So Not Meant To Be
: Chapter 13

Meant to Be Podcast

Huxley and Lottie

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

Lottie: It’s about freaking time you have your sister on this podcast. We should’ve been your first couple.

Kelsey: You weren’t a couple when I started this podcast.

Lottie: That’s an annoyingly good point, but still, took you long enough. We, by far, have the most interesting story out of anyone out there.

Huxley: Might want to tone it down a bit.

Lottie: Huxley is nervous he’ll lose credibility if we tell our story, but I told him, it just shows how you’re a really good businessman. Isn’t that right, snookums?

Huxley: Laying it on thick, are we?

Lottie: The listeners need to know how in love we are.

Huxley: You never call me snookums.

Lottie: What I call you isn’t probably podcast-approved.

Huxley: You call me by my name.

Lottie: Really? Because I think I call you “oh God” more often than not.

Kelsey: And this is precisely why I haven’t had you on the show. This was a bad idea.

Lottie: No, it wasn’t. We’re in love. We’re getting married. Don’t turn off the chat. Kelsey, don’t turn it—

“ARE YOU ALMOST READY?” JP calls out from the entryway.

“Yes,” I yell. “Sheesh, give a girl a second.”

“You’ve had multiple seconds.”

“I got home like a minute ago.”

“Try ten minutes. You just had to change. What are you doing in there?”

“Putting on deodorant.” I swipe my armpits one more time, cap the deodorant, then grab my purse and head to the entryway. “God, do you want me to smell?” I ask just as I look up to replace JP posed against the front door.

Holy . . . moly.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the man look this casual, but it’s doing all sorts of bubbly, warm things inside my stomach. Decked out in worn and torn jeans, a black shirt, and a hooded, black leather jacket, he’s oozing with sex appeal. He tops off the look with a backwards hat, and I feel my insides quake. Not to mention the thick hair peppered on his jawline or the deep color of his lashes making his eyes seem impossibly greener.

“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.

“Uh . . . sorry, just don’t think I’ve ever seen you this casual before.”

He glances down at his outfit and then back at me. “Did you expect me to dress up for you? This isn’t a date.”

Well aware this isn’t a date.

“I know that,” I snap at him and put my purse over my shoulder. “But pardon me if I’m a little stunned to see you in a hat. Didn’t know you owned one.”

“I’m pretty sure every male owns a baseball hat.”

“Well, it looks odd on you.” It doesn’t, it looks really good, but there’s no way I’m going to say that.

“Well, jeans look fucking weird on you,” he shoots back.

“Really?” I ask in an insecure voice.

He rolls his eyes. “No, but see how it’s unkind to say people look weird? A compliment would’ve been good.”

“You want me to compliment you? When this isn’t a date? I thought this was a short-term companionship. If that’s the case, I tease my friends, and therefore, I’ll say you look weird in a hat because I’m so used to Mr. Businessman. But if you truly need to know, the backwards hat suits you.”

“I want to say there’s a compliment in there, so I’ll take it.”

He starts to walk away, but I hold out my arms and ask, “Care to toss a compliment my way?”

His eyes roam over my simple jeans and off-the-shoulder sweater before he says, “I can smell your deodorant, and it doesn’t smell like BO. Good job.”

I feel my face fall flat. “That’s your compliment?”

He opens the front door for me and asks, “Have a problem with that?”

“It’s not even a compliment, it’s just pointing out the obvious.” It’s about as good as being told the color of my dress is nice. Or I’ve seen better.

I start to walk past him, but then he grips my wrist and leans into my ear. “Kelsey . . .”

His voice drips like honey over my exposed shoulder. I swallow tightly and nod. “Yes?”

His body moves against mine, my side to his chest as he whispers, “I like how white your shoes are.”

And then he lets go of me and shuts the penthouse door behind us.

He glances back at me with a smirk as we head for the elevator. I jog after him and give him a push.

“What?” he asks. “You wanted a compliment.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know . . . all seductive.”

His brow raises, nearly touching his hat. “You thought that was seductive? And from the blush on your cheeks, it seems you liked it.”

“That’s makeup,” I say, patting my heated face.

It’s not makeup.

That’s all me.

If I’m going to be truthful, last night shook me.

I had a great time with JP. Of course, I had to battle his bad mood from time to time, but I also watched him comply with my demands on many occasions. He was out of his comfort zone, and yet, he kept up with me and never truly complained. I had a lot of fun. And then, when we got home and he dragged me by the ankles to my room, and told me his real name . . .

Ladies . . . listen, I’ve never in my life had such a wave of butterflies erupt in my stomach. Like a swarm of them, all fluttering at the same time. It was overwhelming.

I spent the entire day today thinking about it, thinking about him, and by the time I was headed back to the penthouse, I told myself to get it together. Yes, JP is hot. Yes, he has this alpha-like attitude that’s appealing to me. And, yes, he opened up last night and had fun with me, but . . . there’s one thing I need to remember.

One important thing.

He doesn’t do relationships.

He’s not the type of guy who settles down, wants to settle down, or even wants a girlfriend. That was evident in our conversation last night.

