By Magic Alone (20 page)

He gave me a sidelong glance and chuckled. “You are so much like your father.”

“Why? Does he also ask you about the women you’d like to date?”

“You’re both business-minded individuals,” he explained. “Always considering what move to make next on the company chessboard. What needs to be done at work. How you can take whatever situation you’re in and apply it to the job.”

“It’s a hard habit to break. But really, I just thought it would be something we could talk about. It can wait until tomorrow, though.” I shivered a little. Not from a chill, but from Jameson’s description. Was I that much like my father?

“Nah, it’s fine. What am I looking for in a woman?” Jameson mused as he merged his car into the most left-hand lane. “I
suppose someone who is independent. I don’t like clingy. Smart. Has her own career.” He glanced my way again. “And not to come off as a jerk, but a real career. I’m not interested in dating a cashier or a waitress or a beautician.”

I coughed to hide my surprise. Not at his statement, but at my gut reaction. His words turned me off—but why? I’d always subscribed to the same philosophy, though I’d never expressed it so baldly. Similar backgrounds and similar goals made it easier for a couple to forge a future, right? I’d always thought so.

“That sounded elitist, didn’t it?” Jameson sighed. “I don’t mean to be that way. But my life—the way you and I were both raised, Julia—”

“It’s okay, Jameson. I get what you’re saying.” I interrupted him because I didn’t want to hear the rest of that particular thought process. “So, a woman with a career.” My thoughts instantly centered on Leslie. Wow . . . Jameson hit every one of her five qualifications. Huh. It was a good idea, possibly a great match. If Leslie weren’t so hot on Scot, I might even hook her up with Jameson. “Go on,” I prodded.

“Someone who can take care of herself.”

“So . . . ah . . . no damsels in distress or women who need the big, strong prince of a man to make everything right for them?” And there I went down Fairy Tale Lane again. “Got it. A strong, self-assured, career-focused woman who is looking for an equal partnership.”

“Exactly. So, can we continue with
our
date now?”

Oh. I’d almost forgotten this was a date. Warmth trickled into my cheeks, so I faced the window. “Of course. Sorry!”

Jameson took the next exit. “From here on out, you’re not Julia Collins, the owner of Introductions. For the rest of the day,” he said, slowing and then stopping at a traffic light, “you are Princess Julia, being escorted by—”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. References to fairy tales seemed to be shadowing my every move. “A prince?”

“Close, but no . . . not a prince. Not yet.” His tone was easy, bantering. But the tiniest hint of seriousness lurked beneath. “I’m like the frog, perpetually waiting for the one kiss from the right woman who will forever remove his amphibious shackles.”

“You’re not a frog,” I said lightly, trying to match his tone. “And I gotta say, more women than not would view you as pretty dang perfect just the way you are.”

I twisted so I could see him again. The faintest flush of pink stole over his complexion and he cleared his throat. “Hm. Well I don’t know about that, but thank you for the compliment.”

“You’re welcome. So . . . ah . . . where are you taking me?”

“The Brookfield Zoo.” He turned the car and nodded out the front window. “And we’re here. A day spent outside will lift anyone’s spirits.”

Well, he had a point. And I loved the zoo. I was even a card-carrying member. But, “It’s November and there aren’t any special events or exhibits happening.” Not to mention my lack of sensible clothing or footwear. I had on a skirt and heels. “It’s kind of cold out. My legs are going to freeze.”

Jameson parked the car and removed his sunglasses. Mischief and boyish fun sparkled in his too-green-to-be-real eyes. “We’ll hit a gift store right off and I’ll buy you whatever. They sell sweatshirts, sweatpants, anything you need. I’ll happily buy you three of each in increasingly large sizes so you can layer up.”

“And my shoes?”

His forehead wrinkled in thought. “Didn’t think about . . . Well, perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea for an outing.”

Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to spend the day at
the zoo. “I’m sure there’s some type of a store up the road. Feel like buying me a pair of sneakers?”

The disappointment fled Jameson’s features. He stared at me, his gaze as steady as a surgeon’s hand. “Add that to the list.”

“Yes. Sneakers, sweatshirt, and sweatpants. Got it.”

“Not that list. The other one.” Jameson pivoted and started the engine. “A woman who can live in the moment. Add that to the list of what I’m looking for.”

“Oh. That list. Will do.”

