Page 8 of Just One Look

Maverick

This has got to be some sort of sick, fucked-up cosmic joke.

I’m sitting in Clancy Ford’s living room, in the exact spot I’ve sat in a number of times over the past several months, while Jackson is helping his grandfather throw up the last of their ill-fated lunch in the bathroom.

Seems he isn’t the only one who’s not so great at being sick. When Clancy opened the door, he was sweating profusely, and his face was sheet-white. He doesn’t strike me as the type to ask for help, but boy, did he look relieved to see us.

I sink deeper into the couch and scrub a hand down my face, trying to make sense of everything. It’s not that Clancy owed me an explanation, but why didn’t he tell me Jackson was his grandson when he knew I’d bought the rescue center?

And what about Jackson? Why didn’t he mention the connection either? It’s a pretty big thing to omit.

I push to my feet, stride over to the bookcase, and inspect a photo I’ve noticed a few times during my visits but have never had the chance to look at more closely until now. A black-haired toddler perched atop a horse, grinning big, holding on to the reins with both tiny hands. No fear. No trepidation. Just pure trust and joy radiating off little Jackson.

I put the photo back in its place and take in the modest living room. There’s a small plaid couch, two mismatched chairs, a wooden coffee table, and a rust-specked copper wall clock hanging by the window.

I hate to even think it, but I hope that neither of them felt bad or embarrassed by this. I would never judge a person by how much money they have or don’t have. I know it happens. I’ve seen it happen. But I would never think less of someone just because they’re not as wealthy as my family claims to be. That sort of stuff doesn’t matter to me. And from what I’ve gotten to know of Clancy these past few months, I didn’t think it mattered to him either.

I found his name inscribed on the back of some photos of my grandparents with him when I was going through their old boxes. I tracked Clancy down through the local Facebook page, messaged him to make sure he was indeed the same Clancy, and he invited me over. I showed him the photos, and he teared up. I never realized Grandpa Rick knew Clancy, let alone that they were such good friends.

I’ve stopped by to see him a few times since that first visit. I like the guy. He’s funny. Tells a great story. And he always makes sure I leave with plenty of apricots, which I gladly accept so I have something to fight back with when Wagner accuses me of feeding Sammy nothing but shit. In all the times I’ve come by, he’s never given even the slightest indication he’s embarrassed by his modest home.

And Jackson isn’t the kind of person who gives a shit what anyone thinks, least of all me, so I’m back to where I started: clueless as to why neither one of them thought to bring it up.

Jackson appears and sags against the wall.

“If what I subjected you to was half as gross as that, I am truly sorry.”

I smile sympathetically.

“How is he?”

“Better. He’s brushing his teeth now.”

Jackson takes an awkward step toward me, then stops, turns away, and runs a hand through his messy locks.

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t tell you Clancy is my grandfather.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind.”

One black eyebrow lifts, like he can see right through me.

“I am curious as to why you call your grandfather by his first name, though.”

“He insists. Says Grandpa makes him sound older than he looks.”

“Ah, vanity. I can respect that.”

Jackson’s lips twist like they’re about to smile, then quickly flatten into a thin line.

“It was my idea not to say anything. Clancy wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I like having firm boundaries in place.”

I cross the room in three giant strides, stopping short just in front of him.

“You need to set boundaries with me?”

He drops his gaze to the wooden floor. “I do.”

“Why?”

All I see is the top of his thick mop of onyx-black hair and his shoulders lifting and lowering on either side of it. After a while, he blows out a gust of air and lifts those wild green eyes up to me.

“Because I don’t trust…”

My jaw tightens, expecting him to finish that statement with “you.”

“…myself.”

The hairs on my arms prickle.

“You don’t trust yourself around me?”

“Correct,”

he says, and I can’t help it—I smirk. Completely unintentionally.

“Don’t get cocky.”

He lifts a finger in warning.

“I have a lot of shit going on in my life. I’m not… If we…”

He exhales roughly, like he’s frustrated. Can’t tell if that frustration is aimed at me or at himself.

“Even if I wanted to, I’m not available. Emotionally. For anything.”

I ignore how much that stings and focus on the tiny lifeline he’s offered.

“But if you were avail?—?”

