"Are you?" I asked, as if it was something I should've known.
"A custom Harley. I'll take you out on it when it arrives," he said as he beckoned Amelie to our table. "My usual coffee for me and Gran, what's your poison?"
"Do they have a license to serve alcohol this early?" She was on fine form this morning, probably due to having been picked up by Jackson although her inappropriate sense of humor was an everyday standard. "Damn," she said as Amelie shook her head. "I'll have a pot of tea then. I'm not a coffee addict like my daughter."
"You mean granddaughter."
"Shush, I can get away with being your mother!"
Jackson laughed, his eyes dancing. "She can," he said to me. "There's a few of my stepmom's friends she could teach about anti-aging without resorting to surgery." He was right: my gran could pass for twenty years younger in looks and attitude. Her hair had faded from the same thick dark brown as mine to ash and she still wore it long enough to be tied back. Her skin was tanned from being outside in her garden and the local markets so often, the lines attributed more to laughter than age.
"They should live in Derbyshire," she said. "The air's good for your skin and the ale's better. I have to say though, from what I've seen, the men are better down here." She raised an eyebrow at Jackson who had the indecency to blush.
We bantered through breakfast and then headed to the Victoria and Albert Museum, the crowds thickening around the tube stops and food outlets. London baked in the heat and I was glad of the vest I'd worn, although I wished I'd opted for shorts. I caught Jackson looking at me a few times and then my gran looking at Jackson looking at me, then raising an eyebrow, her favorite form of non-verbal communication.
"He's a keeper," she said as we walked around the part of the exhibition dedicated to corsets. Jackson had excused himself to make a phone call to a persistent client who wasn't getting the hint that it was weekend. "Much better than that twit you were living with. He had a rod stuck so far up his backside you could see it when he yawned."
"Why didn't you say something before?" I asked, semi-annoyed.
She took her phone out of her handbag. "Because you wouldn't have been for listening. And sometimes we've got to keep kissing the same frog just to make sure he's not going to turn into a prince. Then low and behold, the prince arrives without ever having been a frog in the first place!"
"I've only known Jackson two days."
"I only knew your granddad two weeks before we got married." She lifted up her phone and took a selfie with a corset in the background. It would be on Facebook and Instagram in less than two minutes with some lewd comment. I suspected the selfie with Jackson was already set as her profile picture. I dreaded checking.
"Somehow I don't think I'll be getting married in two weeks."
"No, you won't because that's you. You'd need to plan a wedding with military precision and half a dozen lists. But you might get your leg over, which is something you could do with. You're sitting too tight; you need to relax. I've told you before what the best way to do that is." She snapped a couple more selfies with different backgrounds.
My mum had died when I was six and with my dad working away on business I was left to the care of my grandparents. It wasn't a bad childhood; I missed my mum and my dad was sad, but my gran, with her practical, busy manner, taught me how to make the best of a bad thing. "You bought me a box of condoms when I was in college and told me the best way to get a good grade was to relax the night before." I had died of embarrassment.
"And was it good advice?"
I said nothing, not wanting to give her the satisfaction that ithadbeen good advice. I'd been dating a boy who had recently started playing professional rugby and although he'd been a perfect gentleman – I was seventeen and he was nineteen – I'd been panicking about the planning of my first time. He'd found the box of condoms in my room when he'd been looking for a pen and then I'd relayed the conversation I'd had with my gran. Fortunately, he'd found it hilarious and then proceeded to relax me very well. I'd enjoyed sex, until Richard, when it had become more about him than me. I'd accepted that, thinking it was part of the course of getting older and working together. With having a business, you couldn't have it all, could you? Now I was changing my mind. It didn't matter what you could have; it mattered what you wanted.
"Sorry ladies," Jackson came up behind us. "I really didn't want to take any work calls today. My phone is now off." He looked from me to my gran and back. "Have you been causing trouble?"
My eyes flicked towards Gran and I realized how guilty we both looked. Me because I was wondering exactly how relaxed Jackson could make me; as to my gran, I did not want to know where her guilt was stemming from.
"Only what you'd expect," she said, tucking her arm through his and leading him through the rest of the exhibition, pointing out some of the garments, what she had first-hand experience of and, when we reached the more modern underwear, making not so subtle hints about what would both look good, and feel good. To his credit, Jackson didn't flinch, seemingly taking on board her advice.
We had enough time to grab a late afternoon tea at The Shard, Jackson switching his phone on and ignoring the incoming emails to make a call and find us a table. After overdosing on two corpse revivers and a glass of champagne, Gran assured us that she would be able to navigate the tube successfully to Euston and would set an alarm so she didn't miss her stop off the train when she got back to Sheffield.
Gran was correct; she navigated everything successfully, with photographic evidence as proof. Once on the train, she posted a stream of selfies of her with a series of random tube and train workers, plus the odd police officer and even a human statue. She really was her very own marketing campaign, complete with hashtags. I figured I had inherited my talent for marketing from her, she'd amassed that many followers and knew what would work in a photo or a caption.
"So," Jackson said as we sat on the banks of the Thames in a pub, both drinking beers. "I've finally got you alone."
"You had me alone last night," I said. "And it was your choice not to make it more alone." The woman who had lived with Richard for so long would never have been as honest, but my grandmother had reminded me of who I was before: fearless and forward.
"I didn't want you to think I was only after one thing," Jackson said, one hand scratching a shoulder. He was being watched by a group of three women drinking prosecco and while I didn't feel jealous, I was enjoying knowing that the odd touch I gave him or he gave me was adding to their angst.
"Maybe I wanted you to be after only one thing," I said, resting back my head and looking more casual than I felt. A clipper passed by on the river, all its passengers outside for a change.
"Maybe I don't just want one thing," he downed the rest of his beer. "Maybe I wanted more than just..." he leaned forward, putting a hand on the back of my head and pulling my lips to his. I let him, anticipating the first touch of our lips and inhaling his scent, male and musky.
The kiss was slow and deep, and although the only points of contact were his hand, our knees, and our lips, the whole of my body combusted. His beard was rough against my skin and I couldn't help but imagine how it would feel between my legs and how he would take control with more than just a kiss.
Jackson pulled back, his eyes dancing with humor and arousal. "What do you want to do tonight?"
