Close to You (20 page)

Twenty-Two

F
IVE HOURS LATER, ALLIE TRUDGED
into the hotel lobby. Unbelievable. The man was unbelievable. It had taken all of her willpower not to leave him at the hospital and let him find his own way back. Instead, she'd had to put up with his insufferable smirking during the entire cab ride.

“You still mad?” He spoke from where he hobbled beside her on a pair of crutches. Nothing broken, thank goodness. Just a badly sprained ankle and a lot of bruising.

She slid a glare to her side. Even almost more infuriating than his aura of smug calm was the fact that he didn't look even the slightest bit ruffled, let alone like someone who had taken a tumble off a horse and spent the better part of the day in Accident & Emergency.

Meanwhile, she was caked in mud down one side from where she'd taken a slide across the field in her haste to get to her first-aid kit. To make it worse, the quick glimpse she'd had in the hospital bathroom mirror had revealed a dirt-smeared
face to match hair that looked like it had taken a roll on the forest floor.

“I'm not mad. Just tired.” That much was true. The only good thing about this day was that it was over. Done. Finished. Kat had left a voice mail to say she would be fine taking the others for dinner solo, and in a few minutes, Allie would be in her room, listening to the sound of glorious hot water filling up her very large bath. Where she intended to soak until she was as wrinkled as a piece of fruit left in the sun for too long, followed by room service and some terrible TV.

Her spirits lifted at the thought.

“Allison.” Every neuron in her body jumped, like she was at the receiving end of a lightning strike.

It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. There was no way.

“Allison, over here.” The same voice, just a little louder. Though of course not loud enough to qualify as “raised.” Because Veronica James-Shire never so much as raised her voice, let alone yelled.

Allie turned, and sure enough, there was her mother, rising from a chair in the lobby like a wraith rising from the mist. If a wraith came with perfectly coiffed caramel highlights, clad in a custom-made black pantsuit.

It was at moments like this she knew there had to be a God. A neutral universe wouldn't have such a warped sense of humor.

Her mother glided toward her like a model on a runway. She must've had a recent round of Botox, because the only sign of dismay her face could register at her daughter's appearance was a slight flaring of her nostrils.

This was, after all, the woman who believed no occasion
or outfit was complete without a set of pearls, including her biweekly yoga class.

“Mother.” Allie's voice finally found itself. “What are you doing here?”

Her mother smoothed her tailored jacket needlessly with her perfectly manicured nails. “I was in town, so I thought I'd drop by and see if my daughter was free for dinner. Though”—she struggled to arch her eyebrows—“obviously not in that state.”

Obviously.

Her mother's eyes flickered to Jackson. “Where are your manners, Allison? Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”

A very unladylike phrase shot through Allie's head. From the moment she had heard her mother's voice, she had completely forgotten about Jackson standing beside her, observing this entire car wreck of a scene.

She forced her tone into neutral. “Mother, this is Jackson Gregory, one of my clients on this tour. Jackson, this is my mother, Veronica James-Shire.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. James-Shire.” Jackson moved with surprising grace for someone on crutches as he shook her mother's hand, holding it a second longer than strictly necessary.

Her mother preened. “It's actually just Ms. James now, but please, call me Veronica.”

Allie wanted to sink into the floor at her mother's simpering. She was so busy being mortified by the way Veronica was sizing up Jackson like he was some kind of calorie-free, carb-free dessert, she almost missed her mother's announcement.

“Wait, what? Just James? Does this mean . . .” Oh, please let it be so. Please, after years of public show and private dysfunction, let her parents finally be getting divorced.

Her mother flashed her left hand, which still held the very large diamond her father had been badgered into giving her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. “Darling, Mr. Gregory doesn't want to hear about our little family tiffs.”

Jackson shifted on his feet. “Well, I'll let the two of you catch up.” The man was smart enough to take the chance for an exit when one presented itself. “Thanks for everything today, Allie.”

Turning, he hobbled toward the lift as fast as he could manage. Even though she knew her mother was watching her, Allie couldn't stop her eyes from following him.

“Now, I've made a booking for us at Rata.” Her mother glanced at her diamond-studded watch. “It was for eight but obviously you won't have enough time to clean up by then, so I'll change it to eight-thirty.”

No way. “I'm sorry, but I don't have time for dinner at Rata. In case you didn't notice the crutches, I've got a ton of paperwork that needs to be sorted tonight.”

Her mother opened her mouth as if to argue, and then something indecipherable flickered across her face. “Okay, I can cancel Rata. How about somewhere quick? You have to eat.”