So, before my heart starts skipping a beat every time I hear him breathe, I need to remind myself that he’s not the marrying type. He’s not long-term. He’s not what you’re looking for despite how much he makes you mentally faint from just one wink.

“Doesn’t seem like makeup,” JP says as the elevator doors part and he walks in.

“Are you a makeup aficionado now?”

“I know some things about the stuff.” He presses the lobby button.

“Oh yeah? Do you wear blush, JP?”

“Only when it’s caught on the collar of my shirt.” He smirks and I hate him for it.

But also . . . God, he’s so hot.

Attempting to move past this topic, I clear my throat and ask, “So, what’s planned for the evening? All you said was dress casual. Should I know anything else?”

“Just leave it to me.”

“That’s what you keep saying, but I need to tell you, I’m a bit worried.”

“Why? You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he says so earnestly that I truly believe him.

“I know that,” I say, feeling shy about the confession. “But, you know, it’s always nice to prepare oneself for what’s to come. So, what should I prepare for?”

“Prepare yourself to have a good time,” is all he says as the elevator slows and the doors open. He steps behind me, places his hand on my lower back, and guides me out to the front of the hotel, where the doorman opens the door for us.

“Mr. Cane, Miss Gardner. Have a good night.”

“You, too, Tim,” JP says before he leads me to our waiting car and opens my door for me.

It takes me a moment, but when I’m settled in the back seat with him, my mind whirls with thoughts. Stupid thoughts.

Annoying thoughts.

He opened doors for me.

He touches me.

He couldn’t possibly be doing the things I said I look for on dates . . . right?

Oh my God, Kelsey, are you hearing yourself?

This is exactly why you don’t get involved in stupid short-term companionships—or friendships with men—because you’re such a stupid romantic that you think everyone is trying to date you.

This is JP we’re talking about. The man is a flirt. He’s also very attentive and a gentleman by nature. During meetings at Cane Enterprises, before any of this insanity even started, he often held open doors, or helped me out of cars. This is nothing new. This is JP just being JP.

“Want to tell me why your jaw is clenched like that?” JP asks as we start making our way through town.

“Is it clenched? Oh . . . I don’t know. I’m not mad or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s nothing to be mad about, or irritated at, right? Just two short-term companions going somewhere unknown, that’s all.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?” I wave my hand in front of my face. “Maybe it’s hot in here. Are you hot? I’m wearing a lightweight sweater but it still feels hot. Are you hot?”

“I’m fine,” he says, looking disturbed. I don’t blame him. I’m internally freaking out and externally starting to project it. “But we can turn up the AC.”

“No, that’s fine. No need to get crazy or anything.”

He pauses and then turns toward me. “Kelsey, do you not want to do this?”

“What? No. I mean . . . yes.”

“Yes, you don’t want to do this?”

“No. Yes . . . urgh. I want to do this. I’m sorry, I’m just . . . awkward. Ignore me while I gather myself and try to act like a normal human for you.” I give him a brief smile, then look out the window, squeeze my eyes shut, and attempt to steady my heart.

Get it together, Kelsey.

So what if he took pictures on a carousel with you yesterday, told you his real name, touched you in the lobby . . .

This means nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

My phone buzzes in my purse and I’m grateful for the reprieve. I fish it out and glance at the screen.

Lottie: Dinner tomorrow night with Derek at the Crab House on Pier 39. He thought it would be the perfect place for a date. Meet him there at seven. Don’t be late.

I smirk.

The perfect date—seems like a good date to me. Maybe Derek and I have something in common.

And just like that, the anxiety and tension that was knocking me in the chest with every breath I took is quickly wiped away. That’s right, I have a date tomorrow, a very real date. With a guy who, by all standards, is quite a looker. Lottie sent me a picture of him the other day.

Blond hair, has that whole . . . “I own a boat” look. Which I’m sure he does, given how he’s in the same realm of business as Dave and the Cane brothers. Graduated from Yale and has a golden retriever named Freddie. Doesn’t get better than that, right?

“You’re smiling like a mad woman now. Should I be worried?” JP asks, snapping my attention back to the present.

“No, not at all. Just excited about our evening out, of course.”

“Okay, you sure? Because I feel like you’ve run through a gauntlet of emotions in the last five minutes.”

“Positive. There will be no more erratic emotions from here on out.”

“WHY DO you have tears in your eyes?” JP asks when we step up to the restaurant.

I turn toward him and ask, “How do you know about this restaurant?”

“Uh, you and Lottie talked about it in the elevator. Said how your mom took you here. Are you . . . not cool with that? We can go somewhere else. I’ve never tried this place, but I knew dim sum was a must in San Francisco, so I thought you’d want to go here.”

My lip quivers.

A tear slides down my cheek.

And I’m left speechless as we stare at each other, on the sidewalk, outside of the Dim Sum Star.

“Kelsey . . .”

“I’m sorry.” I wipe at my tears. “This was very thoughtful, JP. I didn’t think you were paying attention to that conversation.”

