So Not Meant To Be
: Chapter 9

Meant to Be Podcast

Rowan and Bonnie

Kelsey: Welcome, listener, to the Meant to Be Podcast, where we talk to madly-in-love couples about the way they met. Rowan and Bonnie, thank you so much for joining me today. Please, tell us how you met.

Bonnie: I was in a towel, and he was a voyeur in my kitchen, waiting to catch a glimpse.

Rowan: Jesus. That’s not what happened.

Bonnie: Were you or were you not in my kitchen uninvited?

Rowan: I was in me maw’s house. She neglected to tell me two lasses were renting the cottage.

Bonnie: Still, you were there and I was in a towel. I tried to shoo him away with a broom, but he wouldn’t leave.

Kelsey: A broom, always a good weapon.

Bonnie: Not for a stubborn Scot.

Rowan: Want to talk about stubborn? Shall we talk about your laundry list of stubbornness?

Bonnie: Not necessary, dear. Back to the story—of course I thought he was attractive, I mean, look at him, how could you not? But, man, was he grumpy.

Kelsey: What were you doing in Scotland?

Bonnie: Oh, my friend and I took a job with Rowan’s mom. They needed someone to watch over their coffee shop, and housing was included. We both needed a change of scenery, so we jumped on the idea. We were hired. But I wasn’t prepared for the kind of repairs the coffee shop needed, nor the challenging glare from Rowan with every step I took.

Kelsey: So, you two were enemies to lovers, then.

Rowan: Aye. Very much enemies.

Bonnie: Until I wore him down with my American accent. He won me over with his cake.

Rowan: That I did.

LOTTIE HAS ALWAYS TALKED about flying in Huxley’s private plane. She’s told me the wonders of not having to go through the same routine as flying commercial and dealing with crowds of people. She’s talked about the service . . . the bedroom in the back, but nothing she told me would have prepared me for this flight.

Because this, my friends, is bougie.

This is easily the fanciest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Cane is printed on everything. The seats, the stationery . . . the napkins, even the apron the flight attendant is wearing.

And these seats—my God, I could get lost in one forever. I’d buy this seat alone, sell everything else in my tiny studio apartment, and live in this seat. I’d do everything in this seat. I’d sleep, eat, I’d even sponge-bathe myself.

I’ve already texted Lottie “good luck to the flight staff in removing me from this plane.”

Oh, and the staff. They call me Miss Gardner and they had my favorite seltzer on hand that I of course indulged in. As well as these fresh-from-the-freaking-airplane-oven cookies. I had three.

THREE!

And we’re talking the size of my fist. Three large, chocolatey cookies that tasted like success.

Needless to say, I’ve been enjoying myself despite the brooding, in-a-constant-state-of-annoyance, JP.

He didn’t speak to me when we arrived at the hangar. He didn’t say anything when we both sat down, and when the flight attendant asked him if he wanted a cookie, he said no but added another “finger” of Scotch to his drink.

His loss, because these cookies are phenomenal.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Cane?” Ronda, the lovely flight attendant, asks.

“I’m good,” he says, staring out the window.

She then turns to me. “Miss Gardner, can I grab you another cookie?” She winks, as if we both know I really want another one.

And I do, but three is pushing it. Four is out of line.

I press my palm to my stomach and say, “I don’t think I should.”

She gently rests her hand on my shoulder and says, “How about this? I’ll pack some up in a bag for you to take with you.”

Don’t mind if I do.

“You’re an absolute angel, Ronda.”

She gives me a pat and then retreats to the back of the airplane.

I glance over at JP and watch him casually lift his glass to his lips. Even though there was a seat right across from me, he chose to sit on the other side of the plane. If his outrage in the conference room didn’t clue me in on his displeasure with this trip, then his obvious seat choice has.

“You know . . . you could be a little nicer to Ronda,” I say, because why not poke the bear even more?

“I’m perfectly pleasant to her,” he says, keeping his eyes on the window.

“I haven’t heard any pleases or thank yous from you. Politeness goes a long way, JP.”

“Are you the polite police now?”

“No, but I do think we need to hold each other accountable for our actions and, frankly, I don’t think you’re being very kind at the moment.”

He slowly moves his head to the side so he’s looking at me through his dark-framed aviators. “Have I told her to fuck off? Have I tripped her on purpose? Did I punch her at any point in time?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “Didn’t think so. Now, get off my back.”

