Close to You (13 page)

Pulling the foil off the top, he twisted the cork, holding his breath for a second as it came off the top of the bottle with a pop.

Half filling the two wine flutes on the table, he placed the bottle back in the ice bucket, handed one glass to Allie, then tipped his toward her. “To Louis. For at least stranding us with a great bottle of champagne.”

She just looked at him.

“Oh, come on. You can't not return a toast. It's practically unconstitutional.”

“New Zealand doesn't have a constitution.” But she gave in to a small smile as she clinked her glass to his. Pulling out a chair, she sat down, her full skirt swooshing out around her. “On the upside, at least I don't have to suffer in these for the next couple of hours.” She used the toe of one shoe to dislodge the other from her heel, kicked it off, then repeated the process with the other foot. This time the stiletto spun through the air before landing on the carpet upside down.

Taking a sip of her wine, Allie surveyed the table, now naked save for the cutlery and salt and pepper shakers. “That's so much better.”

Jackson pulled out his seat across from her and sat down. “Nice work. Much less awkward.”

She scrunched her face at him. “You think it was awkward? I just thought it was tacky. It only would've been awkward if we were on an actual date, and it's not like that's ever going to happen.”

It was like getting stabbed in the eye with a poker and trying
to pretend he didn't feel anything. “True.” Thankfully the single word came out calm and controlled. The opposite of the unexpected tangle of emotions churning in his chest, which wasn't helped by the constant subtle but noticeable rolling of the boat.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm super impressed they managed to pull it off, even if it was all for nothing. And I'd love to know how your uncle managed to get Esther to go along with it, given she's had dibs on you since the Aragorn costume.”

He groaned. “Please tell me I don't have to wear that thing again.”

Allie laughed as she pierced a piece of feta from their just-delivered antipasto platter with her fork. “That depends entirely on you.”

Jackson scowled at her. He had enough on his shoulders without some tweenager chasing after him, especially since it was becoming clear that at some point in the last three days, the feisty redhead sitting across from him had gotten under his skin in a very big way.

She pushed the platter toward him and he speared an olive. Her nose wrinkled as he popped it into his mouth and bit down on the salty morsel.

“You can have all of those.”

“Not an olive fan?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Nasty little things. The first time I had one I thought it was a grape. Put me off for life.” She pulled some hairpins loose and ran a hand through her now free hair. He tried to ignore the desire welling up inside him. What was wrong with him? Four days ago he'd sworn off women for life, and now he was sitting here struggling to keep his eye on the prize.

“Loosen up, Jackson. Get rid of your jacket and tie. You look like you're suffering almost as much as I was.”

He grimaced. “Probably more.” Thankfully, she would never know he wasn't talking about his clothes.

* * *

C
andles, roses, and champagne. The romance trifecta. For a split second, Allie had wished the floor would open up and drop her into the ocean. The long swim back would have been far preferable to dinner with Jackson chaperoned by fairy lights, sultry background crooning, and the aroma of rose petals.

Then she just got mad—mad at her stupid life and this stupid job that had her stuck on this stupid boat. Mad at Derek for ruining everything. Mad at her naïve self for ever falling for him. Mad at the whole group for stranding her with the one guy she was desperately trying not to be attracted to. Mad at Jackson for daring to be more complex than the arrogant self-absorbed prat she'd originally pegged him as. Hotter-than-the-surface-of-the-sun livid.

Dumping the candles and flowers in the rubbish bin had made her feel a whole lot better than thousands of dollars of therapy had ever managed.

Allie almost wished her mother could have seen it. It might have been the only time in her life she would've been proud of her. The woman was like a cross between Anna Wintour and Martha Stewart. In fact, Martha had found more favor with Veronica after the whole insider-trading fiasco.

And Allie's unseemly temper tantrum had worked. Exceptionally well, if the gaping hole where Jackson's mouth ordinarily resided was anything to go by. By the time she'd
renounced the whole shebang as tacky, rather than awkward, he'd looked like he swallowed his own tongue.

And that would be Allie a gazillion points to Jackson's two.

She took another sip of her champagne and placed the flute on the table. There was only one flaw in her cunning plan: the guy sitting across from her. Thanks to her genius suggestion, he'd taken off his tie, undone a couple of buttons, and shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing a pair of muscular forearms.

Why on earth had she thought that was a good idea? He'd been attractive enough all dressed up in his suit. Now all relaxed and slightly rumpled, he looked good enough to eat with a spoon. Somehow, the smashed-up face even managed to add to his appeal. How? She had no idea.

“Do you really not like anything to do with Tolkien, or were you just getting a kick out of making me mad today?” Since they were trapped here, she might as well ask the question that had been bugging her since their little altercation at Kaitoke.

A smile played on Jackson's lips. “I can't deny a little of the second may have come into it.”

“You're pretty cute when you're mad.”
His words kept playing in her head, despite her attempts to pretend they'd never been said.

“But, I will admit that I'm hardly in a position to take any kind of educated stance on the matter.”

She seized on his words. She could talk about Tolkien all night; it was a safe topic. Well, safer than anything else that came to mind. “So, what do you want to know?”

Jackson seemed to think for a second while he speared a pickle. “Who's your favorite Tolkien character?”

“That depends. Are we talking about the books or the movies?”

“Are they that different?”

She almost choked on the last of her drink. Were they
that
different? Were the sun and the moon different? Pepsi and Mountain Dew? “It depends on the character. But yes, it would be fair to say that Peter Jackson and his team took a lot of creative license with some.”

“Like how?” Jackson actually looked interested.

