in Bayford. But here I am at Starbucks, hoping I can haul my share of the load before the baristas start blinking the lights.”
He nodded.
“Doesn't everyone feel pressure from their job now and then?”
“I suppose so,” he acquiesced. “But there's a difference between pressure and stress. I see stress written all over your face, your eyes, your neck.” He scooted my laptop aside, creating an open space between us. “Here. You need a hand massage.”
“A
hand
massage?”
He winked. “Ancient Egyptian practice.”
Without question, I complied. Jacob Carter Jr. asked for my hands. If only the girls from Bayford High could see me now.
“You right-handed?”
I affirmed using my head, afraid my voice had taken flight.
He rubbed the back of my dominant hand, then turned it over and began kneading my palm with his thumbs. Starting at the base of each finger, pressing warm lines as he worked his way up to my wrist. Then he started his movements higher on each finger, working from the nails downward. He finished the massage with an upward rubbing motion, which sent heat racing from my hands straight up my arms.
Am I sweating?
“You want me to do the other hand?”
I swear, a drop of spit was almost about to fall from my lips. Quickly, I drew in my breath. “Yeah. Sure.”
He repeated the heavenly process, giving the left hand its fair share of attention. “Feel better?”
My pulse slammed in my ears now. “Mmm hmmm.” Not quite sure if his massage had the intended effect on me. Sure, I was relaxed, but I was also . . . shall we say . . . happy to be touched.
He's a preacher, Tori. Stop it!
Flickering lights brought my therapy session to an official end.
“Guess we'd better get out of here.” Jacob slammed his spiral shut as I collected my belongings—and myself.
His gentlemanly acts still punctuated our transition. I couldn't help but ruin the moment by thinking of Kevin. Were we still together? Was I cheating on him?
I haven't done anything.
I'm sure my body was tired, but being in Jacob's presence energized me. Smelling him, hearing him, listening to him talk about his involvement with the interdenominational pastors' alliance. “The body of Christ has been segregated too long. It's time we came together.”
His comment had me reflecting on Cassandra's viewpoint on hiring Virgie, which had proven somewhat true. I'd seen a couple of customers wait just shy of the counter until they saw Cassandra approach, then they'd rush forward to order sliced meats before Virgie had an opportunity to take the request.
“I agree with you, Jacob. People need to stop with all these stereotypes.”
We floated on back to Bayford with few words between us. Gospel music, songs of eternal love and peace, encased the mood.
“Whose album is this?” I asked upon return.
“The new Myron Williams. Want mine? I'll get myself another one next time I'm online.”
I suggested, “I can just burn a copy and give you back the original.”
He winced slightly. “No, I'll get another one. You keep this.” He ejected the disc and carefully handed it to me.
I paused, wondering what had just transpired. “You don't duplicate CDs?”
“Naa.”
Awww, man. Just when I thought we might have some common ground.
“Jacob,
everybody
copies music.”
“I don't.”
“It's the American way,” I argued.
Does he have to do everything by the Good Book?
He made his case. “I know if I produced a CD, I wouldn't want anyone making unauthorized copies of my work.”
“So, this is a Karma thing to you?”
“Some people call it Karma, I call it sowing and reaping.” He paused. “I treat people right, and I expect them to treat me right, too.”
Guilt crept up my spine. I wondered if Jacob would have even given me the time of day if he'd known I was living with Kevin.
 
Jacob walked me to Aunt Dottie's porch. The sounds of crickets chirping and dogs barking in the distance surrounded us now. Back to the country.
“Thanks,” he said as we ascended the ramp.
“For what? Shouldn't this be the other way around?”
“For letting me be me,” he testified.
“Who else would you be?”
“Assistant Pastor Carter. Little Jacob Junior. Who or whatever people here have pegged me to be. It's nice to spend time with someone who just thinks of me as Jacob.”
“That makes two of us. I'm glad to be around someone who doesn't remember me as the pregnant girl,” I admitted.
He made a clicking sound with his cheek. “I have a confession to make.”