“I pay attention a lot more than you think,” he says before taking my hand in his, giving it a squeeze, and walking us to the door. Before he opens it, though, he quietly says, “If you need another moment, let me know.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m good.” I smile. He takes that as the green light, opens the door for me, and leads me into the restaurant.

And, oh my gosh, it looks exactly the same.

Plain beige walls, dingy blue carpet, and flimsy partitions that separate tables and rooms. It’s absolutely perfect. Just as I remembered it.

The worldly smell of some of the best food I’ve ever had assaults me with memories.

I turn to JP and say, “It hasn’t changed one bit, which makes me wonder . . .” I turn toward their wall of pictures and walk up to it. My eyes scan the many faces until they land on two very familiar expressions. My eyes well up all over again and I quickly take my phone out of my purse. I’m about to take a picture when JP plucks my phone from my hands.

I turn to protest, but JP nods at the picture and says, “Point at it. I’ll take your picture with it.”

I do just that. Then I take a few pictures, including one of just the picture to have it, and then send them to Lottie, while JP examines the two innocent girls with full bellies in the frame.

“Nice braces.”

I chuckle. “Thank you.”

“And that Minnie Mouse shirt . . . wow. You know, I might have asked you to hold my hand if I knew you back then.”

“You think Young JP and Young Kelsey could’ve been more than short-term companions?”

He pauses to think about it and then shakes his head. “Nah, I was too much of a dick, always causing trouble. With those braces and that shirt, you’d have seemed far too innocent for me.”

“Hey, what did I tell you about my innocence? Do I need to prove you otherwise again?”

“Please, prove that again. Wouldn’t mind sneaking another taste of you,” he says, before pulling me toward the hostess.

I don’t have time to respond to his blatant flirting—that’s flirting, right?—because we’re ushered through the restaurant until we’re shown to a seat by a window that gives us a great view of the bustling Chinatown.

Before I can reach for my chair, JP pulls it out for me and then takes a seat across from me. When I glance in his direction, he just gives me a shrug and picks up his menu, placing it in front of his face.

Don’t overthink it, Kelsey. Just have fun.

My phone buzzes and I say, “I bet that’s Lottie texting back, can I look at it?”

“You don’t need my permission. Have at it. Hey, do you know if this tea is any good?”

“Uh . . . I don’t think I’ve had it before,” I say and then pick up my phone and read the text message.

Lottie: OMG! He took you to Dim Sum Star? Why did that just make my heart flutter? How did he know?

I glance up at JP, who’s immersed in the menu, so I text back.

Kelsey: Heard us talking about it. Thought I’d want to revisit it.

Her response is immediate.

Lottie: Umm . . . is he thoughtful?

Kelsey: I think he’s just trying to show me he’s not the asshole I’ve claimed he is.

Lottie: He’s definitely not, with that kind of dinner surprise. Well, have fun. Don’t get the tea, remember, Mom gagged on it.

Oh, that’s right.

“Don’t get it,” I nearly shout while holding my arm out to him.

He peeks over the menu, his dark brows pulling together.

“Jesus . . . don’t get what?”

My cheeks heat up as I realize how insane I must have just sounded. “Uh, the tea. Lottie just reminded me that Mom got it and gagged on it. So, maybe skip the tea.”

“Okay.” He eyes me weirdly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I offer him a smile. “Just fine.”

“Okay,” he drags out.

We spend the next few minutes deciding what we want to order. They no longer cart the food around but bring the items you choose. We pick out a few dishes that we’re both interested in and then, once our waitress heads back to the kitchen, I take a sip of my water.

“So, this is your ideal night out? Chasing after a girl’s dream restaurant?”

“No. Getting dim sum in Chinatown is a must.”

“Don’t you think . . . that’s slightly touristy?”

“Probably,” he answers. “If I was taking you out, you know, on a date, I would’ve taken you to the Parkside Club.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“A restaurant at the top of the Parkside Building. We own it.”

“Naturally.” I laugh.

“Brilliant chef who makes the best fucking dumplings you’ll ever have. He started his culinary journey in Chinatown, actually. Huxley found him and offered him a job that he couldn’t refuse. Not many people can afford to eat at the Parkside Club, but those that do, eat well.”

“Well, you know, you could’ve taken me there.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, the vibe wouldn’t have been right. Formal attire is required and the place is stuffy as shit. Here, we get to relax.” He says that as he slouches in his chair.

“So, then who would you take to the Parkside Club? A special date?”

He adjusts his hat on his head and says, “I’ve only gone with my brothers. Haven’t taken anyone. Like I said, food is fucking good, but it’s stuffy. I’m not about to take a date there.”

“But I thought you said this wasn’t a date? Maybe you should’ve taken me there.”

“And miss out on the opportunity to see you cry over a picture of yourself with braces? Fuck no.”

I laugh. “Ah, yes, a dream moment, I’m sure.”

He taps the side of his head. “Filed that away for safekeeping.”

“I’m sure you did.” I lean on the table and ask, “So, what did you do today?”

“Nothing special,” he answers. “Answered a laundry list of emails from my brothers, worked out, did some visits.”

“What kind of visits? Conjugal?”

“What?” He laughs. “Who the fuck would I be visiting in prison?”