“I was planning to grab a burger from Ferg's.” Unless it was a canapé ferried to her on a silver platter, her mother viewed any food requiring the involvement of hands as beneath her.

“Sounds great.”

Allie stared. Who was this woman? More importantly, what did she want?

Her mother shooed Allie away with her hands. “Go get changed. I'll wait here for you.”

* * *

J
ackson turned the scene he'd witnessed in the lobby over in his mind as he tried to maneuver down Shotover Street in search of some dinner.

It was crass of him to even think it, but Allie's mother reeked of money, from the tips of her immaculately cut and colored golden-brown bob to the toes of her pointy stilettos.

Unfortunately, all the riches or cosmetic work in the world couldn't change the brittle edge to her voice or the hard-edged expression on her face that told of someone who had spent a lot more time in her life frowning instead of laughing.

She was about as far from Jackson's down-to-earth, fun-­loving mom as you could get. His parents might never have had the kind of money Veronica wore on just one finger, but from the disapproving way she'd sized Allie up, he was sure he'd gotten the better end of the parenting deal.

Allie's comment on the hike about not being anything special made more sense now. It was going to haunt him even more now that he hadn't managed to say something, anything, to convince her otherwise.

Jackson eyed up the row of cafés and fast-food places lining the road. Set against a backdrop of towering snowcapped mountains, Queenstown was easily the most beautiful city he'd ever been to. It was nice to be able to absorb the majesty of it all at his own slow pace.

He hadn't been able to get hold of his uncle, so the group must be out for dinner by now. Which suited him fine. After
the ridiculous amount of effort it had taken to navigate showering and getting dressed with his dud foot, he was starving. As nice as all the fancy food was, after today what he really wanted was a huge burger. Or pizza. Something large and loaded with carbs.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the pain radiating up from his foot. He had to be able to find something close by. Surely. As if God himself had heard him, he stopped in front of a place with a steady stream of people entering and exiting with paper bags that emitted such amazing smells his stomach rumbled.

The people sitting outside were eating some of the most tantalizing-looking burgers he'd ever seen. Perfect.

Hobbling inside, he managed to navigate the crowd to order a burger, fries, and onion rings and find a spot by a window at one of the long tables.

Balancing his crutches beside him, he propped his throbbing foot up on the empty chair across from him. As much as he'd fought it at the time, thank goodness Allie had ignored his protests and gotten his prescription for painkillers filled. By the time he managed to limp back to the hotel, he was definitely going to be in serious need of some.

Unscrewing the top of his lemonade, he took a gulp and breathed in the smell of meat and grease. Heaven.

“Here you go.” The friendly girl who'd taken his order and noticed his crutches placed a tray down in front of him and disappeared before he could even say thanks, let alone give her a tip.

Selecting an onion ring, he crunched into the battered goodness. He closed his eyes in bliss, picked up the bag, and ate a second, then a third, barely pausing for breath in between.

Forcing himself to put them down, he unwrapped his burger and took a huge bite. Beef, bacon, and barbecue sauce joined together in the food version of Handel's
Messiah
. He almost groaned with joy. Oh, this was so much better than some microscopic serving of fine dining.

Another bite and another, punctuated with a mouthful of salty, crunchy fries. By the time he paused for breath, his meal was half-gone.

“. . . being so difficult.” A cultured voice, so out of place in a burger joint, cut through his buzz.

“After everything we've done for you, all we ask is this one small thing.” The woman continued from somewhere to the left, her voice becoming increasingly familiar.

It couldn't be. He snuck a glance sideways. It was. On the other side of the window, sitting at one of the outdoor tables: the same golden helmet of hair, ramrod-straight posture. Blinged-out finger tapping the tabletop. And Allie, a picture of misery as she sat slumped across from her mother, breaking a fry in half, then in half again.

He couldn't help himself. He ducked even farther behind the folding window frame that partially obscured him from their view. Though all it would take would be for Allie to look up and slightly sideways and he'd be busted.

“This debacle has carried on too long, Allison. Does the reputation of the family not mean anything to you? How are we supposed to hold our heads up with this hanging over us? Derek's assistance with campaign fund-raising has proved invaluable, so your pathetic attempt at smearing him to Susannah has proven to be completely off the mark. He also feels badly about this whole misunderstanding between the two of you.”

Derek. The name was familiar. Wasn't that the guy who'd called the morning he was in her room?

Allie pushed her food away and said something he couldn't quite hear. Picking up a sheaf of papers resting by her elbow, she tried to hand them to her mother.

