18. Mandy

Bitter air flowed between the high-rises on either side of us, whipping my hair about my face. Chicago was only a smidge warmer than the temps back in Boulder, but I couldn't complain—we arrived here on a private jet.

Quincy, a native architect Jackson had reached out to, approached us. He was fairly quiet until I got him going on architecture. I kept the conversation going, even though he seemed to be speaking to me as if I were a student. Just because this was my first large-scale project didn't make me any less of an interior designer, but he seemed to think it did.

Jackson's hand rested at the small of my back, overtop of the wool coat that he'd given me. Absentmindedly, I spun the ring on my finger. I was getting used to it being there, no longer constantly aware of its presence.

I knew this wasn't just a work trip, that it was PR as well. I didn't have an issue with that, not when I was getting so much out of it. Not only was I getting inspiration, I was also getting advice and priceless knowledgefrom a seasoned architect. It was well worth it.

Quincy led us into The Rookery, an office building with a handful of shops in the lobby. It was number one on my list of places I wanted to go—Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the lobby back in the early 1900s. After several renovations, it had finally been restored to his original designs.

"Wow," I breathed, coming to a stop in the center of the lobby. Shoppers and business men and women dodged their way around me but I didn't care, I could stand here for hours, taking in every last little detail. "This is incredible."

"It is." Quincy grinned. "They restored it back to its original design?—"

"Back in the eighties and nineties," I finished for him. I wasn't able to contain my growing smile, even with Jackson's arm so casually wrapped around my shoulders. "It's Frank Lloyd Wright's only work in the downtown area. I've done my research."

Quincy chuckled, nodding to himself. "Well then. How much can I reasonably teach you if you've learned all you need to know?"

"I can definitely learn more," I responded, leaning back into Jack just a hair. His warmth flooded my back as he pulled me in closer, his arm moving to hold me in place against his chest. I could feel his chin against the top of my head, just before he placed a little kiss. "I want you to show me. And talk to me, tell me everything you know. It's nice to actually chat with someone knowledgeable about this stuff."

"Don't you get that with Harry?" Jack mumbled against my head.

"Not to this extent. Harry knows his stuff, but I still know more than he does." I snorted at the admission, but it was true. I'd excelled in university, and Harry… well, he'd passed. "How do you feel about the light fixtures?"

"I like them," Jack said quietly.

"Are they original?" I asked Quincy, my stomach beginning to churn with nerves from being so close to Jack.

"Yeah, they were put in back in 1905. If you wanted something similar, you'd have to get them custom-made."

I nodded as I pulled out my notebook, making a quick note to remind myself of that later. It was already half full of ideas from the other places we'd stopped at so far. "The tile is gorgeous. Is that original?"

Quincy nodded.

"I don't know how well that would work in the central offices, but for the lobby, something with this kind of design but more in your colors, Jack, could look really interesting," I tacked on, jotting down another note.

Jack nodded against my head as he adjusted his arm, knocking into mine on accident. My notebook fell, the pen following after it, echoing through the already noisy lobby as both hit the cold tile.

"Sorry," Jack said, releasing me in an instant. Before I could even bend to pick them up, he was down on one knee on the dirty ground, collecting them for me. I watched him, my breath frozen in my lungs, and he gave me a little smirk as he tucked the pen neatly back into the fold of the pad. He stood too close to my short skirt for my liking. I jumped as I felt something against my ankle, just a single finger trailing up the back of my leg over my stockings, so light I almost didn't notice.

A shiver ran down my spine as he reached my skirt, lifting it just slightly at the back. He only pulled away once he'd reached the swell of my ass, a smug little grin plastered to his face as he looked down at me. "Are you alright, Mandy?"

My cheeks warmed as I felt the blood rush not only to my face but down between my thighs as well. Already, I could feel the smallest pool of heat form beneath the tights. Bad day to not wear fucking underwear, Miranda.

I cleared my throat. "F-fine."

He'd been very touchy-feely today, always holding my hand or resting his somewhere on me, and now this. I wasn't sure if it was just because of the cameras and occasional paparazzi or if it was more to do with what he'd let slip days ago at his campus. I still wasn't sure if I believed it.

"Should we move into the library?" Quincy asked, gesturing with his hand toward the stairwell.

"Yes, please."

————

Jackson's hand rested firmly on my knee as we sat in the Tesla that he'd rented for the day. I was tired, my feet hurt, and all my mind could think about was getting back on the plane and flying home, getting to sleep in my own bed, and…

My stomach growled audibly.