“I don’t know your life. Could be anyone.”

“That fucking brain of yours, there’s something wrong with it. No, I just visited with some nonprofits in the area.”

That perks me up. “Really? Which ones?”

“If you must know, you fucking nosey thing”—that makes me smile—“I met with a foundation that saves pigeons and then stopped by an animal shelter.”

“You just casually went and saved animals today. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I didn’t save them but, you know, grew some connections.” He shrugs. “Then went back to the penthouse where I took a shower and got ready. If I knew you were going to take forever to get dressed, I would’ve spent more time in the shower.”

“Oh yeah, doing what?”

He raises a brow, and that’s all he has to say.

“Ah, I see. The old scrub and tug, huh?”

His head falls back and a very sexy rumble of laughter falls out of him. “Yeah, something like that. What about you, how were your meetings today?”

“Fun,” I say with a smile. “I met with Dena over at the South building. She was the sweetest, and we spent all morning walking through the building and seeing where we could make changes. She’s very excited about all the plans we mapped out.”

“Dena is chill, I like her.”

Just as my belly rumbles, the waitress approaches with our food, so conversation is put on hold as we make room for the dishes. Pork and chive dumplings, shrimp dumplings, Shanghai chicken bun, vegetable spring rolls, and sauteed asparagus. It smells amazing.

We both pick up chopsticks, prep them, and without saying a word, we dig in.

WE STAND on the sidewalk outside of the Dim Sum Star, waiting for the car to pull around, when I say, “You know . . . I remember it being a lot better than that.”

JP pats his chest as he lets out a quiet burp. “Fuck . . . I need something to remove the taste of that chive dumpling from my mouth.”

“I’m sorry. Are you going to be okay?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he asks.

Like rabid animals, we dug into our dishes, each pulling dumplings from the steaming baskets and placing them on our plates. Our first bites were ravenous. Our second . . . quizzical. Our third . . . worried. Silently, we tried another item, and another, until we both looked up at each other, grabbed our water glasses, and attempted to wash down the peculiar taste.

There was no use, our tastebuds were tainted, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience after that. We ate the food because neither of us wanted to waste it, but when they asked what else we wanted to order, we raised our hands with a polite “no, thank you,” and then JP paid the bill.

The driver pulls up, and JP steps to the door, opening it for me and, just like the other times, once I’m in, he follows right behind me. Calling to the driver, he says, “Twentieth Century Bakery, please.”

Then he pulls out his phone and starts typing away on it.

“What, uh, what’s at the Twentieth Century Bakery?”

“Something that will hopefully appease our stomachs.” He finishes up on his phone and then relaxes into the seat. “Hell, Kelsey, that shit was terrible.”

“I know. I have no idea how Lottie and I ate as much as we did the first time we went.”

“Kids don’t have proper tastebuds, that’s why. I should’ve thought about that.”

“Well, the sentiment was there, and I appreciate it.” I reach over and squeeze his forearm. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth tips up. “You’re welcome.”

“So, this bakery place, does it have a seating area?”

“Yes, but we’ll get our dessert to go. We have a bit of a drive to the next stop and a reservation we can’t miss.”

“The next place?” I turn more toward him. “Tell me more.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “That’s a surprise.”

“That’s annoying.”

“Is it?” he asks. “Or is it fun?”

“Annoying.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d be annoyed too, but remember, this is my night, not yours, therefore, we do it my way.”

“Ah, yes, which reminds me.” We’re stopped at a light, so I unbuckle my seatbelt momentarily, scoot closer to JP, and hold my phone out in front of us for a selfie. “Smile, short-term companion.”

He wraps his arm around me and holds me close as he smiles that wicked smile of his, and for a moment, I almost forget to take the picture. For a moment, I get lost in the feel of his arm holding me close, of his cologne curling around me, and the warmth of his body.

But the car starts moving again, so I snap the picture and hurry back to my side. “I should’ve taken a picture of us at Dim Sum Star.”

“A memory we don’t need reminding of.”

We spend a few more moments driving through town, then the driver pulls up at the curb and JP says, “Wait here.” He hops out of the car into this old corner building that looks positively charming from the outside. Through the large glass windows, I see him pull out his wallet, hand someone some money, and then thank them as he walks back toward the door with a cake box and two waters.

The moment he’s back in the car, he says to the driver, “All set.”

The driver nods and starts moving the car again.

To my surprise, JP scoots into the middle seat, buckles up, and then hands me a water and a fork. That’s when the delicious sugary smell from the box hits me.

“Um, whatever you have under there smells amazing.”

“That’s what you said about the Dim Sum.”

“Is this going to taste like the food from the Dim Sum?”

He shakes his head and pops open the lid, revealing a beige-colored cake. “Not even close. This is my favorite dessert in the Bay Area. Nothing beats it. A honey cake from Twentieth Century Bakery. Guaranteed, you won’t replace anything better.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” I dip my fork and cut off a large piece from the side, and then bring it to my mouth, which waters. “Oh God,” I awkwardly moan as I chew. “Wow . . . okay . . . wow, this is . . .”

“Phenomenal,” he says while taking his own bite.

