The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (24 page)

It’s happened.

Can’t change it.

And pretending he’s a bad guy isn’t going to make him less wonderful or it easier to stop liking him.

I grab my cell and check the screen. No notifications from Jacob. It’s lame to keep checking. He isn’t calling and it’s foolish to expect him to. I was horrid and he has a right to hate me.

Fudge, now I’m going to see Jacob every day until I can get my dad to change his mind about the bodyguard thing. Not good. You let a guy into your head, Krystal, and you have to get Jacob outta there. Crazy girl infatuation needs to be over. Ballet is the only thing you can focus on if you want to succeed.

But how am I going to keep him out of my thoughts? I can’t even block him from my mind tonight and I’m angry with him. And it’s going to be miserable because I don’t doubt he’ll be Buckingham Palace Jacob with me again.

I flop back on my bed, groaning. Maybe I should have told my dad I was sleeping with Jacob Merrick. Yes, that truth would’ve gotten me my way.

I cover my face with a pillow and cry myself to sleep.

“Jacob”

I stare at the ceiling after a sleepless night. At least a dozen times I’ve switch on my phone to call Krystal. Almost as many times as I nearly called my boss to quit.

I should never have made a move on her. It wasn’t professional—I deserve to be jobless—and it sure as hell wasn’t right.

It’s not like I didn’t know how it would end. Brayden warned me—I warned myself—but those crystal-blue eyes of hers, no chance, not ever.

After tossing back the blankets, I sit on the edge of the bed and check the clock. Crap. I need to be at the house by 9:00 a.m. Then I’m off to LAX to start a new life with a girl who despises me. Worst day of my life about to commence. That’s what today’s going to be. No point in sugarcoating it with denial.

Inside my shower, I stand beneath the streams without moving. It’d be great if my gut would stop churning.

It’s just another day, Jake, like the last six months of days before Malibu
.

I clock in. I clock out. And I get paid. The two days in Malibu were a mistake. Better forgotten by both of us.

I never had a shot of being anything to Krystal. Even if she wasn’t Alan’s daughter, it wasn’t ever going to happen, not even for Daryl the rich idiot, because she’s got everything all planned out for herself, and that plan doesn’t include a boyfriend. It absolutely doesn’t include me. Her dedication and determination are admirable. She doesn’t want me fucking up her life, and only a douche would want to do that to a girl.

She’s a job, not a girl. That’s all she’s ever been, even after those two incredible days with her.

Why can’t I shake it off?

Get over it.

It was only two days.

But it was so much more.

It felt like I’d been in love with her my whole life.

I groan.

Only a loser falls this fast for a girl.

No more stalling.

Stalling won’t change anything.

I’ve got to get moving.

I switch off the water and reach for a towel.

When I leave my bedroom, suitcases in hand, Brayden is waiting in the living room to drive me to the main house.

His gaze narrows as his chin bobs. “You’re going to go, then?”

I shrug. “No choice. I need my job. That hasn’t changed since last Friday. You cool with me leaving my stuff here?”

“No worries. It’s all good. Told you, you could keep your stuff here until you decide what you want me to do with it.”

“I may be back sooner than you think.”

His answering expression is not encouraging.

Inside the car, I text Janie.

Me: Heading out to NYC. Call you when I get settled. May be jobless and living with you soon. Haha. Not joking.

Janie:
Cheer up, bro. If she doesn’t appreciate you, she doesn’t deserve you. I don’t care how special you think she is. If she meant what she said to you she isn’t worth knowing.

I stare at the screen, smiling slightly even though I don’t agree with her insights. She’s just being a good sister after I poured my heart out to her last night. And yes, I told my sister everything, and yes, Brayden thinks that’s part of my nice-guy complex. But no, it’s what guys should do; go to their sisters if they want their thoughts straightened out in a productive way. They sure as hell shouldn’t talk smack about a girl to their friends. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s the worst move any guy can ever make since guys like to pile on when you’re drowning. Never helpful, always inflammatory, and egging you on to do wrong shit.

