I laughed, feeling delirious. He’d … And I’d … Wow.
Remembering what had happened only served to make me smile more. Ok, now I could see what Tiff was talking about. That was incredible. Indescribable. Was it like this every time? Why hadn’t I been doing this all along? Or maybe the better question was, why had I stayed miserable with Brad for so long and missed out on this?
A small voice reminded me that it probably had more to do with Jackson himself; that sex with everyone was unlikely to be this good; that Jackson had been incredible in a way beyond just sex. He’d been patient, and he hadn’t grumbled or made me feel bad when I’d needed a break. He’d made me feel like I was beautiful, treasured. It made me want to believe it.
It made me want more.
I jumped into the shower, a little regretful that I had to wash away the memories of last night but not wanting to walk into work smelling of sex. Smelling of him. I buried my nose in my shoulder, hoping for some lingering memory, but all I could smell now was my lavender body wash. Oh well, I still had the memories. And boy, was I going to be replaying them as often as possible. I could barely wait to tell Tiff about it. I resolved to text her to confirm her schedule so I could head over after work if she were free.
Dressing, I spotted my discarded lingerie on the floor and remembered his reaction to the lace. I opened my underwear drawer to assess the situation.
When was the last time I bought something that wasn't plain and practical?
As I took in the collection of comfortable cotton pieces, I realized I'd forgotten how good it was to wear something for myself. To see myself as sexy.
I'd have to go shopping.
Later that morning, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I entered the office. As usual, I beat the rest of our small team by thirty minutes. And, as usual, David was already there.
It was my first favorite thing about working here: having a boss as passionate as David. The second was the space itself. There were only a dozen of us in total, so the office wasn’t large by anyone’s standards, but we made the most of it. David had sourced local artists for photographs and artwork of the city, a celebration of all things Chicago, which built on his, or I should say our, mission statement of supporting local vendors.
I rapped my knuckles on his open door, smiling at the picture he made; chin in hand, brow furrowed in concentration, the bright colors of his Hawaiian shirt utterly ruining any sort of seriousness that he might otherwise have hoped for.
David looked up from his laptop to greet me. “Morning, kiddo.”
Even my dad never called me that. But I’d never minded with David. In the last two years of working for him, I’d come to respect him greatly. He’d been the only part of working at Empire Distributions that hadn’t made my soul want to shrivel up, and when he’d asked me to join him here at Bespoke Beverages, I’d said yes without hesitation.
“Morning, David.” I made myself comfortable in one of the two armchairs facing his desk, noting how his beard was almost completely silver now, though still trimmed and groomed to perfection.
He shut his laptop and clasped his hands over it. “Ready for today?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. I just wanted to come in and run through the notes again before I head out.”
“Good. Before you go, I wanted to let you know I’m in the process of getting us some help.” He looked serious. Too serious.
“That’s great. I know how busy you’ve been.”
“How busy we’veallbeen,” he said, catching me with a shrewd look over the top of his glasses, looking even more like a concerned dad. “You know how much I’ve appreciated your efforts over the last six months, but you don’t—”
“Need to work so hard. I remember.” He was a broken record at this point.
“Which is why I’m getting us some help. It won’t be much, but we’re in a good enough position to lighten the load a bit.”
“David, I think that’s great. The team has been working hard, and I know they’ll like having another set of hands around. But don’t worry about me. I can handle it.” I could, and I would.
Hoping to derail any further comment from him, I stood and asked, “Can I get you a coffee from next door? My treat.”
“Thanks.” He scratched his beard. “My usual.”
I winced. His usual was laden with cream and syrups. “I still don’t know how Nicky lets you drink that stuff. Isn’t it sacrilegious?” I couldn’t understand how someone married to an Italian drank coffee like that.
“What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now get.” He waved me out the door. “And don’t forget to get a receipt,” he called out as I left, laughing.
The drive outto Westchester always made me happy.
The warehouse stood on the corner block like an old guard dog, imposing in size but calm and comforting in its protection. The building was a stalwart of the area, part of the rich history from the builders who had made this town what it was.
Jeff MacMillan was no different.