“Yup, that would be correct. This is phenomenal. Mmm.” I lift another piece. “Is it weird to say I love you right now?”

“After the meal we just suffered through? No. Eat up, babe. This will make up for all those chewy dumplings you just consumed.”

“They were quite chewy, weren’t they? Not this, though, this is like a sugar cloud in my mouth.”

“Sugar cloud, huh?” he asks.

“Yup. Seriously, this is amazing. How did you replace it?”

“Trial and error. I like to replace something special in every city I go to so if someone asks me what they should try, I can give them something good to get. This is on my list. It’s a must-have when you come here.”

“Do you have a list of these places?”

He nods, to my surprise. “I keep notes in my phone.”

“Really?” I ask. “That doesn’t seem like something you’d do.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” I take another bite. “Your attitude comes across as too cool, too accomplished, to do something like taking notes in your phone of good food places. I’d never have guessed that.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Kelsey. That’s just one thing.”

“Apparently. What else are you hiding?”

“You’ll see,” he answers.

“Does this have anything to do with where we’re going?”

“Yup.” He wiggles his brows and takes another bite. “And when you compare our nights out, I don’t think the main course should be taken into consideration. We had a shit dinner because of you.”

I chuckle. “That’s fair, the main course was on me. But this dessert, I don’t know. Not sure if it beats the sundae at Ghirardelli.”

“Fuck off, it easily does.”

That makes me laugh hard. “Protective much?”

“Yes, because they sell the damn products in the store so you can make your own Ghirardelli sundae at home—”

“They don’t sell the atmosphere, though, and that makes it taste better.”

“You make no sense,” JP informs me, and I laugh some more. He points his fork at the cake. “Now, as for this cake, you can try to make it, but I guarantee, it won’t taste anything like this, even if you ask for the recipe. They actually have a recipe book you can buy. But it still won’t taste the same. This cake takes years to refine, and that, you need to appreciate.”

“But we’re eating it in the back of a Tesla. Not sure about the ambiance.”

He scowls at me. “If anything, you should appreciate the atmosphere more because we’re eating in an electric car, driving around like goddamn earth liberators. If you’re really lucky, I’ll give you this box when we’re done so you can recycle it.”

“Wow, you really know the key to a woman’s heart.”

“See . . . better. You even admit it yourself—I’m unlocking your heart.”

I roll my eyes. “I was being sarcastic.”

“And I choose not to take it that way.” He smirks.

“Do you always have to be right?”

“Yes. Glad you’re finally seeing that.”

I open my water and say, “Does this place we’re going to have alcohol? Because I’ll need it if I’m sticking around with you for the rest of the night.”

“There’s alcohol. Trust me, I wouldn’t leave myself stranded and alone with you without it.”

My lips flatten and he chuckles. “You’re such an ass,” I grumble.

“I know, babe.” He winks. “But admit it, you like it.”

“I don’t.”

He tips my chin up with his finger and whispers, “Liar.”

Eh . . . he very well might be right about everything, because even though he does drive me nuts, I sort of like it. I fall in line with his teasing and . . . Oh God . . . am I starting to crave it?

No, that couldn’t possibly be true, right?

He dips his fork into the cake and takes another bite, his eyes on me the entire time.

Huh . . . maybe I am.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” JP asks, tugging my arm.

“Sending my sister a pin location of where I am.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

I stuff my phone in my purse and pause on the dark sidewalk. We ate half of the cake in the car and I honestly could’ve kept going. I didn’t think it would settle well in my belly if I ate more cake and then had alcohol right after. Not a good thing at all. So, I controlled myself and focused on my conversation with JP, telling him all about where I’d seen my business going when I first started.

He sat there and listened the entire time, occasionally brushing his hand against my leg. I couldn’t figure out if he was doing it on purpose or if it was because he was still sitting in the middle seat when we were done with the cake. Either way, every light pass, every small touch, was like an ember starting to flame and burn harder, stronger.

“Why would I send a pin to my sister? Uh, have you looked around us? I’m in a dark alleyway where there are no lights on, and I’m with a man.”

“A man you know.”

“But do I know you, JP?”

“Enough that you should be conscious of the fact that I’d protect you over . . . whatever the hell is playing in your head.”

Arms crossed, I jut out a hip and say, “Okay, if someone came up to us right now and said they were going to take me away to their lair, what would you do?”

“What kind of fucked-up fairy tale are you living in?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Jesus.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’d tell him to get the fuck away, and if he didn’t, I’d probably introduce him to the ten years of boxing lessons I’ve been taking.”

Dear heavens, he boxes? That’s hot.

My eyes go to his chest. Hmm, that would explain some of those ripped muscles.

“Is that satisfactory to you?” he asks.

“I believe so.” I loop my arm through his and lean in close. “Now, where the hell are we going?”

“Over here.” He leads me down an alleyway to a metal door. He raps on the metal and after a moment, it opens. A large, burly man with a curly mustache steps into the alleyway with us.

He lifts a clipboard to his face and asks, “Name?”

“Jonah Cane,” JP answers. Jonah Cane. I like that, too. Especially since I feel like I’m seeing him as Jonah right now, not his Cane Enterprises persona of JP.