As I type on the screen, out of the corner of my eye I see Brayden’s watching me with that
running to Jane with girl problems
frown again. Who cares if Bray thinks it’s a pussy move? I’d rather get advice from Janie any day than him. His resume includes the Shanna four months that are going to be life-ruining forever.

Me:
The problem is she meant what she said about my greatest appeal being never having to see me again, and she’s still worth knowing. I get why she said that. Too many guys screw up too many things for girls and Krystal knows what she wants to make of her life.

I stare down at the text box then backspace out the last sentence. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I can’t believe I’m so self-absorbed with my own problems that I nearly sent that to Janie after what she’s been through.

Janie:
You get it. I don’t. Don’t expect me to ever like her. Don’t invite me ever to Manhattan. Won’t come. I hate her.

Not responding to that last comment, I shoot off “text you when I land” and shut off my phone.

At the Pacific Palisades house, we make a fast stop at the security building to grab the Black Star packet left there by my boss, Jared.

I thumb through the pages quickly. Location. A loft in Tribeca. No surprise there. Trendy. Expensive. Safest neighborhood in New York City. Security system details. Hmm, Alan even arranged for a full-time driver with car there. Can’t have Krystal traveling by subway or even taxi. Cleaning staff schedules. Photos attached to resumes with background checks on everyone. Not exactly your average kid-off-to-college orientation package.

Shoving the papers back in the file, I head for the black SUV waiting by the main house to take us to the airport. I toss my military-issue duffel in the back and wait with the hatch up since I’m pretty sure baggage handler is part of my job duties now. I don’t doubt whatever Krystal wants is part of my employment responsibilities moving forward, even after that speech by Chrissie that I work for her.

No, not buying that one.

And by the look on Krystal’s face as she drops her bags at my feet, she’s decided I’m a servant and not security. She hurries off and disappears into the SUV with her mother.

Letting the air out of my chest in slow, measured increments—two seconds of being with her have already gotten me all jammed up again—I grab her designer suitcases and set them next to mine.

I take my place in the front seat with the driver, buckle, cross my arms, and stare straight forward with eyes locked on the road.

Halfway to LAX I realize there’s no talking coming from the backseat. Well, not from Krystal. Her mother is chattering up a storm. Can Chrissie not feel the current of tension pulsing between her daughter and me? Thank God, she can’t. Or maybe she can and that’s why she’s talking so much. It’s impossible to ever know what Chrissie’s thinking.

I peek in the mirror. Yes, she’s got that odd expression on her face. Overly happy, quirky, undefinable. Unsettling. This is a mistake. I need to not board the plane and quit.

Thirty minutes later, we’re at the drop-off loop for departing passengers. I hop out of the car and get the bags, then scan the crowded pavement for someplace carefully discreet to stand and wait for them to stay their goodbyes.

After twenty minutes of quiet talking I can’t hear and a lot of hugs and tears, Chrissie closes her hands on Krystal’s cheeks. “Call me when you get there.”

Krystal nods and I can see she’s trying to hold back her emotion. “I will, Mom. I promise.”

Chrissie’s stunning smile fills her face. “You always promise. You always forget. This time, though, you’ve got to do. I’ll worry every second until I know you’re safely there.”

She gives Krystal one more fierce embrace, then rushes toward me, startling me by wrapping me in her arms. “You’re part of the family now,” she whispers in my ear. “And we’re trusting you with what’s most important to us. It may seem like a silly job, but it isn’t. Krystal is Alan’s heart. Nothing is too small to call me about. Open phone line always. Remember that.”

Choked up in under ten seconds, it’s like I’ve been sucked into a Hallmark Movie Kleenex box moment and I hardly know the woman. I wish Chrissie would let go and move back. Crap, I don’t need one more thing adding to my emotional overload.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember.”

She makes a face at me. “There you go again, Jacob. Thinking I’m the Queen of England.”

A memory rises:
There you go, Jacob, saying something sweet.

Now I know where Krystal gets that expression.

Krystal stands on the curb until the SUV has pulled away and is out of sight. Without a glance in my direction, she goes into the terminal. I grab the bags and follow her.

Stopping abruptly, she pulls her ticket from her pocket and looks around. Then does it again. Oh great, she doesn’t even know she needs to check her bags and swap out the digital boarding pass for one from the kiosk.