Veronica pushed them back toward her, leaving Allie to put them down in the middle of the table, anchored by a bottle of soda. “I can't believe I raised such a selfish daughter. You've never lived up to your sister, but I have to admit, I thought better of you than this. Are you truly so ungrateful after everything I've done for you?” Her lashing tongue whipped through him, and he didn't even know the woman.

Allie opened her mouth, but nothing came out, a lone tear speaking louder than any words ever could as it traced a trail down her cheek.

Okay, he'd had enough. Compelled by a force he couldn't deny, Jackson pushed up from the table, grabbed his crutches, and swung himself out the front door and around the corner to stand beside their table.

Allie looked up at him, face draining to the color of Cool Whip.

He captured her gaze for a second and then turned to her mother. “I'm sorry. I realize this is none of my business, but you obviously don't know your daughter. I've spent every day of the last two weeks with her and I'm not sure who you're talking about, but it isn't Allie. She is kind and funny and smart. She manages eight of us with our quirks and demands and, yes”—he gestured to his ankle—“as you can see, occasional lapses into stupidity. She is about as selfish as I'm vegetarian. So whatever it is you're asking her to do, there's a good reason why she won't.”

His own audacity stunned him, but he wasn't sorry. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't made everything worse.

Veronica stared at him, her expression brittle. “You're right, Mr. Gregory.”

Had he actually made the woman see the truth? He glanced sideways to see her daughter's chin lifted, a flicker of hope appearing in her eyes.

“This is none of your business.” She waved her manicured hand at him like he was a pesky fly.

Across the table, Allie's whole body deflated like an old balloon. And the way it felt as if someone had ripped open his chest and clenched a fist around his heart told him loud and clear it was time to stop kidding himself about his feelings for her.

Twenty-Three

A
LLIE SIGHED AS SHE POSITIONED
herself on her couch, placed her bare feet on the coffee table, and clicked on her laptop to open up the incident report form she was going to have to file. The first thing in the trees' worth of paperwork Jackson's little tumble was going to generate.

Jackson. She couldn't even process everything that had happened today. This morning, he hadn't even been talking to her. Tonight, he'd been her most gallant defender. And in between, he'd managed to jam in a rescue chopper ride and a trip to the emergency department.

Outside her window, waves lapped against the shores of Lake Wakatipu, reminding her of yet another thing on her to-do list. A write-up of the new hotel they were staying in. Not that she could complain, since she'd been given an executive suite. Though it was disconcerting having so much space after being used to small hotel rooms. What was she supposed to do with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a chef's kitchen, and a dining table for eight?

It accentuated her solo status, if only to herself. All the empty chairs, unused crockery, and echoing silence accused her—as if waiting for the nonexistent people for whom they had been created, the conversations and laughter that weren't happening. So much so she'd suggested Kat ditch her room and join her for the rest of the week, and Kat had agreed.

Focus, Allie.
This was exactly why she avoided seeing her mother. Because not only did it inevitably end in tears, but it always left her melancholic for days.

Her emotions tumbled around like they'd been stuck in a blender. Unable to forget for a second the way Jackson had stood up to her mother. No one had ever stood up for her like that. Ever. Certainly not to Veronica. Their parting had been chilly at best when her mother left to catch her flight. Mostly because of Allie's refusal to work things out with Derek, who'd somehow managed to convince her mother the small issue of his other marriage was just a little “misunderstanding.” However, Jackson's intervention certainly hadn't helped matters.

Not with her mother, and certainly not with Allie's now ludicrous attempts at denying how she felt about him.

What was she meant to do with her growing feelings for this guy who so aggravated her one second she wanted to clock him with the nearest blunt object, then the next looked at her like he could see through all the barriers she put up to keep herself safe?

Her lips turned up at the memory of him telling off her mother, totally unaware of the big smear of barbecue sauce across his chin. It was a good thing she'd been sitting, otherwise the heady combination of adorable and downright sexy would have probably knocked her off her feet.

When—how—had Jackson Gregory managed to tunnel his way into her heart and take up residence there?

Running her hands through her hair, she huffed out a breath.
Don't be so stupid, Allie.
It was nothing more than a bit of un­expected chemistry. It would be nothing more than a vague memory within a week of the tour's end. She was pretty sure he'd forget about her the minute he limped onto his plane home. Especially now, since he'd probably heard enough to work out that she was the last person in the world he should want anything to do with.