“Don’t. Please.”

He cuts me off and moves to the window. But I’m not prepared to let this go. Not until I get a proper answer. I deserve that much, at least.

I walk over and stand beside him, our shoulders close but not touching, both of us staring at my SUV parked in the driveway. “Tell me,”

I begin, my voice low.

“If you were available, is there a chance you’d be interested in me?”

Silence.

The sound of the old clock ticking fills the room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. To?—

“Maybe.”

He says it so quietly I barely hear it, but when I turn to him, he’s staring at me with a tortured longing that confirms what he was only able to whisper.

I reach for him, my fingertips grazing over the soft skin of his jawline. His eyes flutter shut, and I take in his long, dark lashes, the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks up to the bridge of his nose, the plumpness of his lips.

I step in closer, my face hovering a few inches away from his, his warm breath hitting my throat, heating my chest, thickening my cock. I curl one hand around the back of his neck and lower my lips until they almost taste his?—

“Pieces. I threw up actual pieces of tuna as if my digestive tract hadn’t even—oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jackson and I break apart from each other with such velocity he almost loses his balance and has to grab onto the curtain to save himself from toppling over.

I paw at my chest.

“You didn’t. I was just showing Jackson my…”

“His car,”

Jackson saves me, offering his way-too-smart-to-fall-for-this-bullshit grandfather a smile so forced even I can tell it’s fake.

“Oh, really?”

Clancy wanders over to the window and glances at my SUV.

“What about it, exactly?”

“Uh, well…”

Jackson’s eyes dart about as he tries to come up with something. I’d have thrown in the towel by now. But not Jackson. He’s way too stubborn for that.

“I read an article about how the type of car a guy drives directly relates to the size of his penis.”

A surprised cough cuts through the silence. The bigger surprise is that it comes from me, not Clancy.

Some of the sparkle returns to the old man’s eyes.

“Tell me more about this theory. Sounds fascinating.”

“I don’t remember all the details,”

Jackson goes on, not missing a beat.

“But basically, a big-ass SUV like that means poor, ol’ Maverick hasn’t got a lot to work with in the downstairs department and is, sadly and oh so transparently, overcompensating.”

My jaw gapes, and I fix him with an angry stare over Clancy’s shoulder. He just shrugs and smirks, knowing I can’t do anything. I mean, I could very easily blow up his whole bullshit story. But I wouldn’t do that. Because if he’s committed to sticking to this stupid lie that all three of us know is a lie and doesn’t want to tell his grandfather about what we are actually on the cusp of doing, I’ll respect it.

But my willingness to keep my mouth shut isn’t purely for altruistic reasons. No. I’m happy for Jackson to incorrectly make fun of my manhood because I’ve won a much better prize.

He’s confirmed that he likes me, at least a little. Which means I haven’t been imagining that there is something between us.

It’s real. And he feels it as well.

And if you ask me, that’s a way bigger win than Jackson telling Clancy I have a small dick.

“I thought that was your car out front,”

I say, striding into Wagner’s living room with a big smile on my face.

First, Jackson admitted he likes me, and now, my best friend has turned up unexpectedly. It’s a great day to be me.

Ollie looks up at me from the couch. There’s a coffee table buried somewhere beneath a mountain of paperwork.

“I’d get up, but…”

He angles his body so that I can see his leg. It’s wrapped in a bright blue fiberglass cast from thigh to ankle.

My face drops.

“What happened?”

“I was attempting a tricky vault over a railing, slipped, and lost my balance. My leg bent the wrong way, and when I hit the ground, it snapped in two.”

“Oh, man.”

I wince just thinking about it.

“Fucking parkour.”

“Don’t you start. I’ve copped an earful from Wagner already.”

“And you’ll continue copping it,”

my brother says, entering the room, carrying a tray of snacks. Healthy snacks, of course. Cooking is his love language. He lowers the beautifully arranged charcuterie board onto a bunch of papers and starts preparing a plate, which he hands to Ollie.

“What’s happening here?”

I ask.

“And where’s Sammy?”

“Sammy’s taking a nap,”

Wagner answers, popping a few grapes into his mouth.

“And Ollie is helping me review offers.”