Gnawing her lips as though trying to decide what to do, she moves toward the security rope line. No, Krystal, wrong answer.

I stop her with a hand. “You need to go there.” I point at the customer counter. “Check your bags and get another boarding pass.”

Her dark brows lower on her face. Her mouth remains tightly closed. Fine, not speaking to me today. Thankfully, not arguing. She moves toward the counter. Wrong line. Alan’s not some cheapo that would buy her an economy ticket. Empty first-class line to the left, Krystal. No, I’m not correcting her again.

We wait side by side, moving at a snail’s pace. Thirty minutes later we’re at the counter. She stands there, doing nothing as I lift the first bag on the scale.

“Give him your ID and ticket, Krystal,” I whisper at the back of her head.

She doesn’t respond, but her cheeks pink as she shoves her paperwork at the airline employee. Bags tagged, taken away and new boarding pass in hand, she struts off without waiting for me.

Damn it.

I wait impatiently to get checked in, then snatch my documents from the clerk and hurry after her. The terminal’s packed. Christ, where’d she go?

Looking. Looking. Eyes lock on target. Wrong line again. She’s two for two.

“Krystal, you go over there.”

Her mouth scrunches up as she stares at me. “The sign here says security check.”

“There’s always a first-class line for everything. That’s your line, Krystal.”

I point to a sign. She reads, then moves as directed. Resisting the urge to loosen my collar in frustration, it’s now clear why Alan thought hiring her a bodyguard was a good idea: I’m protecting her from herself.

Christ, doesn’t Krystal know anything?

Then I remember how Janie was when we first left home. How clueless she was about how things worked and how overwhelmed new environments made her when we moved from Ohio to Seattle. Maybe it’s a girl thing. They don’t clutter their minds with useful things—like how to board planes—unless they need to.

As we wait, I study Krystal without letting her see me do it. She looks incredible today, sort of mismatching, understated trendy with her messy curls and simple shirt, jeans, and Converse. The way all the 90210 girls dress, thinking this look makes them not look like rich girls.

Wrong. Every guy in this building can see she’s uptown and gorgeous. Yes, there are lots of stares. I can’t drag my eyes away from her either, in spite of the fact that her features are stiff and her stare is definitely not welcoming when it briefly touches on me. It’s really cute how excited and confused she is, and fighting not to show it. Even as unmistakably angry at me as she is. Damn, it makes me want to kiss her.

I’m pulled from my thoughts just in time.

“Stop.”

I’m surprised when Krystal whirls to face me.

“Give him your ID and boarding ticket,” I say, making her aware of the TSA agent she nearly strode past. That wouldn’t have worked out well. They’d have hauled her off to security.

Her face burns red. “Again?”

“Yes, Krystal. Again.”

Letting out a slow, aggravated breath, she takes out her ID and lays it on the counter. The TSA agent studies her, eyes shifting from face to passport. Normal, but I can tell she doesn’t know that because the color on her face turns scarlet and one foot has started to tap a toe circle on the floor, heal-toe-heal, in a dainty move I’ve seen her make a thousand times when she’s anxious.

An hour later we’re on the plane and I’m more than ready for my seat. I settle next to the window and she stands in the aisle staring at me as if she expects me to move.

“They’re assigned, Krystal.”

She stares at me like she wants to argue this one, then drops down next to me, buckles her seat belt, shoves her earbuds in her ears, and closes her eyes.

Throughout the six-hour flight her lids don’t lift. They stay closed even when the flight attendant tries to give her a meal. I can hear some kind of classical music pouring out of her iPhone, and she sits with posture erect in her chair, gracefully moving her hands with fluttering fingers as though she’s dancing.

She’s beautiful to watch even dancing in her seat.

After gathering the bags at the luggage claim, I send a text to her driver. I escort her to the pickup curb and into the waiting car. The ride into the city is slow. Bumper-to-bumper traffic. Two hours later we finally enter the underground garage of Krystal’s building.

Top floor loft in an expensive, renovated historical factory. 1900s feel on the exterior. Freight-style elevator but with security features.

Camera.

Camera.