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and turned her attention back to her screen. Tapping it awake from its slumber, she navigated her way through the opening pages, then honed in on the detail. The forms that would be pored over by the risk-averse wonks at HQ to make sure she had struck the perfect balance between covering the company's butt and showing appropriate respect to the client—regardless of how much of the blame they deserved.

Reason for accident? Her fingers flew.
An astounding level of stupidity by the most amazing guy I've ever met.

And there it was. The oxymoron of how she felt about Jackson in black and white. She hit the
DELETE
button until it disappeared from the screen and dutifully typed,
Client allergic to horses. Did not declare either on booking or indemnity waiver, or to guide.

She sat and pondered her next sentence, remembering how Jackson had sneezed with such violence it had even freaked out Mildred, who was ordinarily as highly strung and prone to sudden reactions as the average cabbage.

Knock knock knock.
Allie's fingers paused over the keyboard.

Must be someone at the suite next door. There was no one with any reason to be knocking on her door at—she checked her watch—almost nine-thirty. Kat and the group were doing a degustation menu that should take them until ten to get through.

The sound came again. This time there was no mistaking it had come from her door. Sighing, she tilted her screen down so it couldn't be read, leveraged herself up from her seat, and padded toward the entranceway.

What could it be now? Nothing would surprise her after today. The entire day had felt like the universe was throwing everything at her. It had clearly decided it couldn't possibly let the final hours go to waste.

She peered through the peephole, and her breath caught. What was Jackson doing here? For a second, she contemplated not answering, afraid of what she might do or say. But the way he'd left her mother speechless for the first time Allie had ever witnessed—meant he deserved better than that.

Turning the deadbolt, she swung the door open and peeked around. He was in a pair of well-worn jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt, a five-o'clock shadow creeping across his jaw. The visual was all sexy and rumpled—like something out of a men's magazine shoot. Her breath stalled.

Jackson had been attractive enough already, but there was something about adding the standing-up-to-her-mother factor that upped it a hundredfold. If she'd known Iowa produced farm boys that looked like this, she would've found her way to the great corn state years ago.

He leaned on one crutch; wedged against his torso was a stack of . . . pizzas?

Words. Need to speak.
“Hi?”

“Hi. I think you might still have my phone in your bag from the hospital. And my drugs.” He nodded to the four pizza boxes that emanated a combination of enticing smells. A plastic bag dangled from the hand gripping the handle of the crutch. “You barely touched your meal so I brought a ransom payment.”

It was true. Any time spent with her mother did have the effect of killing her appetite. She'd barely managed a bite of her burger, even though Veronica uncharacteristically had managed to restrain herself from her typical passive-aggressive commentary on her daughter's diet and dress size. Hints of cheese, tomato, and herbs wound their way up Allie's nose, and she almost drooled.

“Thanks, but I'm fine.” Her stomach let out a rumble that outed her as the liar she was.

Jackson raised an eyebrow and the hint of a smile plucked at one side of his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

She stood in the doorway. Wavering. The sensible thing to do would be to leave him there and go get his stuff and trade it for a pizza. She'd get fed, he'd get his phone and drugs, and whatever this weird chemistry was between them would get left alone. No harm, no foul.

And then what? Eating pizza in a huge empty suite with only paperwork and her own depressing thoughts for company? That appealed even less.

Fingers curling around the cool, metal door handle, she pulled and stepped back as the door slid all the way open. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” He hobbled through the doorway and past her, stopping a few feet inside.

The door swished against the plush carpet as she closed it. She moved around him and started back down the hall. “Let me go check my bag.” She was hyperconscious of his presence following a few feet behind her. At least being in a suite made the situation a bit less weird. A hotel room would have been a bit too confronting, too
intimate.

The accumulating smell of cheese and pizza dough caused her stomach to do an anticipatory flip, dragging her thoughts away from the disturbing direction they had started to head.

What was with the food? He could've just knocked on her door and asked for his phone and painkillers. Or, even more sensibly, rung her from his room. Though, at some point, they'd catapulted over the border that delineated sensible.

Allie grabbed a glimpse in the hall mirror on her way to the kitchen. Her hair was pulled up into a straggly, crooked ponytail and desperately needed a wash. Ugly reading glasses—why, oh why, hadn't she left her contacts in? She'd stripped all her makeup off, revealing blotchy uneven skin, and her eyes still bore evidence of the crying jag she'd had over her mother as soon as she walked in the door. Again.

Her bag sat where she'd dropped it on the kitchen counter and she walked toward it. Anything to distract her from the fact that he smelled of some kind of masculine soap and that she hadn't been alone like this with a guy who scattered her emotions in years.