Allie thought for a second. No point telling him about the major characters like Glorfindel who had been cut completely from the movies; they wouldn't mean anything to him. “Like Aragorn. The movies make him look weak, both when it comes to Arwen and his role. In the screenplay he loves her but makes no real effort to secure their future. It was all on her to give up her immortality. He is full of fears and self-doubt, and unwilling to embrace the destiny. He doesn't take up his forefathers' sword until nearly the middle of the third movie, when Elrond brings the reforged blade to Dunharrow.”

“And in the books?”

How to sum it up succinctly? “Arwen's father's terms were that she could only wed the man who had become king of both Gondor and Arnor, and this was a driving force for him. Tolkien writes Aragorn as a man of singular destiny for which he is prepared by Elrond and toward which he labors throughout his life. He bears the sword wherever he goes, even when it's in shards. He's not afraid to fight for what he wants—Arwen.”

Which was what every girl wanted. Part of what had had her tumbling head over heels for Derek was his unwavering
pursuit of her. And look what that had brought her. Allie picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of prosciutto.

Jackson seemed to sense her change in mood and didn't pursue it any further. Dipping a breadstick into some sort of pesto, he leaned back in his seat and took a bite. “Mmmm, this is good.”

Reaching out, he went to dip the stick back in. Before she even thought about it, her hand flew out and slapped it away. The breadstick flew from his hand like a miniature baton, landing on the carpet about six feet away.

“Hey!”

“Didn't your mother ever teach you not to double-dip?”

“What?” He looked at her like she'd started talking Elvish.

“That”—she pointed at the breadstick—“went into your mouth. You don't go dipping it again in something other people have to eat. It's uncouth.”

Oh dear. That was, word for word, exactly what her mother had said more times than she could remember. She even
sounded
like her. The compulsion to go and pick the breadstick up from its lonely spot on the carpet followed—the legacy of being raised by a woman who once rang the police to find out where she could buy the plastic booties worn at crime scenes.

A slow smile crossed his face. “You're telling me you've spent your entire life denied the pleasure of having more than one helping of salsa on a tortilla chip?”

When he said it like that, it sounded pathetic. But he had never met Veronica.

“You think it's funny, but you're talking to the daughter of a woman who once slapped the prime minister's hand at a cocktail party when he went to double-dip.”

His mouth dropped. “You're joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“So are you telling me in— What's your mother's name?”

“Veronica.”

“That in Veronica's world”—he pulled out a new breadstick, dipped the end in the pesto, and waved it at her—“after I've bitten off this end, that's it? I have to suffer the boredom of a plain breadstick for as long as this breadstick shall live?”

“Yes.” It came out uptight and prim.

Actually, now that she thought about it, he could flip it around and use the other end. Bit late to work that out now when she'd already slapped the guy.

“Allison Shire.” He was doing a terrible job of smothering his grin. “I dare you to live a little. Indulge in a breadstick that has pesto on every bite. Double-dip. Triple-dip, even. I, as the only other person sharing this dish, give you permission.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“If you don't, then I'm going to eat all the rest of them like this.” He bit off the pesto end and chucked the rest of the breadstick over his shoulder. Picked up another one, dipped it, and did the same.

She had to curl her hands around the bottom of her chair to stop herself from getting up and scuttling around, picking them up from the floor. “Do what you like.” She reached out and took a sip of water. “I don't have anything to prove to you.” The words came out defensive.

He stopped suddenly, breadstick number four halfway to his mouth. “No, you don't. I'd imagine you're the one person who doesn't have anything to prove to anyone.”

From the look in his eyes, they weren't talking about some
thing stupid like baked goods or double-dipping anymore. She opened her mouth to come back with something flippant, something to get them back on safe, neutral ground. But somehow her brain forgot to instruct her mouth because what came out was “Except I ruined my life trying to prove my mother wrong.”

Her whole body felt like she had shoved her finger into an electrical socket. What on earth had possessed her to admit that? To
him
of all people. What was wrong with her?

Her mind went into a meltdown, trying to work out what she was going to say to his logical follow-up questions. Why? How? When? What happened?

“I've ruined a whole lot of peoples' lives trying to prove my entire town wrong.” As Jackson's words hit the air, his whole body froze, and she got the sense he had the same hysterical questions running through his mind.

She could breathe again, struck by the realization this was probably one of the most honest conversations she'd had since the day Julia showed up at her lecture and made her life a public sideshow.

“What happened?” Her fingers twisted around themselves, performing an intricate dance on the tablecloth. “Sorry, it's none of my business. You don't—”

“My company collapsed.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Quite spectacularly, after my girlfriend stole my most closely guarded intellectual property and gave it to my biggest competitor.” Bitterness steeped his tone. “I developed a logistics supply chain program that will revolutionize retail. The IP was what everything was built around, what was going to take us big. I was the only one who knew how everything fit together. And
Nicole, it turned out. After she turned over my files, instead of propelling our Wall Street listing the company had to fold, taking with it some of my investors' retirement funds and college savings for their kids.”

“I'm sorry.” The boat dipped into a swell, pushing her back against her chair.

“Me too.” He picked up his water glass, then put it back down. Pushed it around in front of him. “It was six months ago and I can still hear the sobs of one father asking me how he was supposed to tell his son he wasn't going to be going to his dream college after all.” A tornado of vulnerability, misery, and regret stormed across his face at the admission.

He stared at something over her shoulder. “If I can't convince Louis to invest in my new business and find a way to pay them back, I don't know how I'll ever be able to live with myself. I'm supposed to be passing some kind of character test and somehow I've ended up starring in some kind of match­making scheme in Tolkien land. What am I supposed to do with that? No offense.” He looked trapped. Exactly how she felt. “I mean—”

“The phone call. Yesterday.” Allie's soft words interrupted his litany of regrets, compelled by a force stronger than her own fear.