Jackson
I shepherd Claire through the lobby, ignoring that Smitty’s watching me like I’m a ticking time bomb.
You’d think that the matchmaking, gossip-monger would love that I’m finally giving in to the urge to pursue Claire.
Instead…
I’ve got furrowed brows and glaring eyes.
Cool. Cool.
I glare right back, tuck her a little closer, and guide Claire through the plate glass door that the porter swings wide for us, skipping the spinning door in lieu of keeping her close.
“Thanks, Tony,” I mutter, passing him a hundred. He saved my ass last night and this morning, helping me organize shit that I stayed up far too late putting together.
Claire hasn’t had a first date.
I need to make today fucking spectacular. She deserves that much.
And…I haven’t given in to the urge to spend time with her before now, so I’m going to soak in every fucking moment.
She pauses when we make it out to the sidewalk and glances up at me. “Which way are we heading?” she asks, her voice melodic, her cheeks pink, her lips slightly swollen.
Back up to my room so I can give her a completely different kind of kiss.
But…
Date. Not fucking.
Making this special, making it perfect. Not taking advantage.
I nod toward the limo idling at the curb. “There,” I say, drawing her forward.
A glance at the limo. Then at me. Then back to the curb. “Where—?”
“In the car, kitty cat,” I order softly, nodding my thanks at the driver when he pulls open the door.
“It’s not a car. It’s a limo.”
Amusement in my belly. “In the limo, sweetheart.”
Another glance at me before she folds herself in with an adorable grunt, her movements somehow both cute and klutzy mixed together, especially when she hits her head against the fabric-covered ceiling. “Ow,” she whispers, rubbing her head.
I brush her hands away, gentle massage the spot. “Better?” I ask a few moments later.
“Yeah.” A shrug. “I’m always doing that, always running into things. It’s why I don’t ever get on the ice even though Luc and Smitty have both tried to teach me.”
My brows draw together. “I’ve seen you out there before.”
At charity events and team bonding get togethers.
She scowls and that’s fucking adorable too. “Only because Smitty forced me to. I’m not cut out for flying around out there on skinny metal blades, all while attempting to avoid plowing into other people and not kill myself in the process.”
I grin, remembering then that she had ended up on that lush ass a time or dozen, and pull out the basket of baked goods I picked up for her—including a half-dozen chocolate muffins. There not Dommie’s, but they’ll have to do. “I could teach you,” I offer, holding out the basket.
“Nope,” she says, popping the p, and I don’t miss that she snags one of those muffins. “You could try but it would be a failure because I’m hopeless. See these?” She lifts a jean-clad leg. The material is skintight and showing off curves I’ve admired far too often. “These are weak ankles. No matter how good the skate, I can’t keep from looking like a baby deer out there.”
“Bambi,” I say, remembering the guys teasing her with the nickname.
Her nose wrinkles. “Yup. That’s where Smitty’s moniker came from.” A beleaguered smile. “Though, thankfully, he seems to have forgotten it in lieu of Clairey Girl of late.”
“He hasn’t forgotten,” I tease, taking my own muffin, prompting her to unpeel the wrapper of hers and start eating. “He’s just biding his time, waiting for the precise right moment to bring it back out again.”
A giggle. “You’re probably right, Boxie.”
“Hey,” I shrug. “At least my nickname isn’t Glitter.”
Her eyes dance as she giggles again. “True.”
Then we fall quiet as we finish our food, and I find myself at a loss for what to say. Bantering with her feels right, feels better than anything except for touching her, kissing her…
But it’s not enough.
And yet, at the same time, I don’t want to make this about the past, about my fuckups, about me not being a good person.
I want her to have a great fucking day.
Bar none. Hands down. Without question. Effortlessly—
I’m rambling.
In my own fucking mind.
Christ.
“What?” she asks.
“I think I get what that whirlwind is you’re experiencing.”
“Is it too much?” she asks. “We can go back—”
I reach across the empty space, take her hand. “I don’t want to go back.”