God, he’s being so . . . nasty. What’s his deal?

“Well, you could stand to be nicer to me, that’s for sure. You know, we have to spend two weeks together.”

“I’m well aware of my sentencing.”

“Sentencing?” I say with a gasp. “That’s what this is to you? A sentencing? Because, to me, it seems like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to help restore a building to its glory days while making it modern and sustainable.”

JP smooths his hand over his jaw and says, “Of course you’d put some sort of fairy-tale spin on it.”

“It’s not a fairy tale. This is a huge opportunity.”

“I’ll tell you what this trip is going to be, Kelsey. We’re going to have to share a penthouse for two weeks, which I know won’t be big enough to stay out of each other’s hair. You’ll follow me around to different meetings, I’ll get to hear you say the same spiel repeatedly about how using bamboo organizers are so much healthier for the earth than the plastic ones, and you’ll get all excited about everyone else’s excitement. Meanwhile, I’m counting down the minutes until I can return to my normal life in LA.”

When he turns back to the window, I say, “Or you can use it as a chance to get to know me better. You know, the option to be a friend is still there.”

“Why the fuck would you want to be my friend?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, feeling affronted all of a sudden.

“I’m an obnoxious asshole in your opinion. You think I’m some sort of sycophant who preys on women when they’re at their lowest. Why would you want to be my friend?”

“When have I ever said that?”

“You didn’t have to,” he answers.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His eyes shoot to mine and he says, “The night of the gala. You assumed I was trying to take you to bed. Couldn’t have been further from the truth.”

I pause and allow my mind to rewind back to that night. We had a nice time dancing, Edwin left with Genesis, and I was feeling out of sorts, like I wasn’t good enough. JP took me back to his place . . . and said so many kind words that I’ve banished from my mind.

Until now.

“What he should’ve said the moment he saw you was how fucking breathtaking you look . . . He should’ve lifted your hand and pressed the lightest of kisses to your knuckles, just so he could claim you in front of everyone around him . . . And when he lowered your hand, he should’ve leaned inches from your ear, and said how intoxicatingly beautiful you smelled.”

Because they’d seemed so out of character for JP, I’d largely ignored how I’d reacted to them. What I had recalled was where he’d had his driver take us.

“But you took me back to your place. If you weren’t trying to do that then what were you doing?”

“Being nice,” he wails. “Something, apparently, you don’t think I can be. Your opinion of me is so low, that you believe only the worst.”

“But . . .” I chew on my bottom lip, trying to figure out the details.

“Just forget it, Kelsey.”

“No, JP, let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t want to be on this airplane right now, so do you really think I want to talk about that night? I don’t. So, fucking drop it.”

And then he turns away from me, shutting me out.

The rest of the trip is spent in silence. I can’t be sure what he’s thinking about, but his words are playing on repeat in my head.

Your opinion of me is so low, that you believe only the worst.

Have I always gotten along with JP? No.

But I wouldn’t say he’s the worst human I’ve ever come across. He’s temperamental, doesn’t seem to have the most impeccable conversational skills, and loves to drive people nuts, but I wouldn’t say he’s the worst.

I see good in him.

I see how he helps others.

I see the way he knows everyone’s name in the office, how he says hi to them, how he gets people coffee just out of the kindness of his heart.

I see the compliments he tosses around, the good-natured comradery he creates, and the smiles he puts on faces.

I see the love and respect he has for his brothers, even when they’re fighting.

So why didn’t I see that the night of the gala?

I glance over at him.

Did I really make him feel that way? But then I consider his comments from a few hours ago when I suggested I could do the job on my own. There had been . . . disdain in his voice.

“The fuck you can. There’s more to it than just walking around an office. Hate to say it, but you’re not sufficiently educated to handle this on your own.” Something tells me that his reaction wasn’t completely about my professional skills, but more to do with his feelings about me.

How did this go so wrong?

“WHAT ROOM DO YOU WANT?” JP asks once we’re done touring the penthouse. And I use the word touring loosely. JP tossed his arm around, telling me exactly where “everything” was while I gazed at the luxurious suite I’d be living in for the next two weeks.

