Dazed
Page 3Chuckles from the guys fill the room as I prop Dahlia’s hand under the flowing water. I suddenly become keenly aware of two bodies shadowing us—River stands behind Dahlia and his cousin next to me. My heart starts beating so fast, I swear it’s pounding in my ears. River takes Dahlia’s hand and I shake the water from mine. As I twist to grab a towel, I can’t help but notice how close the cupcake thief is to me. He’s leaning back against the cabinets with his long, lean body stretched before me. His jeans are slung so low around his narrow h*ps that I wonder how they manage to stay up with no belt.
“Hi,” he says, handing me the towel. “I’m River’s sixteen-year-old cousin.” A slight chuckle echoes from his throat as his Johnny Depp jawline drops. But even with his head down, his eyes stay pinned to mine.
“You’re River’s cousin?” I dumbly ask.
He nods his head. “I’m Jagger. River and Dahlia are letting me crash here.”
“Jagger,” I echo back. Nothing else comes out.
Dahlia turns the water off and I hand the towel to her. River moves towards his cousin. “Jagger, this is Dahlia’s best friend, Aerie, Aerie Daniels, and she’s the girl who’s going to have your ass served on a platter for the mess you made.”
His brows furrow as his eyes cut to his cousin.
“She fell in the Exxon oil spill you left in my driveway,” River coyly says.
Jagger’s head rises and dimples unlike any I’ve ever seen appear on his cheeks.
“Right, I left it there. Just remember we both know I might have been the wayward sailor steering the Exxon Valdez, but you were Captain Hazelwood commanding the vessel.”
With a loud chuckle River says, “Again man, the things you know.” Then he looks at Dahlia. “Come on, baby, let’s get this wrapped up.”
They both leave the room and Dahlia calls over her shoulder, “Jagger, can you stir the sauce one more time so it doesn’t burn?”
“I got it, Dahlia. Don’t worry,” he responds.
His gaze swivels back to me and I suddenly become aware of how disheveled I am. I pat my hair, pull my jacket back on, and straighten the hem of my dress.
“Are you sure you’re all right? I’m sorry about the mess in the driveway,” he asks.
“Yes, really I’m fine. Everyone just needs to stop asking me that. I slipped. No big deal.”
“Okay, Alice, just checking.”
“You know my name is Aerie, not Alice?”
“I know,” he says, amused, as he opens a drawer and pulls another pot holder out before heading back over to the stove.
Wet towels cover the counter and I gather them all in a pile.
“Do you think we should throw those in the washer?” he asks as if reading my mind.
“Ummm . . . yeah,” I answer.
He taps the spoon on the pot and sets it down before putting the cover back on. “Everything okay?”
“Ummm . . . ,” I say again. “I don’t go downstairs.”
Just then Dahlia enters the room with her hand wrapped in gauze. She giggles. “She’s afraid of the staircase. It freaks her out.”
“I’m not afraid of it,” I counter. “I just don’t get why someone would cut a hole in the middle of the room and call it a staircase.”
“It’s more like a batcave, now that you mention it,” Jagger jokes.
“It’s design aesthetics,” River says, entering the room on Dahlia’s heels.
Jagger’s mouth quirks. “That’s up for debate, but I’ll let you have that one. It does fit perfectly with the architecture of the house.”
I feel a little at a loss. I know nothing about this cousin, but he seems to have become close to them. I know I’ve been busy with work, but I begin to wonder if I’m letting work get too much in the way of my friendships.
Jagger strides toward me with an ease only a man full of confidence could possibly carry. He takes the pile of towels under one arm. And with his smile wide again, he extends his other hand. “Come on, I’ll show you the trick. It’s in the descent.”
Without thinking, I take his hand and a shiver runs straight through me. He drops my hand as he hits the staircase and goes first. Once he’s about five stairs down, he turns, as I stand frozen at the top, my bare feet at his waist.
“You like red?”
I’m confused.
“Red dress, red nail polish. Sometimes a red face.”
He’s teasing.
“I guess I do. But my face doesn’t turn red.”
“Okay, if you say so. Now give me your hand,” he says, as if he thinks I’ll just do as he says. And I do. I take a deep breath and stand on my toes. I close my eyes, willing away my fear of heights.
“Hey, look at me.”
Again, his tone is commanding and again I don’t hesitate to do what he says, which is so not like me. But there’s something in the way his voice dips low that urges me to follow.
“Now keep your back straight and step down. Don’t lean forward. That’s the trick.”
I do as he says and before I know it, my hand drops from his grip and I’m clutching the railing. I did it, and without falling.
He grins. “See, nothing to it.”
I smile. “You’re right. Nothing to it.”
The color of his stormy gray eyes seems to intensify. He turns and takes the rest of the stairs, then waits for me at the bottom. “And your face didn’t even turn red this time.”
“My face does not turn red.”“But it does. And you want to know something?” he says, leaning forward like he has a secret to tell.
“I know it turns red when you’re upset, I’m just not sure when else.”
My eyes flicker over his face.
