“Nothing,” I return his smile, stepping back so he has to let me go. My face is still flushed from all the carnal images of Landon that had been rolling through my mind only moments before. “Just escaping my demons.”
Jack arches a brow. “Your rich, handsome prince not slaying them for you?”
I ignore the dig. My ‘Prince’ is the demon I’m trying to escape anyway. “I gotta get
to work.”
“Hey,” he sounds conciliatory. “Last night was great. It was good to catch up.”
I give him a small smile. “Yea.”
“So…” There’s a hopeful look on his face, “still coming tonight?”
To see his mother. I nod. “I already said yes. Just tell me when.”
“Whenever you get off work.” He pauses. “I really appreciate this. It means a lot.”
Don’t let it mean too much. I start to say, but I shrug and let it go. “It’s no bother, really.” Every moment I spend busy with something, anything at all, is a moment that I don’t think about Landon.
I get off work later than usual, but Jack is waiting for me at the reception on our floor when I finally leave the office. We take the elevator down together, sharing it with a group of interns who can’t stop looking at him. On the ground floor lobby, Chelsea is having a conversation with one of the downstairs receptionists. She sees me with Jack and her eyes widen. “What. The. Hell,” she mouths slowly.
I shrug, and she wags a finger at me.
Outside, Jack hails a cab. During the short journey, he’s mostly silent, and I assume that he’s nervous.
His mother has an apartment in Gramercy Park. The doorman eyes Jack suspiciously while checking his name on the visitor’s list, then he directs us to the elevator, which soon deposits us in a thickly carpeted vestibule. There are four doors with gold-lettered apartment numbers, and one of them opens just as we exit the elevator. The woman in the doorway is petite, her black hair held up in a ballet bun, which brings the elegant angles of her face into focus. Her eyes are gray, like Jack’s, and very sharp. She’s dressed all in black, the only color, a hint of red lipstick.
Her eyes lose their sharpness as they settle eagerly on Jack, roaming from his hair to his shoes, almost as if she needs to reassure herself that he’s really there. Then she lets out a breath and her glance flicks towards me.
“I see you brought a buffer,” she says with a small chuckle.
“Hello mother,” I’m surprised at how subdued Jack sounds.
She ignores him. “Who are you?”
“Rachel Foster,” Jack says before I can respond. “We work together at Gilt. Rachel, my mother. Gertrude Weyland.”
“I’m an admirer of your work,” I say sincerely.
She snorts, unimpressed. “When you’re my age, you won’t be very flattered that the ‘work’ everyone loves is something you wrote in your early twenties when you were young and foolish.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. She disappears from the doorway. I hear her voice inside the apartment, telling someone. “My son is here.” I follow Jack inside. The large living room is stark, which is to be expected since she lives abroad. There are only a few pieces of furniture, but the ceilings are high and vaulted, and a few walls are covered with modern art. I even recognize one of my mother’s paintings hanging on a far wall.
She drops gracefully onto a white leather couch, where a distinguished looking older guy with beautiful silver hair and intelligent green eyes is already seated.
“So you’re Jack,” he says, getting up to shake Jack’s hand.
“I have no idea who you are,” Jack says churlishly, ignoring the hand extended towards him.
“I’m Curtis James,” the man tries again.
“Well, you have nice hair. Maybe you’ll last longer than the others.”
I’ve never seen Jack act so childish, and it would be funny if I weren't so shocked. Curtis gives up and puts his hand back in his pocket. As he goes back to his seat, I catch a small smile flit across Gertrude’s face.
“Curtis is my dermatologist.” She directs her reply to me. “He’s been showing me wonderful ways to keep my skin looking young.” Her lips lift in a small, naughty smile, and Jack snorts, muttering something under his breath. She ignores him. “Why don’t you sit, Rachel? You too Jack.”
“Thank you,” I choose one of the single armchairs. Curtis is smiling at me, I smile back.