The exterior walls of the penthouse are made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. The floors are beautiful gray-stained wood, accented with plush rugs and pristine, white furniture. There are pictures of buildings on the walls and I recognize a few that I’ve visited in LA. These must all belong to Cane Real Estate. And the kitchen . . . oh, it’s beautiful with state-of-the-art appliances, marble countertops, and a kitchen island that seems bigger than my entire apartment combined.

Two weeks here will be no problem.

If only my company was more agreeable.

“I don’t mind. Whichever is fine,” I say, especially since both rooms are the same, from what JP said. If one was bigger, I could clearly take the smaller room.

“Just choose one,” he says in an exasperated tone.

“Fine, the right one.”

“Good.” JP rolls his bag across the wooden floors and calls out, “Ronda ordered us dinner. Should be here any moment. Just start eating whenever you want.” And then he’s down the hall and out of sight.

Well, I guess that’s that.

I roll my suitcase in the opposite direction, toward my room. I’m determined to not let his bad attitude affect me.

When I reach my room, I set my purse down and flop back on the king-sized bed, which is decorated in white linens and soft gray pillows. A girl could seriously get used to this. Now I kind of know how it felt to be Lottie when she first moved in with Huxley. Too bad for me, this is only for two weeks.

I reach for my purse and pull out my phone. I press on Lottie’s name and put the phone on speaker, listening to it ring.

“Gah! Did you make it to San Francisco?” Lottie says when she answers the phone.

“I did and, oh my God, Lottie, this place is so beautiful. I can’t get over it.”

“I’m so jealous. I told Hux when you two are done there, we need to at least take a weekend trip, because he was showing me pictures of the penthouse and it looks like a total dream.”

“It is. I can’t wait to see what kind of views I have in the morning.”

“And the flight was good?”

“As good as it could be.”

“Turbulence?” she asks.

“Well, not turbulence with the plane, more like turbulence with JP. He’s really not happy with me.”

“I gathered that. Did he say why?”

Your opinion of me is so low, that you believe only the worst.

“He did and, honestly, Lottie, I feel sick about it.”

“What happened?”

“Well, you know how Edwin and Genesis went off with each other the night of the gala?”

“Ah, yes, and you haven’t heard from him since. A real winner, that one.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really tell you what happened after.”

“What do you mean you didn’t tell me—oh my God, Kelsey, did you sleep with JP?”

“No!” I nearly shout and then realize I might be too loud. I bring my voice down while I stand from the bed and start to unpack and organize my things. “We didn’t sleep together, but he did take me back to his place, and when I say his place, I mean the driveway. That’s as far as I let it go before I told him I wasn’t sleeping with him.”

“Did he ask you into his house?”

“No, I kind of . . . you know . . . assumed that he wanted to sleep with me. But he was just being nice. I inadvertently insulted him and now he pretty much hates me. He barely talked to me on the airplane, and has retreated to his room, where I’m sure he’ll stay the entire night.”

“So, you’re in an uncomfortable situation, then?”

“Correct.” I carry my toiletries to the bathroom and line up everything in a row by order of how I use them. “I really want to enjoy myself here. We’ve rarely been able to travel, let alone in a lavish way, but things are weird with him and I don’t know how to make it better.”

“JP is an odd one. He’s very sarcastic, and sometimes, it seems like he doesn’t take things seriously, but there’s a darker side to him, too, a side he doesn’t talk about much. Even Huxley was saying how JP can be very closed off. I think you struck that dark part and maybe the only way to fix things is to apologize sincerely.”

I sigh and lean against the bathroom’s honeycomb-tiled wall. “I think you’re right.”

“I know I am. Oh, and hey, I talked to Ellie. Derek would love to meet up while you’re in San Francisco. He’s going to check his schedule and will let you know when he’s available.”

“Okay, yeah, cool.” My stomach lurches and I can’t be sure if it’s from needing dinner or the looming conversation I have to have with JP. Either way, it’s not a good feeling. “I should go. Dinner will be here soon.”

“You got this, sis. Show them what the Gardner sisters are all about.”

IT’LL BE FINE.

Just lightly knock on his door and if he happens to snap at you like a beast, just know, it has everything to do with what you said to him, and nothing to do with him . . .

Taking a deep breath, I lift my knuckles to his door and give it a quick knock.

I press my lips together as I wait for his response, but when I hear nothing, I knock again and ask, “JP, are you in there? Dinner is here.”