“What?” He smirks. “Don’t be mad. I think it’s cute.”
I roll my eyes. “Go!” I order. “Let’s put these towels in the washing machine and get back upstairs before Dahlia burns the house down.”
***
The Hollywood sign is clearly visible in the star-filled night sky from where we sit. Heat lamps keep us warm and votive candles flicker around us on the top pool deck. Half-drunk glasses of Chianti, a large bowl of leftover spaghetti carbonara, a dish of lime wedges, and crumbs from the basket of garlic bread litter the table.
I grin as I watch Jagger squeeze a lime into his beer. I’d seen him do the same with his glass of water earlier and my curiosity peaks.
“Do you put lime in everything?”
He smirks, lifting one side of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess I do. Anything liquid, anyway. I’m not sure why.”
I shrug. “Maybe just because you like the taste?”
“Maybe. Funny thing is I’m not sure I can taste it. It’s just a habit.”
“That makes sense. I put ground pepper on all my food.”
He raises a brow. “All your food?”
“Well except for sweets.”
He nods and his eyes focus on me.
Needing to escape his scrutiny, I push my plate aside. “Natalie really outdid herself this time. That has to be the best pasta dish I’ve ever had.”
Dahlia turns to me. “Oh, Natalie didn’t cook.”
“You did?” I question.
She laughs. “Aerie, you know me better than that. No matter how hard I try I can’t even make grilled cheese without burning it.”
I laugh. It’s so true. I lift an eyebrow and c**k my head toward River.
He puts his hands up in surrender. “Takeout and the microwave, that’s my idea of cooking. You know that.”
Fingers tap on the table as my head twists. My heart pounds steadily. Wavy hair, a sexy, slender frame, broad shoulders, and those dimples blaring full force, baring a grin that says it all are staring at me.
“You made the spaghetti sauce?”
I blink. “Tell me again where you came from?”
“In my house you either learned to cook or ate PB&J every night.”
During dinner I was brought up to speed on how River’s cousin came to stay at their house. Jagger Kennedy grew up in New York City with his father. His mother, Celeste, and River’s mother, Charlotte, are sisters. Celeste lives in Paris and works for Hermès. I knew the orange laces of his boots looked familiar. Celeste visited Jagger whenever she traveled to the city on business and he visited her, but he was never in France when River and his family visited. Jagger’s father works for Tom Ford and his parents met while his father was in Paris for fashion week many years ago. A short-lived affair led to an unexpected pregnancy and neither his mother nor his father wanted to give up their jobs. Celeste’s career was very demanding and so she was okay with allowing Jagger’s father to raise him in the states. He seems to not harbor any animosity about the situation.
River and Dahlia met Jagger when they were on their honeymoon in Paris and he was visiting his mother. What brought him to LA we haven’t gotten to yet. But I have learned he is fluent in French, and since I took four years of it in high school, we conversed a little in the language of love. Well, to be honest, very little—my French is really rusty.
Dahlia stands up. “I’m going to make some coffee, and Aerie I bought a new flavor of tea for you.”
I smile and then look at her hand mitted in thick white bandages. “Let me do it.”
River rises. “No, let me. This could be fun. I see a lot of trading in our future,” he says grinning at his wife.
When she steps into him, she’s almost as tall as he is. She wraps her arm around his neck and whispers into his ear. The grin that slides across his face does not leave me wondering what was said. When she drops her hold, her voice takes on a seductive tone. “Come on, lover boy.”
He nips at her lip and I swear he growls as he circles around her. “Your wish is my command.”
Jagger lazily stretches back in his chair, throwing his arms behind his head in a way that places his long, lean body even more on display. He doesn’t comment on the abundance of cuteness shown by those two, so he must be immune to it, just like me.
The dishes are scattered around the table in front of us and I start to gather them. His hand reaches for mine and a slight laugh escapes his mouth. “Sit down. Let’s have dessert and then we’ll clean up. Do you think you can do that?”
I stare openmouthed at him. Then, raising a brow, I answer, “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good,” he says.
“So you’re a chef?”
He laughs. “No. I can cook maybe three dishes well. All compliments of watching my grandmother in her kitchen.”
“So what do you do?”
He brings his arms to the table and leans his elbows on it. “I’ve been modeling.”
My mouth falls open again. So I wasn’t wrong. Because he’s gorgeous, and of course a man with looks and a stance like his is a model. I can just tell he has to have a natural ease in front of the camera.
“Have you always modeled? Since both of your parents worked in fashion?”
“Fuck, no. I stayed as far away from their world as I could when I was growing up.”
“So how did you become a model?”
He slides his chair closer to mine and my pulse starts throbbing again. “The opportunity just kind of fell into my lap. I went to the New York School of Film thinking someday I’d move to California and work for a movie studio. Then after I graduated college I was waiting tables in the city trying to figure out what I should do—stay in New York or move to LA—when a woman I was serving asked me if I had ever thought about being a model. I laughed. But she was serious and asked if she could snap a few pictures of me. I figured what the hell. Why not? She left me her card. I glanced at it and tossed it away—I didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again.”