I pressed my lips together to stop a question I
shouldn’t
ask from tumbling out. I had to be wrong. Jameson didn’t
like
me, like me. I couldn’t be a contender for the one woman with the one kiss he’d referred to earlier. After all, our going out was instigated by our parents. Sunday dates were for current girlfriends, not for would-be girlfriends. When a man wants to impress a woman, especially a man raised in the manner of Jameson, he wined and dined her. That’s what was expected.

For me, though, a day at the zoo ranked well above the standard wine and dine. Had Jameson known that and was trying to impress me, as he’d jokingly stated at the restaurant, or was this just a lucky guess and a nice way to spend an afternoon with the daughter of a business associate?

I stifled a groan as Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” swept into my head. Only instead of the graceful sound of a piano or an orchestra or even a freaking guitar, I heard . . .

“Ribbit,” I murmured.

“What was that, Julia?” Jameson asked. “Did you say, ‘Ribbit’?”

I smothered the swirling sensation in my stomach with a nervous laugh, knowing I was being silly. “Nope. I said . . ., ‘Terrific.’ As in, the zoo is a terrific idea.”

Reaching over with his right hand, he lightly touched my knee. “I’m glad you think so. It’ll be fun, I think.”

“Mm. Me too.”

We weren’t the only crazy people who’d decided the zoo was a great way to spend a chilly Sunday afternoon. Couples and families dotted the walkways and exhibits, though not nearly the numbers you’d find during spring or summer, or even during the zoo’s special holiday-lights exhibit in December. It was nice. I liked the less hectic atmosphere.

“Warm enough?” Jameson asked for the third time in ninety minutes.

We’d managed to find a small strip mall not too far from the zoo that had several clothing shops and a discount shoe store. I’d tried to purchase the jeans, sweater, socks, and sneakers I now wore, but Jameson insisted on paying. I chose to let him rather than argue.

“Yep. I’m good.” We’d entered the zoo from the south gate, and had already visited the baboons, the birds, the reptiles, and the pachyderms. The west side of the zoo boasted several large natural habitats for a variety of animals, but we bypassed that area, focusing instead on the individual houses and smaller areas.

“Ready to go Down Under?” Jameson asked in a fake Australian accent. But the question came out as “Rudy to go Dune Oonder?” As far as impersonations went, not that successful. But he made me laugh.

“Yeah. But then we’re going on the carousel.”

We stopped at the field-research station and poked around a little, reading up on the ecosystem in Australia and the various animals represented here. I’d read and seen it all before, naturally, but that didn’t lessen my enjoyment. Jameson had
been right. My spirits were lifting. Funny, really, how sweet a drop of normalcy tastes when you’ve been choking down gallons of the abnormal for days.

“Look.” Jameson weighted his arm on my shoulders and pointed toward several megasized black and white birds that were clumped together in twos. “Emus.”

“Uh-huh. Do you know they travel in pairs?” His fingers wove into my hair, startling me. “Sometimes . . . well, um, sometimes they’ll group together in la-larger flocks. But normally”—my neck stiffened as his thumb grazed my jawline—“they pair up. They like to pair up.”

Babble City, USA, here I come.

“You sound like a romantic.” His arm tightened around me, and he twisted a few strands of my hair in his fingers. “Are you a romantic at heart, Julia? I wouldn’t have guessed that of you.”

I laughed. Cackled, really. A nervous, strangled, I-don’t-know-how-I-feel-about-this cackle. “Me, a romantic? Surely, you jest.”

The wind picked up and blew a lock of my hair into my eyes. Jameson stepped around so that he faced me, and he pulled me close. With his free hand, he gently smoothed my hair back. “I’m not jesting at all. You do run a dating service,” he said in a warm, low voice.

“I . . . ah . . . yes. But that’s about people and logic and . . . and . . .” I inhaled a breath. “Not a romantic. Not me,” I said loudly. “The birds . . . I just think they’re, you know, really beautiful. And that they pair up is interesting. Good bird trivia.”

“Hm. I suppose I can see that. But I think birds in general are a bit on the scary side.” He shuddered, but there was a teasing glint in his gaze. “They have beady eyes that bore into you. You haven’t noticed that?”

I swallowed. He meant the birds. I knew that. But with the concentrated, focused way he stared at me, as if he was going to kiss me . . . “Yes. Very scary. You’re right. I’ve never noticed that before. Thanks for . . . pointing that out.”