I wait for a few breaths and then he finally calls out, “Eat without me.”

I was afraid he’d say that.

That’s why I devised a plan to get him out of his room.

“Okay, but, uh, I think I broke the oven and it sort of smells like gas so do you think you could help me with that? Then I’ll leave you alone.”

Between you and me, I didn’t even touch the oven, but I figured a gas leak might get him moving.

And lucky for me, I’m right.

The doorknob tilts down and then the door opens, revealing a bare-chested JP, wearing only a pair of shorts.

Well, uh . . . would you look at that.

An expansive chest of thick pecs that connect to his prominent collarbone, and sculpted arms that are peppered in ink. Below his pecs are a row of what I can only describe as unattainable abs that ripple into an edged Adonis belt where his shorts hang dangerously low.

I wasn’t, uh, I wasn’t expecting him to answer the door like this, hence why I haven’t said anything. Or why I can’t seem to replace my words.

“Kelsey . . . the oven.”

“Right,” I say, stepping to the side. “The oven. Gas. It smells like gas.”

JP moves past me and I watch his backside retreat into the main living space.

I’m not one to dismiss the truth, even if it pains me. And the truth here is that JP is gorgeous, especially with his shirt off. The kind of man that you see walking down the street and all you can do is stop and stare to take in everything about him. With his shirt off, not only do you get glimpses of JP’s tattoos, but you get a whole show.

*Mentally cries* God, he’s sexy.

Ahh, did I just think that? No, he’s not sexy. He’s just . . . someone to look at that’s easy on the eyes.

Not sexy. Nope. Just . . . attractive. That’s all.

Okay, moving on.

“What did you do to the oven?” he calls out.

This is where I have to play defense because the moment he knows I was lying, he’ll make a run for his room and I’m going to have to block him. I prepared for such an event by rolling up my sleeves and removing my socks so I don’t slide along the floor. The sweaty gription on the bottom of my feet has already occurred, so I believe I’m ready.

I walk into the living area, staying close to his hallway to perform a blockade, and in a very dramatic voice, I say, “I lied.”

His head snaps around and his eyes meet mine. “You lied?” he asks with a tilt of his brow.

“Indeed.” I hold my chin up even higher. “The oven story is a farce. I never even touched it.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and just like I predicted, he starts moving in my direction.

Man your position!

I back up into the mouth of the hallway and extend all limbs out, creating a wall with my body. If he wants to get to his room, he has to get through me first.

Which, I’m aware he probably has an entire person’s weight of muscle on his body over me, but I’m scrappy and I know how to cling to someone like a spider monkey.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he stops a few feet in front of me, seeming to realize I’m a force to be reckoned with.

“Stopping you from retreating to your room. What does it look like?”

“It looks like a pathetic attempt to get in my way. With one push of my pinky, I will have you flat on your ass.”

“I’m much stronger than I let on. Try me.” There is no way he’ll touch me.

Boy, was I wrong.

He steps up to me, presses his pinky to my chest, and gives me just enough of a nudge to throw me off balance.

TIMBER!

Because my arms and legs are fully extended, I have nothing to grab and, before I can even think about a counterattack, I’m falling on my ass with a clunk.

Man down.

Heat washes over my cheeks when I look up at JP, just as he starts to step over me. I might be embarrassed by my pitiful attempt to stop him, but I’m not giving up. Ohhhh no. I will not go down without a fight.

This man will talk to me if it’s the last thing I do.

I twist my body so my stomach is pressing against the ground, extend my arms out, latch onto his leg, and pull myself closer, hanging on for dear life.

“What the fuck?” he asks, staring down at me. He shakes his leg, attempting to rid himself of me—as if I’m an inconvenient piece of toilet paper that’s stuck to his shoe. Too bad for him, my grip is strong. “Kelsey, what the hell are you doing?”

With my cheek pressed against his leg, the bottom of his shorts tickling my nose, I say, “You’re not getting away from me, sir. No way. You will talk to me.”

“Let go.” He places his hand on the wall for balance and shakes harder.

“Never!” I cry out. “If you want me off you, you’re going to have to pry me off.”

Bad choice of words, because the next thing I know, he reaches down and plucks at my fingers.

I swat him away.

He swats at my hand.

I swat back.

He swats again.