The bouncer makes a scratching mark on his clipboard and opens the door for us.

“Down the hallway, first door on the right. Wait to be seated.”

We head down the hall, and I quietly ask, “Do you often use your first name?”

“Sometimes,” he says.

“Do you like it if people call you Jonah?”

He glances down at me. His eyes fall briefly to my lips but then tear away and focus on the dimly lit hallway in front of us.

“Is there an answer to that?” I ask as we reach the door on the right. He doesn’t answer, but instead knocks on the door, and this time, when the door opens, a cacophony of conversations and soft music filters out into the hallway.

“Cane?” the attendant asks.

“Yup,” JP answers.

“Right this way.”

Clutching tighter to him, I ask just above a whisper, “Did you take me to a sex club?”

He chuckles but doesn’t answer.

The room is filled with people, every table is occupied, everyone with drinks in their hands, their faces lit up by a simple, short table lamp in front of them. The walls are covered in red velvet, the ceiling sprinkled with bulb lights, and there’s a raised stage at the very end of the room, covered in the same lavish red velvet and old-time lights that line the bottom of the stage.

What on earth is this place?

The hostess—I’m assuming that’s who she is—walks us to the only empty table in the room. Right at the front. “Hilary will be here momentarily to take your drink orders.”

“Thank you,” JP says. He pulls my chair out for me, takes my hand in his, and helps me as I take a seat. Then he slides his chair right next to mine. Talking quietly in my ear, he asks, “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh . . . not sure,” I answer as chills from his soft voice cover the back of my neck.

“Wine?” he asks, his lips dangerously close to my ear. “Or something stronger?”

“What, uh, what are you getting?” I ask.

“Scotch.”

“Nice order, a little strong for me, so a glass of cab would be fine.”

Hilary arrives just at the right time and takes our order before setting a bowl of trail mix in front of us. I glance around the room. The people at the other tables are all quietly talking to themselves, and I honestly can’t tell what’s going to happen on that stage.

I lean in toward JP and ask, “Seriously, where are we?” When I turn my head, our noses nearly touch as I whisper, “Is this a sex den?”

He chuckles. “Would you be mad if it was?”

Would I be mad? I honestly don’t know.

“It would be different. I’ve never been to one. Is that what this is? Is that what you like to do in different clubs, go to different sex dens? I mean, the red velvet says it all. Oh God, and we have front-row seats. We’ll see things.”

He chuckles and drapes his arm over the back of my chair, casually crossing his ankle over his knee. “Would you like to see things?”

“I’ll be honest. When you suggested I was innocent, I’d have to say, this is exposing some innocence, because I really have never done anything like this before. And I am nervous. Are they going to have sex? Like, strip down in front of us? Oh God, am I going to be turned on? Are you?” My eyes flash to his, which are truly smiling. “Do you get boners here?”

Leaning in close, he presses his mouth to my ear and says, “This isn’t a sex den, Kelsey. Nor a sex club, or anything to do with sex. So, rest that little innocent heart of yours.”

Hilary drops off our drinks, offers us a wink, and says, “Enjoy the show.”

“The show?” I ask, so freaking confused.

JP lifts his tumbler of Scotch and takes a sip, and then turns his attention to the stage as the curtain opens and the crowd erupts into loud cheers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice says over the loud speaker. “Please stay seated, holler at your own will, and bring your hands together for the incomparable, the magnificent, the hottest ass this side of San Francisco.” More uproarious cheers. “Mrs. Frisbee Lane.”

Frisbee Lane?

Is this a comedy show?

A one-person monologue?

A—

My thoughts cut off the moment a very tall, very beautiful human struts out onto the stage, dressed in full drag, with a wig that rivals Marie Antoinette, an ass bigger than a Kardashian’s, and nails longer than my hand.

“Good evening, my beautiful babies,” she says into a microphone.

“Oh my God,” I say quietly with glee as I turn toward JP. “Did you bring me to a drag show?”

He just smirks and sits back.

“We have quite the evening planned for you tonight. But before we get started, some quick reminders. Let the lip-synching be handled by the professionals, please refrain from bringing down the morale—you know us bitches love the drama, but not when we’re performing—and of course, as always, tips are appreciated.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’ll be your emcee tonight, Mrs. Frisbee Lane. If you’re interested in tossing your frisbee down my lane after the show, my bartenders will take your number, and I’ll call you later, darling.” More hoots and hollers. “Now let’s get this night started with a club favorite. Put your hands together for Winter Lips.”

The lights dim, and I can’t help it, I place my hand on JP’s leg and say, “I can’t believe you brought me to a drag show. This is . . . this is so freaking amazing.”

From his pocket, he pulls out a wad of cash and holds it in front of me. “Have at it, babe. Tip well.”

And once again . . . my heart skips a beat.

“I’M SO jealous of Fifi Heart’s cleavage,” I say as JP opens the waiting car door for me. Before I get in, I turn to him and press my boobs together. “How do I get that kind of lift?”

“You have plenty of lift. Now, get your ass in the car.”

