Chapter 2

J azz must have been a bad girl in a past life. There was no other reason the universe would punish her with an almost two-hour phone call with her mom on a Sunday night. Every time she tried to lead the conversation toward goodbye , her mom suddenly remembered some other family friend Jazz didn't care about that she had to update her on. They'd been on the phone so long that Instagram had run out of posts to show her and she'd been forced to move her scrolling to Facebook. She supposed that's what she got for avoiding the past three monthly Cannon family dinners.

"Are you even listening to me, Jazz?"

Shit . She took the phone off loudspeaker and held the phone up to her ear. "Sorry. It's been a long week. What was that?"

Her mom sighed, as if Jazz's shitty attention span was the world's biggest inconvenience for her. "I said I ran into Denise Hamilton at brunch this morning. Do you remember her? "

"Vaguely."

"Her son is engaged now. And her oldest daughter has a newborn."

Jazz rolled her eyes. She knew where this was going. "That's nice for them."

"It is nice. Denise has a wedding to plan and grandchildren. And not one of my three children is even in a long-term relationship."

It was the same conversation every time one of her mom's friends' kids settled down. "Take it up with Xan. He's the oldest."

Her mom tutted. "You know he's so busy working for your dad and getting ready to take over the company when he retires. And Rose has med school. They're focusing on their careers."

"I'm not allowed to focus on my career?"

"Maggie's husband offers a good maternity policy."

He did, but that didn't mean Jazz was planning to take him up on it anytime soon. "How do you know that?"

"There was an article about him on Facebook. Maggie settled down and got married. Why can't you find yourself a nice rich man like she has?"

Jesus. "I don't think Maggie would appreciate the implication that she married Cal because he's rich," she pointed out, dodging the question.

Her mom ignored her completely. "I'd appreciate grandchildren before I'm too old to show them off, that's all I'm saying. And you're thirty now, Jazz. You don't have forever."

"As fun as this was, I have to go if I'm going to make it out in time to meet my friends." Jazz said goodbye and hung up before her mom dragged the conversation on even longer.

By meeting her friends , she meant flicking through movies, trying to find something new to watch before getting bored and turning on reruns of her favorite TV shows for the five hundredth time just so she wasn't sitting in silence. She knew if she called Maggie, she'd invite her over in a heartbeat, but Jazz had third-wheeled Maggie and Cal last weekend and the weekend before that.

Jazz had other friends—ex-colleagues, old college friends—but most of them were married with kids and Jazz never had anything to add to the conversation when they went out. Those friendships were fizzling out, which was fine by her. Her life was how she liked it. Sure, she wanted a partner and babies someday, but she was only thirty, for fuck's sake. She was perfectly happy as she was.

And it didn't matter what she did, her parents would still ask for more. Her brother and sister excelled in everything they did, constantly trying to outdo themselves. But unlike her siblings, Jazz was no longer competing.

Alexander and Lilia Cannon had exactly zero interest in who their children were as people, just what they achieved. In their eyes, Jazz had achieved nothing in her thirty years. Her college degree didn't count—that was the bare minimum expected of the Cannon children. Her parents did approve of her job, at least. Michaelson and Hicks was the best business law firm in the region, and that was something they could brag to their friends about. Jazz was sure they never specified her role within the firm, but it was something. And she didn't care what her parents, or their friends, thought of how she lived her life.

She settled on a crime show she hadn't re-watched in a few weeks. Now to find something to do while she watched… Jazz was well prepared for weekends in the house: her apartment was her own personal activity center, with piles upon piles of stuff she'd picked up to try and never gotten around to.

Paper bags crinkled as she rummaged through them, picking out the first thing she found: a rock painting kit. Okay, maybe not that. Jazz dug a little further, her fingers closing around another box, and smiled when she withdrew a cat embroidery kit. It was perfect. The cat looked exactly like Maggie and Cal's cat, Peach, and Cal's birthday was in a couple of months. She could definitely finish it on time.

She tipped out the box onto the couch and only just managed to stop the tiny packet of needles from slipping between the cushions. There were instructions, but where was the fun in that? And how hard could it be anyway? Jazz clamped the fabric in the hoop, struggling with the bolt to tighten it, before realizing she'd put it in upside down. She righted it and grabbed a needle, threading it with dark brown embroidery floss and kicking her feet up on the couch.

With her tongue between her teeth, she made the first stitch around the cat's right ear. It was uneven, but it was only the first stitch. She continued, cursing when she pricked her finger on the needle. A tiny bead of blood formed on the end of her finger, staining the cat's pink nose. "Shit."

She dropped the hoop and headed to the kitchen, running her finger under the faucet. This wasn't her first embroidery rodeo, and she'd forgotten how bad she was with needles. She rummaged around below her sink for a band-aid, before suddenly remembering that she'd stashed her first aid kit in her pantry for safekeeping after the last time she'd burned herself on her toaster.