“Where should I put these?” He said the words easily. Like there was nothing weird about this at all. Like they were friends who ate pizza together all the time. “I didn't know what you liked, so I got a mixture.”

“Um . . . anywhere will be fine.” She gestured around the
large open-plan kitchen and turned her attention to finding his stuff.
Thunk.
He dropped the precarious pile onto the bench next to her, moving the plastic bag to sit next to them.

Her hand grasped around a rectangular object, and she fished it from her bag. Sure enough it was his phone. She held it up in her palm. Next followed the brown paper sack holding his painkillers. “Sorry.”

He glanced up from where he was pulling containers out and lining them along the granite countertop next to the pizza boxes. “No problem.”

Her stomach let out an unladylike gurgle. “What exactly do we have?”

“Um, hold on a sec.” He turned, facing her full-on, barely a hand's width between them. She involuntarily took a quick breath as she found herself staring at his broad shoulders. She tilted her head, her gaze traveling to his chin, lips, nose, eyes. Her toes curled. This guy was far too sexy for his own good. Actually, he was far too sexy for
her
good. This was bad. Very bad.

She quickly took a small step back to overcome the sudden overwhelming desire to reach up and run her fingers through his hair and down his arms and—
Whoa, Allie. Don't even go there.

It was getting hot. Her face suddenly felt like she'd been out on a summer's day with no sunscreen.
Get busy. Unstack and open boxes.
Hopefully if Jackson noticed her blush, he'd put it down to the warmth of the pizza boxes as opposed to the very inappropriate series of thoughts zapping through her brain.

“Here you go.” Their fingers brushed as he handed her a long receipt so she could see what he'd ordered.

Zap.
Another thought. Another two degrees. The heat of pure attraction rampaged through her body. She was going to have to lose a layer soon. She didn't remember Derek ever having this effect on her. The two of them had had pizza many times over the years and not once had she needed to remove any items of clothing in his presence to cool down her internal furnace simply because his fingers brushed hers while handing over a receipt.

Allie glanced at the white piece of paper. “One thin-crust vegetarian pizza with no cheese. No cheese? Why would anyone want to eat pizza with no cheese?”

Jackson shuffled his feet. “I just thought maybe you were one of those girls who didn't like to eat carbs and dairy and stuff.”

Ha! Not likely, when her jeans were a size larger than she'd admit to. “We've eaten together for two weeks. At which point did I impress you as the kind of girl who doesn't eat carbs and dairy?” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth. “Don't answer that. It was purely a rhetorical question.”

She looked back at the list. “One chicken, cranberry, and brie pizza. One spinach, pepperoni, feta, mushroom, and tomato pizza. One super supreme pizza with barbecue sauce. One serving of lemon-pepper wedges with sour cream. One chicken and avocado salad. One spaghetti carbonara. Two slices of chocolate mousse cake. Two slices of passion fruit cheesecake. One Diet Coke. One regular Coke.” She refused to look at the dollar figure at the bottom.

He shrugged. “Okay, I might have gone a little overboard, but I wanted to be sure I got something you liked—especially after what I put you through today, and then . . .” He trailed
off, clearly not wanting to put into words the obvious about her mother. Instead he just looked down, ocean eyes drilling into her.

She placed the paper on the counter. “You really didn't need to. All part of the job. You'd be amazed at the stupid things I've had to deal with.” The last sentence came out a bit more harshly than Allie had intended. “I mean, this is great. Thank you.” She gestured at all the food covering the surface. “I just wasn't expecting it.”

Derek would never have bought out a pizza joint's menu because he wasn't sure what she might feel like eating. He was definitely a more budget-restrained kind of guy. Or so she'd thought—until she discovered that was only with
his
money. With
her
money, he was a pro at making extravagant gestures, like the bachelor party for which he'd “borrowed” her credit card and racked up almost five grand.

This was too much; it was all too much. “I—” Her voice caught in her throat and before she knew what was happening, a tear rolled down her cheek, and then another. She attempted to stem the flow with her sleeve, but they kept coming until there was a torrent pouring down her neck, pooling around the edge of her top.

She tried to pull them back in, shove them down. Shires didn't cry. She definitely didn't cry.

“Hey. Hey. It's okay. It's all going to be okay. Come on.”

She had to stop crying. He couldn't see her like this, but the gush refused to slow. She couldn't even talk. Shuddering breaths squeezed from her shrunken lungs. She looked at the floor, the wall, the bench—anywhere but him—as she attempted to blink away the tears.