Food. I was starving. I'd spent so much of today engrossed in architecture and interior design that I'd completely forgotten to have lunch, let alone dinner.

Immediately, Jackson turned a corner, cutting across two lanes of traffic and turning off the main road, no longer following the signs to O'Hare International. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are you going? The signs said?—"

"Don't worry about it, princess."

He turned down a side street, and then another, stopping in front of a small building with a plain black exterior and a little sign next to the door that simply said Oriole.

"Come on," he grinned as he pushed the driver"s side door open. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

He opened my door for me before I even had the chance. "Is this place fancy?" I asked, already worried about my casual attire consisting of a black skirt, white button-up blouse and flats, easy clothing to walk and stand in all day. The nicest part of my outfit was the wool jacket that Jack had given me. He had worn black slacks and a black button-up. At least he'd look the part.

"Maybe a little," he grinned, offering me a hand. I took it.

"I'm not exactly dressed for fancy," I mumbled, my face paling as I realized this place wasn't just fancy—it was exclusive.

"You look beautiful." He pushed a stray strand of hair out of my face, tucked it behind my ear, and lit a fucking fire in my veins all at the same time. "You never need to worry about that."

————

The place was exclusive plus.

Jackson sat close to me, his body occasionally rubbing up against mine as we ate course after course of absurdly expensive and delicious food. Crab, tartar, wagyu, foie gras, caviar. He'd bought an entire bottle of wine but only had one glass because he was driving. By the time dessert arrived, I'd downed at least three. It was delicious.

The thing that threw me off wasn't the fancy food, the gorgeous restaurant, or the expensive wine. It was Jack. His attention was focused entirely on me as I babbled on about all the things we'd seen today and the ideas I was coming up with from all of the inspiration. As much as I hated to admit it, his initiative of visiting places instead of just looking at them online had done a lot of good for my mind and my muse. It had genuinely helped the process, and he seemed more keen than ever to hear me talk about it.

"I think we could get someone local to recreate something similar to those light fixtures in the Rookery," I said around a mouthful of creme Brulé. "We could do them in black and white instead of dark brown and cream. I think it would take the lobby of your campus to the next level."

"I would love that," Jack grinned, his plate empty and pushed to the side. He leaned on one elbow, his gaze trained on me. "You know that big mural we saw at the Chase Tower? I was thinking of hiring another local to create something like that in one of the hallways. We could have it be an homage to tech featuring all the important figures that have gotten us where we are today."

I blinked up at him. "That's… yes. Yes, absolutely. We can do that." The idea was genius but I couldn't tell him that. I didn't want his ego to blow up even more. But just knowing that idea had come from his mind was surprising and downright attractive.

Jack's free hand rested on my thigh, too close to the bottom hem of my skirt. "You were like a magnet today, Mandy," he said, that little cocky grin drawing me in. "Listening to you talk about your passions, seeing those walls breaking down…"

"Thanks," I whispered.

"I just…" He took a deep breath, trying to find his words. "It was amazing to see you like that. That's all."

"Thank you." "I wish I could see you like that more often."

I chuckled under my breath as I pushed my hair behind my ears. "Be nicer to me more often, then."

His lips twitched upward as he leaned a little closer, his face just an inch from mine. I could smell the glass of wine he'd had and every delectable note from the food we'd eaten on his breath. "Don't tempt me, Mandy. I'd be a fucking saint to you forever to see that every day."

My breath hitched as my pulse quickened. He couldn't say stuff like that to me. It wasn't fair.

His lips brushed against mine, likely for any journalists observing this moment. I leaned against him as his hand slid along my neck, pressing our lips more firmly together, and God yes this is what I wanted.

He pulled me closer, his lips parting, his tongue coasting across my lower lip. I opened my mouth wider for him , breathing him in, tasting him as my heart pounded against my rib cage. I hated how much he tasted like desire, like passion, like home. It's just his familiarity, that's all, I reminded myself, letting my hand fall to his cheek, his jaw.

His touch turned desperate once again, just like it had in my office. He wanted more. I could tell from the way his fingers caressed my skin, from how intensely he pulled me closer, from the deepening of his kiss. This was raw, passionate, and obviously just a show for any cameras trained on us.

Right? It had to be just for show.

When he finally pulled himself away, he gathered up a small amount of creme Brulé on my fork, holding it out for me. His eyes were dilated, his lips parted and puffy, his breathing just a little too heavy.

Maybe it wasn't all for show. It certainly felt real enough, but I also knew him. I knew how well he could pretend. Was it so bad if I let myself pretend, too?