I laugh before I can stop myself. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy talented? Crazy charming? You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Crazy full of yourself.”
He points his fork at me. “Thanks.”
We eat on the couch, our plates set out on the coffee table in front of us and I try to ignore each time his knee brushes against mine. A ray of late-afternoon sun slips through the tall windows, catching in the bubbles of our champagne. Outside, the city stretches wide beneath a soft, golden haze.
“Did I tell you about the time Marco opened a client presentation with the wrong slideshow?” Jesse asks between bites.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m afraid to ask.”
He swallows, trying not to laugh. “Vacation photos of him and his boyfriend on a beach, shirtless. With captions.”
My jaw drops. “What kind of captions?”
He takes another sip of champagne. “Oh, you know. ‘Sun’s out, guns out.’ ‘What happens in Cabo stays in Cabo.’ That kind of thing.”
I laugh so hard I have to set my glass down. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“I wish. Poor guy went beet red. Becca printed the first page and taped it to the wall above his desk. She called it a ‘learning opportunity,” he says, putting air quotations around the words.
“Oh no. Poor Marco.”
Jesse smirks. “He deserved it. She probably would have stuck the whole thing on the wall, but it wasn’t entirely workplace appropriate. I didn’t tell you about the swim shorts. Didn’t leave much to the imagination.”
I laugh, head tipped back. Maybe it’s the champagne fizzing in my bloodstream, or maybe it’s Jesse, but I feel a little lightheaded. I didn’t expect to see this new side of him. He tells stories like he’s letting me in on a secret. He talks to me in hushed tones when he knows I’m nervous. He’s easy and funny and, for once, not trying to push my buttons.
The thought softens the knot in my chest. Whatever it is, I like it. Because for the first time all week, I’m not thinking about tomorrow. I’m not thinking about my parents or the questions I’ll have to answer or the smile I’ll have to fake. I’m just here — tipsy, warm, and laughing — with the man who’s been driving me crazy since the day I met him.
“Were you always like this?” I ask, swirling what’s left of my champagne. The laughter has faded and the air between us feels quieter and steadier somehow. “With you and your brothers, were you always the funny one?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Guess so. Things could be pretty grim sometimes. It was my job to give them something to laugh at.”
Something in his tone shifts, and I set my glass down. “You had a tough childhood?”
He nods. “Yeah. It was just the four us really: me, Ford, Wes, and Noah. Our mom got sick, and Ford basically became the adult overnight. Learned to cook, handled school stuff, made sure we didn’t burn the house down.” He exhales, a faint, almost tired smile tugging at his mouth. “He didn’t get to be a kid, not really. That’s why he’s…the way he is. Always two steps ahead, planning every possible outcome before it happens. I think he believes that if he just keeps everything under control, nothing can go wrong.”
There’s a quiet moment where the weight of what he said settles between us, soft and heavy. I’m surprised he’s being so open, so vulnerable.
“Can I ask what happened to your mom? It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking about it.”
He goes quiet for a beat, his gaze drifting out the window where the city lights are now flickering. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“She was sick for most of my childhood. A stroke eventually took her when I was eleven. After she died, everything sort of…came apart. My dad—” he stops, jaw working for a second before he exhales through his nose. “He didn’t take it well. None of us did, but he just…disappeared in a different way. He was still there, but not really. After that, he spent a lot of time at the bar or passed out somewhere he shouldn’t have been. Some days he’d be fine, and others…” He shakes his head, eyes flicking down to his drink. “We learned not to expect much. Ford tried to shield us, but I still remember the nights he’d wait up, hoping Dad would come home sober. He never did.”
“Jesse…I’m sorry, that’s awful,” I say softly. My heart breaks for the little boy he once was. As distant as my relationship was with my parents, I couldn’t imagine the pain of losing my mom atsuch a young age. The silence between us stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like honesty.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Ford took care of everyone, and I cracked jokes. I thought that if we could laugh, maybe it wouldn’t always hurt so damn much. That’s just kind of been my thing ever since, I guess.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The room is quiet, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of the traffic outside. I look at Jesse, my throat tightening. I didn’t expect this, not the honesty or the ache that comes with it. “That’s actually really brave.”
He laughs. “Brave probably isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Still,” I say, my voice gentle, “you turned all of that into something. A million-dollar company. A life.”
He glances at me then, and there’s something in his eyes I haven’t seen before. Gratitude maybe, or relief. After a long pause, he says, “So, there’s my life story. Your turn, Mads. Tell me about the Ashcroft family history.”
