His grip increased on my shoulder. “Is that why you never let me take her to school?”
I nodded. “It’s a battle every morning. She yells and cries and is a total demon child from the moment I wake her up. When she’s with you on the weekends, she gets to sleep in. Same goes for summer vacation. Same goes for when she stays with her grandparents. She’s all smiles and sweetness. But on a day-to-day basis with me . . .”
“You’ve been dealing with this behavior with her for how long?”
“Since she was three.” My voice became quieter with that embarrassing shitty parenting admission, and I hung my head.
Jax cupped the side of my face in his hand like he used to when we were together—a countermeasure against me closing down during an argument. Early on he’d figured out the best way to force my attention to the subject at hand was to force me to focus on him.
Then he was in my face. “Dammit, Lucy. I’m her father. I’m supposed to know this about her, not just the sweet, shiny, bubbly unicorn stuff.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But you weren’t—”
“Around? Well, I’m here now and we’re partners. That means all of it; the good, the bad and the ugly. I get that it’ll take some faith on your part to believe that parenting isn’t a phase for me. I need to know you’re willing to talk to me.”
“That’s never been my strong suit.”
“Then it’s time for you to learn.” He smirked. “Practice makes perfect, babe. So let’s start now. Tell me about her demonic behavior.”
Babe again. Ugh. “Fine. I’ll give you the lowdown on my oh-so-fun morning routine without any sugarcoating.”
By the time I’d told him everything, his eyes had taken on a hard glint.
“No way am I putting up with that from her. No way. It’ll be a shock to her little world that weekday rules at Daddy’s are different than weekend rules.”
“Jax—”
He leaned in closer. “Do you trust me?”
“With her? Yes.”
He ground his teeth together with such force that I heard the tendons in his jaw pop. “You just had to qualify it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. This trust is about Mimi, not about me. I just wanted you to be clear on how far the trust goes.”
“It doesn’t extend to you and me.”
“Not yet.”
Jax smiled. “Then there’s hope for us.” Then he softly pressed his lips to mine.
I froze.
He froze.
Then he retreated and muttered, “Shit.” He scrubbed his hands over his face before he looked at me. “Kissing you after we exchanged words . . . sorry. Habit. An old habit that was more ingrained in me than I realized.”
I tossed my head and said, “No biggie,” even when it was.
Because Jax had been exactly right. It’d been so easy to slip back into those habits, those roles. Arguing. Him pressing his point. Me wanting to avoid confrontation. Him forcing me to listen, to be present with him in the moment. Then a compromise, followed by a kiss, which had always resulted in us getting naked and sweaty as fast as possible.
Yes, there had been a time when we rocked at conflict resolution—even if we’d had to rock the bed frame or the couch or the kitchen table to finish it out.
“I think about that too,” Jax said softly, interrupting my thoughts.
My face and neck were hot when I looked at him.
“So, umm . . . yeah. I’ll get started on cleanup.” And he walked away.
* * *
• • •
Mimi crashed in the back seat of the car on the way home after the party.
Given her tendency to be crabby when getting woken up, I decided to go for a drive and let her sleep. It’d give me an opportunity to view the autumn colors exploding in reds, rusts and golds along the banks of the Mississippi River and to the farmlands, orchards and valleys outside of the metro area.
Who was I kidding? My brain would be replaying my conversation with Jaxson as well as that unexpected kiss.
Which was completely unlike the first time Jax and I kissed, when it was all about the tease and a challenge to test which one of us would succumb first . . .
* * *
• • •
After issuing the second date challenge, I was ninety-nine point nine percent sure that this Jaxson guy wouldn’t show. I wouldn’t have put it past him to be one of those guys who collected moments. Flirting and conversation with a woman he met in a car wash, sharing an intimate, yet bizarre dinner, but keeping the promise of more that would always only be that: what might’ve been.
And I couldn’t fault him. How often had the reality of someone paled in comparison to the fantasy we’d built up?
I had a surprisingly giddy feeling, seeing him in the parking lot of Pizza Lucé, leaning against his car, looking the epitome of cool in his wraparound shades, dressed head to toe in black clothing.
I’d barely opened my car door before he was there, offering me a helping hand out and admitting, “I figured you’d blow me off.”
“Our minds were on the same wavelength then; I pegged you for a no-show.” Standing in front of him, the top of my head didn’t even touch his chin. I’d worn flats and jeans, a lightweight thermal shirt covered in cabbage roses and a nylon jacket the neon color of a hothouse hibiscus. Wouldn’t want him to think I was trying to impress him, so I went to the other extreme.
“You look . . . springy,” he said.
“You look like a thug,” I returned. “Although, if you donned an eye patch you could totally pull off the pirate look.”
“Argh, me sees no humor in that, lassie.”
I laughed. “So, Mr. Thug Life, what are we doing tonight with you wearing that getup? A little cat burglarizing? Reciting bad poetry in a beatnik club?”