“Not like Fifi,” I groan as I take a seat in the car and buckle up. “You saw it, her cleavage was kissing her chin.”

JP shuts the door behind him and buckles up, as well. “You’re perfect just as you are, Kelsey,” he says as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” I poke him in the arm. “You can’t fall asleep.”

He turns his head and smirks. “Just taking a second. Can you stop jabbering for a hot minute?”

“Well, excuse me if I just bore witness to one of the greatest shows of my entire life. I’m still reeling.”

“Greatest, huh?”

I nod and twist my body so I’m facing him. “JP, that was so much fun. And I never thought sliding money in between fake breasts could be so much fun, but, God, I feel like a new woman.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t just enjoy it,” I say seriously, pulling his attention. “I honestly think that was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

And that’s the truth.

The minute the show started, I was into it. I’ve never been to a drag show before, but I’m a firm believer in not missing one episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, so I knew what to expect going in. Lord help me, I didn’t think it was going to be that amazing. And it wasn’t just the show, it was JP, too. He was so relaxed, so . . . present. He wasn’t sarcastic. He was just . . . smiling and having a great time, while making sure I was taken care of. His arm never once strayed from my chair, and at one point, I felt him playing with the ends of my hair as LuLu Lemons lip-synched to I Will Always Love You.

“Good. You deserve it,” he says as he looks away.

I have this weird urge to take his hand in mine, to curl against his side and breathe in this man that feels new, but also . . . the same. But even though the urge is strong, I know it’s not what I should do. I mean, it’s definitely not what I should do. I need to remind myself what tonight is all about—JP proving to me that his choices in activities are better than mine.

I can admit when I’ve been defeated.

And this night blew me away.

“Thank you for tonight, JP.”

Still with his eyes shut, he says, “It’s not over yet.”

“It’s not?” I ask, surprised.

He shakes his head. “Nope, just sit back and relax. We’ll arrive at our final destination shortly.”

LAMP POSTS LINE the wood-planked pier all the way to where it ends in the middle of the Bay. The deep richness of the midnight sky looms over us as distant lights from the city twinkle behind us. A cool breeze lifts off the water as we walk slowly down the long stretch of boardwalk, the gentle sound of water lapping at the Bay’s edge as our soundtrack. Dotted with only a few people, JP and I are almost completely alone.

“I didn’t think you were a touristy person,” I say in awe as we walk. “Wouldn’t this classify as a touristy spot?”

“Pier 39, yes. Pier 7, not so much. You learn that quickly when you stay here for more than a few days.”

“When did you start coming out here?”

“I was often too wired when my brothers went to bed, so I’d go out. They assumed I was hitting the bars, or attempting to hook up with someone for the night, but I came down here, walked to the end of the pier, and just stared out into the dark water.”

“What would you think about?” I ask.

“Anything. Everything. Whatever was on my mind at the moment.”

“So why did you bring me here?” I ask as we continue making our way down the long stretch. “You don’t have anything to think on, do you?”

“There’s always something to think about, and I figured you might like it here. If you ever come back, this could be your thinking spot, too.”

“I like that a lot,” I say as I gently bump my shoulder against his.

He smiles and brings his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side as we walk.

“This might be the best place to come after a long day of organizing. Stop by the bakery, get one of those honey cakes, snap a picture of it and gloat, then come here and eat it alongside the Bay.”

“Careful of the birds, they’re ruthless during the day.”

“Good point.”

“You know how I know that?” he asks.

“Please tell me it’s by experience.”

He nods. “It was a long goddamn day in the conference room with my brothers, I needed some air, so I grabbed some Thai food to go, brought it down here, and started eating. It was slow at first. A random bird here, a seagull there. I flailed a bit, trying to scare them away, but then they started talking . . . chirping to each other. Saying, ‘Hey, there’s an unsuspecting idiot over there at the end of the pier—’”

“Why do they have a Brooklyn accent?”

“These birds have been places.” That makes me laugh, and he continues, “I didn’t think much of it at first, when another bird landed in front of me. One off to the side, then one behind me. They swarmed, their numbers outweighing my limbs, and they grew closer and closer until one brave soul pecked me on the leg.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It fucking did. Right on the shin. I yelled at it, obviously, bent down to check on my shin, and that’s when they converged.”

“They used a decoy bird on you.”

“Precisely. I was a lost man, had no defense. The birds attacked. Feathers were everywhere. Beaks were knocking together, and there was nothing I could do other than toss my to-go box of food as far from me as I could and hold on for dear life until they left me a shaking shell of a man on the boardwalk.”

Chuckling so hard, I feel tears under my eyes, I say, “Oh my God, you were almost pecked to death.”

“That wasn’t even the worst part.”

“What was the worst part?”

“When I was screaming at them, begging them to leave me alone, one of them pooped.”

“Gah, you were pooped on? They took your food and then did a doo-doo on you? How is that fair?”

“It’s not, but, with all of the flapping and flailing, the poop somehow flipped in my direction and landed on my face.”

I gasp and cover my mouth. “Oh my God, no, it didn’t.”