Her kitchen wasn't tiny, but the sheer amount of clutter she'd brought with her—and everything she'd added since—made it hard to navigate. She found the first aid kit and slapped a band-aid on her finger before knocking a bag of butterscotch candies to the floor. Where had they come from? She scrambled to pick them up, remembering the craving for butterscotch cupcakes she'd had a few weeks ago.

"No time like the present," Jazz said to herself, grabbing flour and sugar from the shelves. It had been a while since Jazz baked anything, and she liked playing around in the kitchen, so she grabbed one of the recipe books from the pile on the floor by the air fryer she'd bought six months ago and hadn't taken out of the box yet. She'd get to it. The page with her favorite cupcake recipe was sticky, and a portion of the ingredients list ripped away as she peeled the pages apart. It wasn't like the measurements had to be exact—she'd figure it out.

Something resembling a batter eventually came together, and she scooped it into a tray filled with mismatched cupcake liners. Batter splattered across the tray, but it was easier just to pick those pieces off when they were baked—and they always tasted the best.

She shoved the baking tray in the oven and turned it on, remembering too late that she was supposed to pre-heat the damn thing. The part of the recipe that told her how long to bake them for was covered in some kind of chocolate, so she set a timer for twenty minutes and hoped for the best. The dining chair wobbled as she dropped into it, the crochet chair cover scratchy on her thighs. Another project she hadn't finished; she'd made two and a half chair covers, and then accidentally spilled pasta sauce on one.

It was the polar opposite of the home she'd grown up in. Her parents never visited her in Seattle and it was just as well, because her mom would freak out at how messy and chaotic everything was. She'd hated how much stuff Jazz had accrued over the years growing up, hated how cluttered her spaces were. But Jazz had always felt at home in chaos.

" W hat the hell did you click?" Jazz sighed, dropping into Cal's desk chair and flinching at the blaring alert sounding from his computer. The screen was covered in flashing windows, promising Cal he'd won a car, a new phone, an all expenses trip to Belize .

"A link in an email from my bank," Cal replied with a sigh. "Though I realize now it probably wasn't actually my bank."

"Probably not."

"I'm a fucking idiot," Cal groaned, rubbing his forehead. Stress always seemed to make Cal's Irish accent a little thicker, and Jazz couldn't always grasp what he was saying, but even she understood that.

"No comment," Jazz replied as she tried in vain to close the windows.

Whatever malware had been attached to the link had already sunk its claws into Cal's computer. She sighed and crawled under the desk, pulling out the plug. "I'll call tech, but I think we should leave it off until then."

"Christ. Thanks for checking. Any chance you're not going to tell Maggie about this?"

"Zero chance."

"Wonderful."

Jazz laughed, offering his chair back to him and grabbing her phone from the desk. "You could download a virus on every one of her devices and she'd still think you're the best person in the whole world. Other than me, obviously," she amended, and Cal flushed, his eyes lighting up.

"Maybe since I don't have a computer, I should just call it a day and go see her," Cal mused and Jazz shook her head. Maggie really had hit the partner jackpot.

"You might not have a computer, but you do still have a day of meetings. Including one in five minutes. Sierra is waiting for you," Jazz pointed out. Sierra was Jazz's assistant, and much better at taking meeting notes than Jazz was. She got less distracted by… everything.

Cal's face fell, and Jazz sighed. "You're scheduled to read through case notes for next week after lunch. Take them with you and go see Maggie."

"That works. Thanks."

"Anytime. Actually, no—don't click any more links. But other than that."

They both turned as a knock sounded and Liam peeked his head around the door. "Hey," he said, stepping into the room with a blinding smile that was a carbon copy of his dad's, dimples and all. Liam mostly took after his mom, with wavy dark hair, olive-toned skin and thick black lashes, but he had his dad's bright green eyes and charm. Though he hadn't inherited Cal's Irish accent, Liam Michaelson was just as devastating. And then, of course, there was the mustache. That fucking mustache she hadn't been able to get out of her head since the very first time she'd seen it. It was worse now that she knew how soft it was.

Jazz forced herself not to think about that night. She'd become very good at pretending it never happened.

"Everything okay? Sierra said something happened to your computer," Liam asked his dad and Cal muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like fucking computers .

"He opened a link in an email from the bank ," Jazz explained, raising her eyebrows. Liam laughed, the rich sound washing over her like an autumn breeze.

"Of course he did. "

"Moving on," Cal said with a pointed look. "What brings you here?"

"I was hoping to speak to Jazz, actually. If you have time," Liam replied.

Surprise fluttered in Jazz's belly. What could he want with her that involved him coming by in person? "Sure."

"I have to head down to a meeting," Cal said, and they said their goodbyes, Jazz, and Liam following him into the lobby and watching as he stepped into the elevator and the doors slid closed.

"How are you doing?" Liam leaned in the doorway, almost too casually. Tension lined his shoulders and jaw.