Worst-case scenarios flitted through my mind: he's engaged, he's dying, he's gay. Hey—stranger things have happened in the movies.
“When you first moved to Bayford, I had a huge crush on you.” A coy grin replaced his confident air. “You were quiet, pretty—without a bunch of makeup. Obviously smart, because every time I checked out the honor roll, your name was there.”
I stood in amazement.
“When I told my parents that I was going to ask you to the junior prom, they told me I was crazy. Said it wouldn't look good for the pastor's son to take a fast girl to the dance. They told me I should go with someone raised in the church who knew right from wrong.”
He motioned for me to move over to the swing so we could sit. Jacob pushed us off and the rickety hinges hummed a smooth, unhurried tune.
He continued, “So I went to the prom with Shonda Rhymes, and we actually did everything it takes to make a baby. Out of rebellion, you know.”
“T-M-I, Jacob.”
“I'm sorry. I just remember thinking to myself, how is Shonda different from Tori, except Shonda's loud and mean and happened to be a deacon's daughter? The hypocrisy of the situation bothered me for a long time.”
“Hmmm.” How was I supposed to respond?
“Anyway, life goes on. And sometimes we're blessed with a second chance.”
“Jacob, I'm sure you've had
lots
of chances with
lots
of women.” He was not about to convince me he'd been pining for me all these years, not with all that fineness dripping off his body.
“Not really,” he denied. “I've been busy. Working, keeping my father's church above water, juggling life's responsibilities.”
I slapped his back. “Sounds like we're both on the same treadmill.”
“I like my treadmill, but I wouldn't mind slowing it down a notch, you know?”
Slowing down wasn't in my personal encyclopedia. “Why would anyone want to slow down? I mean, life's too short to spend it”—
in Bayford—
“on turtle speed.”
“I think the reverse is true,” he countered me. “You can speed through life so quickly until it becomes nothing more than a big blur. And at the end, maybe on your deathbed, you look back and realize you blew past everything that mattered.”
The swing's rhythm, slow and steady, seemed to undergird Jacob's illustration, reminding me of why I'd returned to Bedford in the first place. Aunt Dottie was here. Love was here, even if this town moved on the lowest setting. Most importantly, this was where I first believed.
“You remember when we used to have youth night?” I pondered.
“Every fourth Friday night,” he recalled. “How could I forget?”
“When I started coming to the group, Mother Ash made the girls and boys sit on separate rows. You remember that, too?”
“Yeah. I'm sorry. I should have said something,” he apologized.
“Oh, no. I was glad she split us up. I would have been too nervous to sit next to you.”
His eyes, barely visible now, still bore a twinkle from the moon's light. “A little confession of your own?”
“Yes, I liked you, too, but I knew you were off limits. The only boys who expressed any interest in me were the ones who figured I'd be easy, given my background.”
“I didn't think you'd be easy. I don't think you're easy
now
.” He counted off on his fingers. “I have to hang out at the church hoping you'll need the tower signal. Gotta come up to your job and buy some lunch meat I don't even need. Had to practically invite myself to Starbucks so I could spend time with you. I mean, come on! I've been trying to make up for lost time here.”
“You've been doing all that for me?”
He smirked. “Kind of. I don't want to miss a second chance at getting to know you. Especially not now that I know we're both moving in the same direction, spiritually.”
A heavy puff of air escaped my lungs. Once again, the male/ female roles seemed flip-flopped. “I'm terribly flattered, Jacob, but don't think I'm ready for anything . . . serious right now.”
He gave the baseball signal for “safe” with his hands. “No worries, no pressure. If nothing else, I'd like to stay in touch with you about Aunt Dottie and DeAndre. I could be your ears and eyes in Bayford.”
“That would be a great relief.” I let my hand rest on his shoulder.
He stood, jolting the swing's rhythm. “I'd better be going.”
Once again, he grabbed my hand. This time to pull me up from the swing.
“Thanks for everything, Jacob.”

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