“It did. Bird shit landed on my face. Needless to say, my already shitty day—no pun intended—became an even shittier one.”

“I’m surprised you came back here after that.”

“Wasn’t the pier’s fault,” he says. “It was mine for naively thinking I could eat a meal in a place where tourists have no concept of not feeding the wildlife, because the more you feed them, the more aggressive they become. A lesson was learned, and whenever I come here now, it’s usually just me and my thoughts. Well . . . now you.”

We reach the end of the pier. I walk up to the railing and lean against it, gazing at the waves and the expanse of darkness. The breeze picks up, a chill rushes through me, and before I can cross my arms for added warmth, JP places his leather jacket on my back. I glance over my shoulder and replace him in his thin, long-sleeved T-shirt. “JP, I don’t want you to be cold.”

“I’m good, don’t worry about me,” he says before coming up behind me, putting his arms on either side of me on the fence, and leaning his chest against my back. I’m pinned against the rail. For a moment, I’m stiff, unsure what to do, but when the warmth hits me, I ease into the hold.

“How’s your mom? Still enjoying being alone with her man, Jeff, in their house?”

I chuckle. “Yes.” Lottie was living with them and one of the main reasons she struck up a deal with Huxley in the first place was to give our mom and Jeff some privacy after many years of dealing with us girls. Jeff and our mom have been to many dinners and outdoor parties at Lottie and Huxley’s house, and JP and Breaker know them by now. “They’re loving it. Currently, they’re building a pergola and fighting over what color to paint it.”

JP rests his chin on my shoulder, the scruff of his cheek pressing against mine.

Call me crazy, but this doesn’t seem very short-term companionship-like, this feels like more, and my romantic heart is trying to make something of it, while my brain is telling it no, no, no, no.

“What color does your mom want to paint it?”

“Black,” I answer, leaning more against his chest. “She wants to go with the trends. And of course, Jeff, the traditionalist, wants to stain it, because to him, painting wood is an absolute sin.”

“Who do you think is going to win?”

“My mom, of course. She always wins. I’m sure she’ll let him win in another way, though. Maybe with some potted plant to decorate the area.”

“That’s right, he’s an avid gardener. Maybe he’s putting up a big fight about the color, then intentionally letting her win so she’ll allow him to pick the plants.”

“Ooo, I never thought of it that way. Knowing Jeff, I could see him doing that.”

“When the pergola is done, are they going to have you over to test it out?”

“I’m sure they will. Although, we’ve been spending more time as a family at Huxley and Lottie’s. Mom wants to host a bridal shower for Lottie in their backyard. Being her maid of honor and all, I’ll help make that happen. Hey, are you the best man?”

“Breaker and I are sharing the responsibility,” he answers. “But since I’m older I get to walk down the aisle with the maid of honor. Lucky you.”

“Oh, yes, lucky me. I’m sure you will make some inappropriate comments.”

“Wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.” He sighs and then says, “I’m happy for Huxley, though, despite how their relationship came about. Since he’s the oldest, I feel like he’s always carried the burden of making sure we’re all taken care of. When we decided to invest money into a business of our own, he sat us down and said he was setting us up for the future, which he did. Financially, Breaker and I are both set. We don’t have to worry.”

“But when it comes to happiness?” I ask.

“Still figuring that out.” He straightens up and says, “I’m sure you have some early morning meetings. I should get you back to the penthouse.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

I turn to face him and just catch the way his face almost falls in disappointment. But he puts his arm around my shoulders again, and together, we walk back up the pier.

“Thank you, again, for tonight. I had a lot of fun.”

“I did, too,” he says.

“I was kind of afraid when we were told to come up here that it would be awkward and weird. It was at first, but these last two days have been really great. Just what I needed.”

“Yeah, about that,” he says just as his phone rings in his pocket. Groaning, he takes it out, and I see Huxley’s name flash across it before he silences the phone call. But it’s only seconds before Huxley rings again.

“Must be important,” I say. “Go ahead, answer it. I’ll meet you in the car.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s fine.” I go to take off his jacket but he holds his hand up.

“Keep it. I’m fine.” And then he turns away and brings the phone to his ear. “What?” he answers in an annoyed tone.

As I walk toward the car, I hear a distant “Fuck” slip out of his mouth and my stomach immediately churns with worry.

It takes him about ten minutes before he joins me in the warm car, and when he sits down, I can tell the good mood he was in is gone as he moves his hand over his jaw. I’m afraid to ask, but I know if I don’t at least check with him, I’ll regret it.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just some bullshit stuff I have to deal with tomorrow.”

“Anything I can help with?” I ask.

He shakes his head and looks out the window. “Nah, nothing you can deal with.”

And then, that’s it.

He shuts down.

What once was a perfect evening quickly vanishes and I don’t know what to do. What to say. Or how to help him. Therefore, we drive the rest of the way in silence. And when we get to the penthouse, I hand him his jacket and he tells me to have a good night. Even though JP was fun and mostly easygoing tonight, I’m sad with how it ended. I’m sad he shut down on me, because despite what he’s said about friendship between men and women, I felt as though he let me in as his friend tonight. And then, that simply . . . vanished.