"Why?" Her eyelids were lowered, pupils dilated and her hands were still on my biceps, fingers feeling. "Sophie's out and I don't know enough about your tattoos."
"They'll still be here after your gran's gone home tomorrow," I said, taking hold of her hand again. "And I don't want to be arrested for indecency."
We slowed down the walk and half pretended that the kiss didn't happen, talking about tomorrow and the museum and where to eat for dinner.
"You're sure you want to come with us?" she said as we get to her apartment block. "You know, spending your Saturday with an eighty-year-old woman walking around an exhibit about underwear through the ages."
"You sure you want me to come? You keep checking if I'm okay with it and I'm wondering if that means you're giving me a hint," I glanced at her as we walked. She had asked the same thing at least three times and it was starting to fuck me off. Yes, I would rather be going just with her as looking at underwear was only going to make me think about what she was wearing and what I could possibly take off later, but her gran sounded interesting and I needed Vanessa to know I wasn't just some businessman who was out to use her like her dickhead of an ex. It might have only been two days, but no one had delved under my skin this much and this fast for a long time.
"I'm just curious as to why you want to come. Unless you have a granny fetish?" Her eyes danced evilly. We were at her apartment block so I stopped, no intention of walking past the concierge as I only had so much willpower.
I tried to think of something to say that would make me sound intelligent and charming rather than desperately intrigued, but nothing occurred to me, so I went for honesty instead. "I really like you and I shouldn't because my firm's employing yours and it could make things messier for you with your ex, but because I'm a selfish bastard I want to get to know you more and for you to get to know me." I leaned closer to her, my lips to her ear."I want to know how you say my name when I make you come." I heard her take a sharp intake of breath. I smiled, then I bent my head and kissed her, keeping my hands on her waist.
"Goodnight, Vanessa Moore," I said. "And yes, it was a date." And then I walked away.
CHAPTER TEN
Chapter Seven
Vanessa
I woke on Saturday feeling deprived of more than just sleep. After Jackson had walked me home and made it clear that he wasn't going to come in I struggled to fall asleep. My brain replayed the kisses we'd shared, the feel of his hands on my ass, my skin and the breath of his words against my ear:I want to know how you say my name when I make you come.I should've yanked my vibrator from my underwear drawer, conjured up a fantasy where he did indeed make me come and eased the sexual tension that throbbed through me like the tide during a tsunami. No, I decided I wanted to wait until he did the job himself, which meant that my quality of sleep was second-hand-discount-store grade.
Jackson messaged to say he was on his way to pick up Gran from Euston Station. I'd passed the message on and she'd responded with a selfie of her and the man himself ten minutes later. I could see one of her hands holding the helmet; the other was out of the shot and I had my suspicions as to where it was placed. My gran could always be trusted to get a crafty feel in when an attractive man was concerned and she got away with it simply because she was old.
But certainly not stupid.
I left my apartment and headed to Amelie's, determined to keepmyhands to myself while Gran was around for the day. Any hint of anything other than friendship and Gran would be all over it like a rash. But after she had headed home, all bets were off: Sophie was right, it was time to dust off the lady parts and see if they were still in full working order, or if it was something else that Richard the dick had irreparably damaged and another thing to add to his bill.
It was a warm late spring day, the London I'd loved since moving here for my master's degree was in full swing; even though it was still early, the streets were starting to bustle with a business that lacked the usual desperation of a weekday. I'd opted for skinny ripped jeans and a vest, a long necklace I'd picked up on a holiday in Marrakesh dangled in between my breasts and if I said I hadn't picked the outfit with Jackson in mind I'd be lying.
Amelie's café was busy with tourists getting an early breakfast before heading off to Greenwich or the London Eye or one of the other attractions that served the millions of visitors that came to London each year. I wasn't a Londoner; the biggest part of my heart lived in Derbyshire, just near Bakewell, and I'd grown up a country girl in the midst of the Peak District. But I loved my adopted hometown and the fact that there was always something to do on a Saturday when work wasn't screaming too loudly or Richard hadn't persuaded me to spend the day further down the Thames with his boating friends from his private school, not something I'd generally enjoyed but did out of duty.
Amelie showed me to a table big enough for four and provided coffee without me asking. It seemed that if you worked with Callaghan Greene she automatically understood that you needed fuel in the form of caffeine to function. I wasn't going to complain. "He's a nice man, Jackson," she said, smiling. "He doesn't realize it but he needs to settle down. He's lonely."
"I'm not sure he could ever be lonely," I said, nibbling the cinnamon biscuit she'd provided with the coffee. "He's surrounded by family and with people nearly all the time. He's anything but lonely."
"But sometimes," she said, sitting down next to me. "Sometimes the loneliest place to be is in a crowded room. He's used to a big family, and although he's not the oldest, he's the one they all come to with their problems and worries. Who does he have?"
"How do you know them so well?" I asked. Amelie was around my age, I'd guessed. Her hair today was washed light pink, nails painted in a leopard print design with pink instead of browns.
"Sugar, I've known Maxwell, Jackson, and Claire since I came out of my mother's womb," she smiled. "Let Jacks tell you the story sometime. I need to prep breakfasts for the starving." I watched her walk to the counter wearing a long hippy style skirt and a broderie Anglaise sleeveless top, confused as to how she'd known them for so long when she seemed so unlike the Callaghan's.
I was lost in thought when Jackson arrived with my grandmother who appeared to have acquired his leather jacket and was smoothing her hair down like she was one of the Pink Ladies inGrease. I raised my eyebrows at her, saying nothing, mainly because I didn't want to know the answer.
"Well, honey, that was almost the ride of my life. Nearly beat the time I was on the back of Lawrie Turner's Harley back in '72," she said, sitting down opposite.
"I'm not going to ask, Gran," I said, warning her with my tone. "Have a look at the menu and see what you want for breakfast."
She eyeballed me and picked up the menu. Jackson entered a couple of minutes later, helmet free and smiling. "I've left the bike at the offices until tomorrow. I don't think the traffic cops would like me taking you and your gran on the back of it at the same time."
"I think you'd have to pull in a few favors if you were caught."
He sat next to me, immediately putting his hand on my back and moving close enough so that our legs were touching. My gran gave me a look that told me she knew exactly what was happening underneath the table and she approved. "How was your train journey, Gran?" I said. Jackson kept his hand on the small of my back, his thumb softly stroking me.
"Not half as exciting as how I got here from Euston. Thank you for that, Jackson. It was kind of you to help an old lady out and save me from the heat and chaos of the tube," she said, nodding towards him. Like my gran needed saving. She was one of the most capable people I knew and she thrived off the chaos in London and the stories it gave her to tell her friends over bridge and sherry. Or tequila shots, on one occasion that I had nearly obliterated from my memory.
"It was no problem," he said. His hair was down, looking as groomed as it did when he was at work. Jeans and a green t-shirt that clung to his biceps were enough to make me feel far too warm and his aftershave was going to be one of those smells that invoked memories when I was in my nineties. "It's not every day you get to take a fine lady out on the back of your bike. I'm getting a new one in a few weeks."