“Hey, I don’t look that much like a hipster or a criminal. I’ve got a scarf in the car that’ll add a pop of color if need be.”
“Pop of color? Dude.”
“It’s not a phrase I normally use, trust me. I heard it from my brother, Nolan, who is an unapologetic male fashionista.”
He admitted that almost with . . . pride. “He chose that ensemble for you?”
“God no. If he saw me wearing this he’d harass me endlessly until I changed into something ‘worthy of my station.’”
As soon as he’d said that part, he realized he’d revealed too much.
Hmm. So Jaxson Whoever-he-was had a station in life? That didn’t help me decipher who he was since I’d already established that the man had money. Still, I couldn’t let his slip slide. I cocked an eyebrow. “Station in life? Does that mean you drive a choo choo train?”
He grinned. “Whoo-whoo . . . nope.”
“Ah. I get it. You’re a radio jock. What station is it you command? I doubt it’s easy listening. Given your clothing choice . . . rap?”
“Hilarious.” His gaze moved over me from head to toe. “And you obviously assumed I’d be taking you to a fussy teahouse in a wind tunnel since you dressed for that type of outing.”
I bristled at his accurate assessment of my matronly clothing. “Touché.”
“Are we going on this date or what?”
“Yes. But before I get into the car with you, should I snap a picture of your license plate and send it to my sister so if you’re a psycho Lindsey knows who to accuse of kidnapping and possible dismemberment?”
“Jesus, Lucy Q. I’m not a psycho killer.”
“Okay. Speaking of Jesus . . . you’re not like . . . a priest or something? On sabbatical and disavowing your celibacy for kicks for a few weeks?”
“Not . . . even . . . close to priestlike behavior.” Then he flashed a sexy, devilish grin that gave me tingles. “Now will you walk those beautiful legs around the other side of my car and climb in?”
Didn’t have to ask me twice.
Inside the fancy car, with its immaculate interior and new car scent, rap music played in the background. At least I’d gotten that much about him right. “Where are we going, Jaxson?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Will people at this place know who you are?”
“Hoping for a hint before we decide when we’re doing the big ‘last name’ reveal?”
I shrugged. “I suck at guessing games. Actually I’m not good at any kind of games. Video games, board games, games of chance.”
“What about sports?”
“If I can’t concentrate long enough to figure out that Miss Scarlet did it in the library with the candlestick, do you really think I have the ability to hit, kick, throw or catch a ball?”
Defensively he lifted his hands off the steering wheel. “Take it down a notch, babe. It was a question. And there are other sports besides ones requiring a ball.”
I shifted in the seat to face him. “Name five.”
“Cycling, boxing, gymnastics, swimming, ice skating, running, hockey, skiing, skateboarding—”
“All right, all right, you proved your point. We can just add all of those to the other list of games I’m not good at.”
“You’ve tried them all?”
I shook my head. “Can we please move on from listing all the things I’m bad at?”
“Fine.”
“But now you have to tell me at least three things you’re no good at.”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and appeared to be thinking hard, the jerk.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be good at everything.”
“I can’t cook worth shit.”
So he wasn’t some local celebrity chef. “And?”
“And I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”
Not a famous musician either. Wait. Backtrack. I said, “Do you play any instruments?” because he could be a famous guitar player even if he couldn’t sing. He definitely had the charisma to be a rock star.
“Nope. Not even a kazoo.”
He made a sharp left turn, and within two blocks we were cruising down a residential street lined with huge maple trees in that ugly prebud stage. I hadn’t paid attention to where he’d been driving, but I recognized the area now. “We’re close to Dinkytown.”
“Yep. And FYI, I’ve never understood why this area around the U of M is called Dinkytown. It’s stupid.” He pulled up to the curb and parallel parked.
Before he released his seat belt, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Ah ah ah. Not so fast, buddy. You still have to tell me one other thing that you’re bad at.”
Jaxson slipped off his sunglasses.
God. Those eyes. In less than twenty-four hours I’d forgotten the hypnotic effect they had.
After several long moments, his focus dropped to my mouth. His nostrils flared, and I swear the temperature in the car went up fifty degrees. “I’m really, really bad at self-denial. If want something, I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”
Although I’d fantasized about having his smirking mouth on mine and the slick glide of our tongues warring for supremacy as we thoroughly tasted each other, I realized the longer we dragged out that first intimate contact, the hotter—and the more memorable—it’d be.
So I lit that flame of desire by inching closer. I watched it smolder as I delicately traced the strong line of his jaw with the very tips of my fingers.
He made a noise, a low rumble, deep in the back of his throat.
I let my breath tease his lips, and I caught a whiff of the minty-fresh scent of toothpaste pushing past his half-parted lips.
I felt the fire between us getting hotter and more intense.
A warning buzzed through me as shrill as a fire alarm. Blow out the flare now or you’ll get burned.
Somehow, through the drumlike cadence of my heart, I managed to pull off nonchalant. “See? That confession wasn’t so hard.”