I take a seat on the couch, helping myself to some prosciutto.

“Offers? As in plural?”

Wagner nods.

“That’s great, man.”

“It is, and it isn’t,”

Ollie says, his attention turning to the document in his hand.

“Each offer comes with its own stipulations.”

“What sort of stipulations?” I ask.

“That’s what Ollie’s here to help me figure out. I’m prepared to do a lot to secure financing, but I have my limits. I’m not giving up control or ownership of the vineyard.”

“Damn right you shouldn’t.”

I prop my feet up onto the coffee table, ignoring Wagner’s glare, and continue.

“This is our family’s winery. One of the few things no one can take away from us. You need to protect it, Wag.”

“I fully intend to,”

he retorts, his jaw pulsing either from me using the nickname he hates so much or, more likely, remembering the reason why we need to protect what we have left in the first place.

Mom got swindled by her two older brothers and lost her share of her family’s business. It didn’t matter that she was the company CEO. That she transformed the entire organization, modernized it, and increased profits so dramatically it grew from the fifth-largest shipping company in the world to second. That she sacrificed everything, including her family and ultimately her health, for that job. Our evil uncles made sure that when she died, her husband and kids got nothing. I fucking hate those two pricks.

There’s no way in hell Wagner is going to stand by and let anyone do the same to our father’s business. This winery has belonged to the Bensons for six generations, and even though Dad has never shown any interest in it, Wagner is determined to ensure it stays in the family for the next six. He just needs to secure some financial backing to help turn it around.

“That’s why I’ve got the best lawyer working on it,”

he says, clapping Ollie on his shoulder.

“Even if he is an adrenaline-chasing doofus.”

Ollie grins good-naturedly.

“How long you going to be out of action for?” I ask.

The grin slides off his face.

“I’m stuck with this thing”—he points at his cast—“for eight to twelve weeks. Might need surgery after that, depending on how it heals. Then I’m looking at months of rehab.”

“And no more parkour ever?”

I ask a little too brightly.

“We’ll see,”

he grumbles.

“Does this mean you’re staying for the Fourth?”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Derek’s station is holding a BBQ cook-off fundraiser during the day, which I’ve gotten roped into, and some friends invited us to watch the fireworks from their balcony afterward.”

“Bummer, man.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll probably be back next week.”

I perk up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot to get through here. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it in just one night. Anyway…”

He waves some papers in the air.

“I should get back to this.”

“Of course. Don’t let me stop you. I came by to use the kitchen.”

Wagner cocks a brow. “Why?”

“To cook, duh.”

“But you never cook,”

Ollie says.

Wagner nods in agreement.

“So? There’s a first time for everything, right?”

I say, hoping they’ll drop it as I fetch the grocery bag I left by the door. When I pass by the living room carrying it, Wagner blocks my path to the kitchen.

“What’s going on, Mav?”

“Nothing. It’s just…Jackson and his grandfather had food poisoning yesterday. They’re both still unwell, so I’m going to make them some chicken soup.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,”

Ollie offers from the couch.

“Well, it is.”

I adjust the bag in my hands.

“Jackson is my best employee, and his grandpa, Clancy, is a good man. He used to know our grandparents,”

I say to Wagner, who shrugs like he finds it nowhere near as interesting as I do.

“I want to do something to help them feel better.”

“By poisoning them even more?”

my fuckhead brother quips, folding his arms across his chest, one side of his mouth turned up in amusement.

“Since when do you know how to cook?”

“It’s not that hard.”

I move around him, stealing a quick glance into the living room at Ollie, who’s ditched the paperwork in favor of this. He winks at me, laughs to himself, then returns to his work.

“I have ingredients. I have YouTube. And I have your kitchen,”

I tell Wagner.

“And you have me,”

a small, sleepy voice says.

“I’ll help you cook, Uncle Kick.”

“Right on, my man.”

I stick my hand out, and Sammy toddles over to me, clapping his tiny palm against mine.

“This will be a piece of cake,”

I tell Wagner, who still doesn’t look convinced.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, the professionals have some cooking to do.”

“That’s right,”

Sammy agrees, sticking his nose into the air and waving his father away.

“We’re pwo-fessh-nuls.”