"I'm good. Are you okay?" Jazz sank onto the plush couch in Cal's lobby.

"I'm fine," he said quickly and Jazz stared him down until he took a seat beside her. "I'm going to be working for Maggie starting next week. Did she tell you?"

"She mentioned she was going to ask you. You're perfect for the job, and her spreadsheets don't scare you."

"They scare me a little, but I can handle it," Liam snorted. "Speaking of Maggie?—"

"What a natural segue. What's up? Is something wrong with Maggie?"

"Shit, no." Liam winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Maggie said something when I saw her on Saturday that made me think you hadn't told her. About us. At the wedding."

His cheeks blazed more and more red as he spoke, and knots twisted in Jazz's stomach at the reminder of their night. "I meant to—you know I tell her everything— but I…" Jazz trailed off. She didn't have a good reason not to have told her best friend. Every other hook up had been a topic of conversation and, while Maggie probably wouldn't have thanked her for details of a night with her husband's son, Jazz didn't think she'd judge her too harshly.

She could make excuses for not saying anything: Maggie and Cal had left for their honeymoon the next day and she'd forgotten. But that would have been a lie. She hadn't forgotten; there was just something about that night that made her want to keep it to herself. She was used to exaggerating when it came to talking about sex. If Maggie asked how it was, Jazz wouldn't be lying if she said she'd enjoyed herself, but she still hadn't fucking come. And she wasn't sure she could hide that disappointment from Maggie.

"I just never got around to it," she finished lamely. "Why?"

Liam toyed with the edge of his mustache. Why was that so hot ? "She suggested something that I don't think she would have suggested if she'd known."

"Go on."

Liam cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. "You know my ex girlfriend and best friend are getting married?" She nodded. "They invited me to the wedding."

Jazz sucked in a breath. "You're kidding me. Cunts. Sorry," she offered at the last second, not that she expected her language would faze Liam.

"No need to be sorry. You're not wrong. Anyway, I got the invitation on Saturday and Maggie thinks I should go but?—"

"You have to. They had the fucking audacity to break your heart and then rub it in your face. The least you can do is make them uncomfortable on their wedding day and show them what they're missing."

"That's what Maggie said. But she also suggested I take a fake date to, I quote, show off ." He hesitated. "She suggested I ask you."

Jazz sat back in her chair, surprised and impressed with Maggie's scheming. She loved her best friend, but she was more of a strongly worded letter person than an in-person revenge scheme kind of girl. In fact, Maggie had refused to let Jazz do anything to her ex-boyfriend. That hadn't stopped her from putting his number on a marketplace ad offering a free computer. Twice. But what Maggie didn't know, she couldn't be mad about.

"And you think she wouldn't have suggested that if she knew we'd slept together at the last wedding we attended," she surmised, and Liam nodded. "I'm not sure she'd care, but I'll tell her if that makes you more comfortable."

"I don't exactly love the idea of my dad's wife hearing about the ins and outs of my sex life, but I feel guilty asking you to do this when she doesn't know what happened last time. Not that it would happen this time, obviously," he added quickly.

Obviously. "I'll tell her this week, I promise."

"Thanks. I…" Liam's voice was soft, hesitant. "And, uh, are we okay? We never really talked about things af ter the wedding and I don't want to make things weird by asking?—"

"We're good," she interrupted. It had been her choice not to talk about it. Liam had tried to check in on her the morning after, but she'd just thrown his sweatshirt on over her bridesmaid dress, kissed him on the cheek, and told him she'd see him at breakfast before heading to her own room. It was easier not to talk about it. It was impossible not to think about it.

Liam was the closest she'd come to, well, coming in a decade and, as drunk as she was, the memory of how good it felt was crystal clear. She couldn't help but wonder what if . What if they hadn't been so drunk? What if she'd been more drunk, so she could get out of her head? What if she'd just told him instead of faking it? That was the one that plagued her most. She knew he would have taken a step back and done everything he could to get her there.

But she'd never told anyone about her inability to finish, not even Maggie. Bringing it up mid-sex for the first time probably wasn't ideal, even with Liam.

"Jasmine?"

She started at Liam's voice, her cheeks flushing as she realized she'd zoned out again.

"Sorry. We're good, I swear. I get why you want me to talk to Maggie, and I will, but I'm happy to come to the wedding with you. I can't promise to be civil, though," she replied with a wry smile and Liam chuckled.

"I'd never expect you to. Thank you, seriously. I owe you. "

They both stood and Jazz spied a purple smudge on Liam's Mucha t-shirt. She reached for him. "You have some—" she paused as her finger brushed the sticky purple spot. "This is frosting."

Liam looked down, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Yeah. Sierra gave me one of your cupcakes downstairs. It was delicious," he offered, with a smile sweeter than the pound of powdered sugar she'd dumped in the rainbow frosting the night before.

And Jazz would be damned if it didn't make her stomach flutter.