He mumbled something and retreated. Then he exited the car in such a rush that I’d barely released my seat belt and he was right there, assisting me up and out.
His sunglasses were back in place, so I couldn’t read his eyes. His sexy smile returned immediately as he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“What is this place?”
“A community center. Small scale. It hosts art openings, a more personal variety than the major galleries in the Twin Cities. Occasionally there’ll be a play read-thru or a poetry reading or a novel in progress. Kids can attend classes for free as long as there’s a sponsorship of some sort by an adult.”
I frowned. “Sponsorship? I don’t follow.”
“The concept is community based. Members use the facility for free, but they have to share their skills as a form of payment. So no one can just sign their kid up for basket weaving. If they want their kid to take a class, they have to contribute to the community aspect somehow.”
“But what if the parent has no artistic or creative skills, but their kid does and a place like this is the only affordable and local option?”
“Then that parent can volunteer to clean up the facility or provide snacks or supplies. It’s still a pretty new concept, and they’ll work out the bugs as they go. But it was intentionally structured not to outgrow this space. It’s an experiment to see if it will evolve into whatever the locals and the volunteer teachers need it to be.”
Dumbfounded, I paused on the sidewalk and looked up at him. “Is this what you do, Jaxson? Are you some kind of entrepreneur turned benefactor for the arts?”
He shook his head.
“Then how do you even know that a place like this exists?”
“My mom volunteers here sometimes.”
“And?”
“And that’s all I know. I’ve been here once before. Let’s check out this month’s exhibit.” He slipped his callused hand into mine, and it felt as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
At the door, Jaxson handed over cash. The woman said, “Due to the nature of the exhibit, there are rooms where no talking is allowed so visitors can concentrate on the written words. But in the main performing area where the exhibition ends, feel free to discuss what you’ve seen. The music you’ll hear, written and performed by Angelique exclusively for this exhibit, is a joyful celebration of life-sustaining relationships. Please, take as much time as you need to fully enjoy the exhibit.”
“Thank you. We will.” Then Jaxson ushered me around the corner.
Before we entered the “no talking” room, I crowded him against the wall and tried to look intimidating as best I could, given the fact he topped me by nearly a foot. “Is this some Holocaust exhibit guaranteed to wreck me?”
“No.” He shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. “Just keep an open mind, okay?”
“No promises,” I shot back.
A large chalkboard by the door explained the purpose of the exhibit.
As I read through the explanation, a hard lump formed in my throat and my eyes burned. The exhibit was comprised of stories from cancer survivors, from age five to age one hundred and five. The stories weren’t about the survivors themselves, but the people, the family members and friends who supported them during diagnosis and through treatment. Cared for them. Cheered them on with every tiny medical victory. Cried with them over setbacks.
Even if speaking had been allowed, I couldn’t have forced out a single sound as I strolled through the first room. Some of the survivors had drawn pictures. Some had created a collage of photographs. One had made a mobile out of IV tubes and attached pictures of her caregivers on the ends so she could see their faces last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
Jaxson squeezed my hand and it startled me.
How had I forgotten we were still holding hands? I glanced up at him and he dabbed
the corners of my eyes with a tissue, which made me want to cry harder. Between the flirting and clever one-liners, he’d actually listened to me . . . he’d heard me. He understood that dealing with my mother’s cancer had been a defining moment in my life.
I started to speak, but he placed his fingers across my lips and shook his head.
Two hours later when we finished the exhibit, I was drained, but in a happy way. My mother could’ve written a piece like any of these. At one point she’d even said that she wished she had the skills to articulate what it’d meant to her to have both of her daughters there without question when she needed them the most.
I didn’t speak at all until we were in Jaxson’s car.
“Luce? You okay?”
“Yes. And no.” I managed a smile. “Thank you. And while the obvious reason you took me there instead of the current textile exhibit showing at the Walker is because of my mom’s cancer, that wasn’t the only reason you chose that gallery.”
He shifted smoothly as we accelerated onto the freeway. “What’s the other reason?”
“If I were an optimist I’d say to remind me that every cloud has a silver lining.”
“What’s pessimistic Lucy say?”
“It’s not necessarily pessimistic to see that pain and loss is universal and constant. While we think we’re alone in our experiences, we’re not. There can be a sliver of happiness even in sorrow.” I paused. “How’d I do?”
“My thought processes don’t run that deep, sorry to say.”
I considered that response as I considered him. “Is there someone in your life who died that you wish you could’ve been there for like I was for my mom?”
“Nope. I’ve not had to deal with family death—or the possibility of it. When my grandfather died everyone was relieved because he was a nasty guy.”
“Jaxson. That’s horrible.”
“Yes, he was. What really sucks is I was named after him.” He shot me a dark look. “I never want to live up to his name or his reputation.”
“I can’t blame you.” I studied his beautifully masculine profile. “But that’s not the reason you haven’t told me your full name.”