The Soulmate Equation

Jess swallowed a moan when his other arm came around her waist, his fingers spreading wide below her ribs. It felt so good it sent a fevered ache straight from her mouth to her navel, corkscrewing through her. River veered slightly away, and Jess expected the kiss to close off, it probably should, but she realized he was only shifting his footing, coming at her from a new angle, sending his fingers into her hair.

She let out the smallest sound, a helpless moan she thought only he could hear, but it seemed to shove him into awareness, and he pulled away, remaining only an inch or two from her face.

Breathless, they stared at each other with wild, shocked eyes. It was probably only a few seconds, but the kiss shifted the trajectory of them, immediately. She wanted more, and she could see in his eyes that he did, too. Jess didn’t question for a single second that the physical attraction was mutual.

She startled as the entire room broke into sound and commotion. She looked away for a beat, and then back to River. His attention, it seemed, had remained entirely fixed on her mouth.

“I think we just made your company a lot of money,” she mumbled, grinning as she carefully pressed her fingertips to her tingling lips.

He didn’t crack a smile. Jess wasn’t sure he’d even heard her.

“I’d suspect most people comment on your eyes,” he said quietly, running a fingertip across her collarbone. “That startling, bright blue.”

Surely he could feel her heart scaling her windpipe. He didn’t seem to remember there was anyone else in the room.

“But I prefer your mouth.”

“You do?” Jess managed.

“I do,” he said, and bent, kissing her forehead. “You don’t give those smiles away for free.”

SIXTEEN

THANKS TO A friend of a friend of a friend, Jess met with a potential new client on Tuesday. She didn’t really have room in her schedule for anyone new—who knew fake dating would be such a time suck?—but the gravy train would be over when GeneticAlly went public in May, and Jess didn’t intend to be caught with her proverbial pants down when it happened.

Kenneth Marshall ran a small engineering firm in Wyoming and was in town to see clients of his own. They agreed to meet for lunch at his hotel, which had the added bonus of overlooking the convention center and the San Diego Bay. Unfortunately, it also had views of Shelter Island and the Grubers’ high-rise condo, which meant that it took monumental effort for Jess to focus on the conversation about probability study and regression analysis and not the searing kiss from the cocktail party.

How did someone learn to kiss like that? Did River take a class? Watch YouTube videos, like when Jess learned how to fix the toilet fill valve? She’d lain in bed last night thinking about his mouth and the urging press of his fingers to her jaw, about the sobering reality that Jess had had actual sex that left her less satisfied than River’s kiss.

Sex with River might actually end her.

She was all too happy when the meeting with Kenneth wrapped up, and even happier when he offered a deposit to hold his place on her schedule until late spring. But instead of immediately heading toward the valet, she walked out to the back patio of the hotel to take in the view. Seagulls soared overhead and waves gently rocked the boats docked at the marina. Snapping a photo, she sent a quick text to Fizzy, who was in LA meeting with her agent.

Jess had lived in California her entire life but rarely made it to the ocean. It seemed like too much preparation—the sand, the crowds, finding parking—but once she was there, she’d invariably wonder why she didn’t do it more often.

Kind of like sex.

Jess thought of the kiss again, the way River had angled his head to capture her mouth more deeply, how he’d held his breath, then let out a shaking exhale when they pulled apart. She wondered whether it would have been hard to stop if they’d been alone. She wondered whether he fucked like he kissed.

Her phone rang in her hand, startling her. She expected to see Fizzy’s face filling the screen, but instead there were three words: SCRIPPS MERCY HOSPITAL.

“Hello?” Jess said in a rush, eyes raking over the horizon as her heart began to thump Juno, Juno, Juno against her breastbone.

“May I speak to Jessica Davis?” a woman asked. In the background, Jess heard voices, an elevator ding, phones ringing, and the distant murmur of an intercom.

“This is Jessica.” Her pulse pounded her daughter’s name.

“This is Scripps Mercy Hospital. We have a Joanne Davis here. Your grandfather, Ronald, is asking for you. Please come as soon as possible.”

JESS DIDN’T REMEMBER the wait at the valet or the drive to the hospital, the walk from the parking lot or talking to anyone at the front desk, but she would never forget the sight of Nana in the hospital bed. Jess stood rooted in the doorway, motionless as machines hummed and beeped around Nana, and Pops hovered at his wife’s side, holding her hand. Both of Nana’s legs were immobilized and strapped to a splint. There was an IV in her left arm. The smell of antiseptic burned Jess’s nose. A nurse scooted past her into the hallway, and she managed to step into the room.