“But you said rebook,” countered Holly weakly.
He gave an amused frown. “Sorry, poor choice of words. I couldn’t wait for them to repair the fucking plane, so I needed to book a commercial flight. I meant book.”
“Oh.”
How many arguments—not that this even qualified—had ended with Holly doubting herself, no matter how sure she was of her position? How could she confirm his story, she wondered, and would she even try?
He slid closer to her on the banquette they were sharing. “I missed you,” he said. “I’m sorry my travel has been crazier than usual lately. Are you up for a nightcap?”
Which, between them, had never meant a drink in a public place.
An hour later, the kids were in their rooms, the hall lights were out, and Jack was removing Holly’s panties with agonizing slowness. These days they probably had sex only once a month, if that, and yet she marveled that he was still always able to make each lovemaking session a genuine occasion. Before undressing her, he had dimmed the lights as far as they would go and put on some hip new music. She didn’t know how he found the time to try new bands, but she liked it. It made her feel younger.
She’d had several relationships before Jack, plus a handful of one-night stands, and one thing all those men had in common was a sense of urgency. They couldn’t seem to wait to get her naked and were even faster to roll over or leave afterward. Jack had never been like that. He liked to set a mood, lingering over her body, drawing the act out until she just couldn’t take it anymore. She had always been able to count on his full attention—and the eye contact that still had the ability to make her melt.
And melt she did.
Afterward, he rolled her onto her stomach, straddled her, and gently kneaded her neck and shoulders, lazily tracing long lines down her back with his fingertips until she was practically Jell-O—and almost asleep. Eventually, he climbed off and padded to the bathroom. Drowsily she heard the toilet flush and then water running as he brushed his teeth. Needing desperately to pee before she drifted off, Holly got up, found a robe, and joined him in the bathroom, which was lit only by the night-light. She swatted him on his boxer-clad butt as she made her way to the toilet.
Then she stopped. Turned on the vanity lights.
“What the hell, Holly,” he protested, blinking in the sudden glare.
Dark purple bruises marked his biceps on both arms.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing.
Taking the toothbrush out of his mouth, he looked down, seemingly bewildered.
“They look like handprints, Jack.”
Holly had just now lain compliantly beneath him, opening her legs, her hands on the small of his back, on his butt. If he had put his full weight on her, squeezing her arms . . . she might have identical bruises.
Shit shit shit.
“They are handprints,” he said, putting his toothbrush down and rinsing. “I was rock climbing with this trust-fund baby in LA. He got his inheritance when he turned thirty, which was last year, and he’s spending it pretty much the way you’d expect. Including a world-class rock-climbing wall in his three-story atrium. It was his plane, actually.”
Holly sank onto the toilet seat, unable to bring herself to believe him. And now she couldn’t pee, either.
Jack chuckled. “He’s sitting on a hundred million dollars and needs somewhere to put it, because his financial adviser says he has enough toys. He thinks he’s some hot-shit extreme-sports athlete, but he can barely ride a skateboard, and he can’t belay for shit. Fortunately, he had a pro helping out who was wearing a harness and just fucking grabbed me, both hands, so I didn’t fall.”
Who knows? thought Holly. It could even be true.
He looked at her, waiting to see if she believed it or if he needed to go further.
She gave him a tired smile. “I’m glad someone was there to catch you.”
“Me too,” he said, grinning. “It would have been a long way down.”
“Go on to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He kissed the top of her head and left, closing the door behind him.
Holly stared at the wall. It was happening again. She should have known better than to think it would ever stop.
Chapter Thirteen
LARK
Don’t lose focus. Your success or failure can hinge on the tiniest detail.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
Lark stepped out of the elevator and took the escalator down to the lobby, resting her wheeled carry-on bag on the step behind her, tucking the canvas tote containing the Activate! prototype under her arm. The adrenaline of her first solo meeting with a major buyer had yet to wear off, and she felt as though she were floating. She couldn’t wait to get to the hotel and call Trip to give him the blow-by-blow.
Stepping off the escalator, she marched purposefully through the lobby of Target HQ, but before her momentum carried her through the front doors, she stopped: snow was now swirling down the Minneapolis street, and she was woefully unprepared for the elements. The cashmere scarf she’d unearthed in a drawer did little to insulate the thin business suit she’d purchased for the trip. She only wished she’d had the foresight to add a stylish wool overcoat or even a puffy winter jacket she could pull on at a discreet distance.
Trip had told her the hotel was a short walk away, but she didn’t want to be found frozen in a snowdrift, either. Plucking her phone out of her slim, also brand-new briefcase—and making a mental note to avoid bringing three bags to her next meeting if she could help it—she called an Uber. Remembering Trip’s own words, she made it an Uber Black.
Anytime anyone might be watching, make sure you look like you don’t need the money.
It was