Her throat works. “I don’t either,” she whispers. “I like this.” She nibbles at her bottom lip. “Just talking with you without all the…” She waves a hand.
Without all of my bullshit.
“I like talking to you too.”
“Even though I’m a rambling virgin who’s terrible at small talk?” Her lips curve at the corners, teasing all over that question. Except…
For the note of seriousness in her eyes.
“How did that happen anyway?”
I almost regret the question the moment it slips off the tip of my tongue and flits into the air between us. But I need to know.
“The usual way,” she says lightly. “Only child to two deadbeats means I didn’t have a ton of time to practice, and then by the time I trusted Gran enough to let her in, we mostly discussed ice cream, proper grammar, and game shows on TV.”
I lightly squeeze her hand, knowing I should let her have that.
But I can’t.
“I want to hear more about your parents,” I say softly. “And Gran too, but I have to know, kitty cat, did someone hurt you and—”
“You’re always worried about people hurting me,” she says quietly.
Most of all worried about me hurting her.
But also…deadbeat parents and a troubled childhood.
“You deserve to feel safe,” I remind her.
Another flicker across her eyes.
“What?”
“Gran used to say that all the time…” Her face softens. “Used to say it so often that I’d scoff…until I eventually felt safe with her.”
“You lived with her growing up?”
A shake of her head. “She’s not actually my biological grandmother. She—” Her lips press flat and release. “I probably shouldn’t be rambling about this on a first date.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, releasing her hand, but only so I can draw her closer, bring her body flush against mine, shoulder to shoulder, waist to waist, thigh to thigh. “Okay?” I ask and it’s more rasp than question because it feels right to be like this, right to have her settled against me, right to have her near.
“You ask now?” she says dryly.
I shrug. “Better late than never. Now,” I say tabling my question about intimacy, sensing that I need to know this just as much, if not more. “Tell me about your Gran.”
And…
Claire does.
Tells me about how her next door neighbor realized something was wrong and stepped in when she didn’t have to. She tells me about Gran making her feel safe and loved. Tells me how after Gran took her in, she never felt like a burden, never felt alone, never felt like she wasn’t welcome.
“She sounds incredible.”
“She really is,” Claire agrees. “I’m lucky to have her, lucky she’s had my back for as long as I can remember. I wouldn’t have finished school without her, wouldn’t have the job with the team if she didn’t keep pushing me to be better, but—” She turns enough to meet my eyes, her front brushing against my arm. “My parents left me and had no problem doing so. Certainly, they didn’t have any remorse about it,” she adds dryly. “And that’s not something that just goes away, even if I didn’t have someone like Gran in my life. I’m thankful, so thankful for her, but it was hard to accept that she could love me when my parents couldn’t.”
“I can only imagine,” I say. “Sometimes kids wonder how their parents can love them, even if they don’t give them any real reasons to think that.”
“Them?” she asks. “Or you?”
I smile wryly. “We’re just gonna double down on the personal on this first date?”
A dainty shrug. “Seems fitting.”
It does.
Maybe that’s why I don’t think too hard about admitting what she already sussed out.
“Me,” I admit. “Kind of difficult to not feel a little guilty when your chronic illness is the reason that your parents aren’t getting sleep, or that money’s tight because you broke your pump or insulin costs have gone up, or when you do something stupid as a teenager that nearly costs them everything—”
“Jackson.”
“Or be the cause of their worry, even today.”
Claire’s hand finds mine and she laces our fingers together.
“Gran didn’t have to help me,” Claire says quietly. “And she gave up so much to do it. And—” Her throat works. “When she was finally going to get to enjoy her retirement, she got sick. For a long time, I felt guilty. No—” An exhale. “If I’m being completely honest, I still feel guilty. She gave up so much for me, and what does she have to show for it?”
“You,” I say.
Her mouth kicks up. “And you don’t think your parents feel the same about you?”
I know they do.
The problem is that it makes the guilt worse.