He grinned and dipped his head. “Julia,” he said. “I think—”

I blinked, craned my neck back, and stepped out of his embrace. Glancing toward the overlook platform, I attempted to speak in a controlled voice. “Hey! Let’s go over there and check out the kangaroos. They’re like big bunny rabbits, and their eyes are anything but beady. Nothing scary at all about kangaroos. Think there will be any joeys? I love looking at joeys. They’re really cute.”

Humor darted over him but he refrained from laughing at my babble. “There’s only one way to find out. Lead on, Princess Julia.”

So I did. We watched the kangaroos for a while, but weren’t able to see a baby one anywhere. The entire time we stood there, though, I tried to work out why Jameson’s touch bothered me so much. It was more than my anti-touchy-feely tendencies. And what I’d experienced wasn’t so much an uncomfortable sensation as an unfamiliar one. Different than Scot. But hell, that wasn’t a surprise.

Also just different. Period.

Ugh. Deciding the best way to get over my weirdness was to touch Jameson before he touched me again, I angled my arm through his and tugged. “Let’s go ride the carousel.”

On our way, we passed the aardvarks and then the camels. Fewer and fewer people milled about, and it sort of felt as if we had the zoo to ourselves. I kept my arm securely tucked into Jameson’s as we walked, stopped, looked, and chatted. For some reason, it was important to prove to myself that normal human contact with a nice guy, a guy I rather liked, didn’t turn
me into a spaz. I did okay, and was a lot more at ease when we reached the carousel.

Of course, that all changed when he kissed me.

We were nearing the end of our second carousel ride. The music was lively, the wind blew in my hair, and an invigorated, happy rush of being alive and having fun swept through me. I’d focused so hard and for so long on my business, I’d sort of forgotten the simplicity, the pure joy, of doing something for no other reason than to have fun.

I looked over at Jameson, who was seated on a zebra next to my tiger, and I smiled. He smiled back and tipped his imaginary hat. Laughing, I said, “Thank you for bringing me here! This is wonderful, and exactly what I needed.”

In a moment that can only be described as a scene from an incredibly romantic movie, probably a chick flick, Jameson half slid, half leaped off of his zebra—which, yes, is against the rules when the ride hasn’t ended—and came to my side. My hands clenched the pole tighter, and my legs squeezed around the tiger for balance. Nervous trembles cascaded down my spine in a wash of awareness.

Jameson smiled again. “You’re most welcome.”

He waited until the tiger was moving downward before cradling my cheeks in his hands. And then, he kissed me. A slow, searching, yearning type of a kiss that answered all of my earlier questions regarding Jameson’s intent. Yes, it seemed that Jameson liked me. As in
liked
me, liked me. Or if he didn’t, he sure knew how to pretend.

The kiss itself was nice and caused a warm little somersault in my belly. Not a flash of searing, blood-pumping heat like with Scot. But nice. Nicer than I’d have thought. Nicer than I expected.

We separated when the music ended, when the ride came to a stop. Jameson clasped my hand and in a gallant—dare I
say, princely?—move, helped me off the tiger. It was all very sweet, very enjoyable, and in all honesty was probably the most romantic gesture any man had ever offered me. But as we walked away, I couldn’t help continuing my comparison of Jameson to Scot.

And I couldn’t help but notice that my knees didn’t wiggle or jiggle at all.

When I arrived home that evening after Jameson dropped me off at my still-parked-at-Magical-Matchups car, I heated up my uneaten lunch and camped out on my couch. We’d only spent another thirty minutes or so at the zoo, having already gone through most of what the park offered. He hadn’t kissed me again, though.

I was okay with that. I still didn’t know what to make of the first kiss. Especially because I couldn’t get my mind off Scot. Or the journal. Or Verda. Or Leslie. But I knew this: if I’d had that date with Jameson before any of this madness with Scot, soul mates, and magic had occurred, I’d have been pleased. Very, very pleased.

Jameson and I were cut from the same cloth. Our parents were friends, gathered at the same social events, and our fathers were business associates. Our life experiences were eerily similar, as were our goals for the future. Yes, we were a good match. Hell, we were a
great
match. A match like this between any of my clients would have me grinning and jumping up and down with joy for days. Instead of brimming, I was somewhat deflated.