I open my mouth and start chomping at his hand to scare him away.

That does the trick because the swatting ends and I resume my lethal grip.

“Kelsey, seriously, let the fuck go.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I have no problem claiming squatter’s rights on your leg. I have nowhere to be all night. It’s just you and me, bub, so it’s your choice. You either come talk to me, or you spend your evening with me attached to your foot.”

He looks down at me, looks up at his room, and then, to my chagrin, he starts dragging me along the floor. He can’t possibly be serious.

“JP, I demand you stop at once.”

He doesn’t. He keeps walking, me dragging behind him.

“Stop this insanity,” I call out. “Just talk to me.”

Drag.

Drag.

. . . drag.

Frustration consumes me, my ears heat to boiling levels, and I can feel the anger start to take over. I tried to be nice about this. I attempted a smooth conversation. Yes, I had to resort to becoming an actual ball and chain, but now . . . oh now, I’m getting upset.

Keeping one hand planted on the leg that’s dragging me, I reach for his other leg but miss by a long shot. In a horrible attempt to grasp anything so I don’t lose him to a full-out sprint when he shakes free of me, my fingers curl around the fabric of his shorts.

I don’t really register that I have shorts in my hand. All I know is that I have a hold of something and it’s time to pull.

That’s exactly what I do.

I yank on his shorts so hard that he stumbles forward, and because I’m holding on to his other leg, he can’t catch his balance.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is where things go terribly, terribly wrong.

It happens in slow motion. I’m unable to completely process what’s going to occur as everything else fades away and the only sound is the long, drawn-out noise of JP saying, “What . . . the . . . fuuuuuuck?”

It was never my intention to anger him more, nor was it my intention to cause him to fall.

But I accomplished both things . . . whilst pantsing him at the same time.

Yup, just like that, with a slight yank, those elastic-banded shorts of his slide right off his narrow hips and down his legs, causing him to stumble even more.

I cry out in horror because, good God, there are loose shorts in my hand.

Which only means . . .

Please let him be wearing underwear. Please let him be wearing underwear.

He dances above me, attempting to gain balance.

I squeeze my eyes shut out of pure self-preservation.

I twist.

He turns.

He jumps.

I clutch.

And then, with a big crash to the floor, he falls on top of me, pillowing my face with what I can only assume is his stomach.

“Jesus fuck,” he says.

I open my eyes and come face to face with man scrotum.

A man’s freaking scrotum!

“Ahhh!” I scream and swat at his leg. “Your penis is on my face. Your penis is on my face.”

“I know. Fuck,” he yells, attempting to get off me.

“Where is your underwear?”

“I don’t wear underwear at night.”

“Dear God! It’s on my nose! Your genitals are resting on my freaking nose!”

“I fucking know!” he yells back. “But I can’t get up because you’re still holding on to me.”

“I’ve been tea-bagged,” I cry out in horror, his penis still rubbing along my nostrils.

“Let the fuck GO, KELSEY!”

As if I finally realize what’s happening, I release all my limbs and he climbs off me. I scramble up against the wall and hold my hand—still clutching his shorts—in front of my face.

“I’ve been defiled.”

“You’ve been defiled?” he retorts. “I’m the one who’s been stripped bare.” He yanks the shorts from my grasp and I hear him scurry around, putting them on. When I think the coast is clear, I part my fingers to see if he’s decent.

I’m met with a very angry stare. Menacing, to be precise. Some might actually say . . . *gulp* sinister.

I attempt a smile, but it falls flat.

I lift my finger to speak, but he cuts me off.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Kelsey. I’m not here to be friends with you, nor am I here to try to solve any sort of complex you might have about not being liked. I’m here to do a job and I’d prefer you just leave me alone.” He turns away, pushes his hand through his hair, and mutters, “Christ,” right before he slams his door.

Well . . . that didn’t go as planned.

LOTTIE: How did it go? Are things good with you two?

Kelsey: I tricked him with a gas scare, got him out of his room, then flung my body onto his leg. He proceeded to drag me across the penthouse. In my attempt to stop him, I yanked his shorts down, tripped him up, and his penis landed on my face. To sum it up, I would say things are not going well.

Lottie: His penis was on your face? Call me crazy, but that’s a typical Friday night for me and Hux. Seems like things are going swimmingly.

Kelsey: I hate you.