So Far Away (California Dreamers #2) Read online

  It would take buying a grocery store’s worth of extra food every week and selling it to afford a vehicle like that.

  When I try to open the front door it’s locked. I guess whoever owns the car out front also decided it was a good idea to lock the front door. Luckily I have a key.

  As I enter the foyer I hear noises in the kitchen. Someone is definitely in there making something.

  Maybe it really is Earl. She’s definitely someone I want to meet so I head towards the kitchen.

  As I round the corner I slam right into a guy walking in the opposite direction carrying a ham sandwich.

  He’s young, black, and very attractive.

  My first instinct is to panic because I have no idea who he is or what he’s doing here, but he looks just as shocked to see me as I am to see him.

  And if he didn’t belong here what would he be doing casually strolling around eating a ham sandwich?

  “You’re not Earl,” I observe. My face heats with embarrassment because he’s obviously not Earl, but that’s what popped out of my mouth.

  “What was your first clue? I’m not old. I’m not short. I’m not round. I’m not a woman. And I’m not white. I’m definitely not Earl.”

  His dark eyes are like lasers as he stares into mine. A wave of chills ripples right through me.

  “Who are you then?” I somehow manage to squeak out.

  “Who are you?” he fires back.

  “I’m Jackson’s assistant.”

  “I’m Jackson’s son.”

  His response hits me like a concrete block to the head. “Jackson doesn’t have a son.”

  “Do you want to see my birth certificate?”

  I’m completely confused. “Jackson and his wife never had children.”

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He just stares at me.

  After a long moment the realization hits me. Jackson must have had an affair at some point that resulted in a pregnancy.

  With all of the research I did on Jackson before I started this job how did I not know about his son? He’s not mentioned in any of Jackson’s online biographies, or in any of the articles that have been written about him.

  How was it possible to keep him a secret?

  After he takes the last bite of his ham sandwich, Jackson’s son crosses his arms over his chest and looks me up and down.

  The guy is a little taller than I am, and muscular, but not brawny. Maybe he plays sports to stay fit, but he doesn’t look like a gym rat.

  He’s wearing dark jeans and a purple pullover sweater that accentuates his bronze skin tone.

  “Let me guess. You’ve been here three days.”

  “One,” I correct.

  “I bet you won’t last a week.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and glare right back at him. “You’re wrong.”

  He slowly shakes his head. “My pop changes assistants faster than most people change their underwear.”

  “I’m not like most people.”

  He laughs. “And what makes you different. You look like every other girl who has come down from LA to work for my father. It’s like there’s a factory somewhere that keeps spitting out blond-haired, blue-eyed clones. You’re just one in a long line of assistants who thought she was special.”

  If blood really could boil with anger mine would be bubbling hot right now.

  “You don’t even know me,” I spit between clenched teeth.

  He actually has the audacity to roll his eyes at me and that makes me ever madder. “Let me guess. You’re a model-slash-actress trying to make it in the business and you’re just waiting for that one big break. You think working for my pop, because he’s got a lot of connections in the entertainment industry, is somehow going to help you.”

  “No,” I fire back.

  He’s taken aback by my abruptness, and maybe by my claim that he’s completely misjudged me. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who likes to be told that he’s wrong.

  “No?” He actually sounds indignant. “To which part?”

  “All of it. I’m not a model or an actress. I have two Master’s degrees from Yale, thank you very much. I’m not here hoping for some big break. I’m working here because I need a job. It’s as simple as that. I can assure you I have no ulterior motives. I just needed a pay check.”

  He runs his tongue along his top teeth the same way Jackson does.

  “Why two Master’s degrees?”

  I’m surprised by the question. People’s eyes generally glaze over when I mention my graduate degrees. It rarely becomes a topic of conversation.

  “I like school,” I admit. “I enjoy learning and studying.”

  “That’s cool, but what I mean is why did you earn two Master’s degrees? Why not go for a doctorate?”

  I shrug. It’s a good question. “Honestly, I missed California. The dissertation just seemed like such a huge commitment and I didn’t want to spend any more winters in the North East. I was ready to come home.”

  He nods. “The dissertation is a massive commitment. I’m finishing mine up right now.”

  My eyes go wide. Outside of academia I rarely meet anyone who has a Master’s degree, let alone a doctorate. “What are you studying?”

  “Physics at Stanford.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive.”

  “Yale is pretty impressive too,” he admits. Then he actually gives me a warm smile. “Not quite as impressive as Stanford though.”

  “On what planet?” I tease.

  When our eyes meet there’s a bit of a spark between us. I have to admit that it takes me by surprise. All of the guys I’ve dated were frat boys or jocks, not physics geeks.

  Not that I’d ever consider doing anything with my boss’s son. Jackson was pretty clear about his rules. Hanky-panky is a no-no. I would think that rule applies to his son as well.

  “So should I just call you Yale, or do you have a name?” he asks.

  “Maddie,” I tell him.

  “Short for?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “No one ever calls me by my full name,” I tell him. “Ever. Not even my mother.”

  When he bites his bottom lip I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Then I wonder where the hell that idea came from.

  “Now I need to know what your full name is,” he says.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, hoping to distract him.

  “Emerson,” he says.

  “Like Ralph Waldo?”

  He nods. “My parents are both writers. What do you expect?”

  His mom is a writer. I can’t help but wonder what that story is. Did Jackson’s wife know about the affair and about the resulting child? How could she not know? I wonder how she felt about it.

  “Madison?” He guesses, bringing me back to reality.

  I shake my head. “Nope. Not Madison.”

  He rubs a finger on his chin for several seconds. He’s giving my name way too much thought.

  “Madeline,” I say finally.

  “Like the children’s books. The girl with the hat.”

  “Just like that. But my mom’s not a writer. I’m not even sure she ever read the books. She’s a serial wife.”

  He frowns. “What does that mean?”

  I’m not even sure why I’m telling him this. It’s not normally something I lead with. “She keeps marrying up the food chain. She marries a guy for a few years then divorces him for a richer model.”

  My confession seems to have rendered him speechless.

  “The apple fell very far from the tree,” I tell him. “Honestly I’m not sure I’ll ever get married.”

  “My pop was married to the same woman for over thirty years,” he says. “Just not to my mother.”

  “I know it’s none of my business…”

  Before I even have a chance to satisfy any of my curiosity about his origins Jackson shuffles up to us.

  He must have taken a shower because his hair is still a little wet, but at least now it’s comb
ed. He’s also wearing a fresh shirt and pants.

  “Spring break already?” he asks as he gives Emerson a hug.

  “I left you a message, Pop. Did you get it?”

  Jackson waves the question away. “You know I don’t use those things.”

  Emerson eyes him. “You’re still not using your cellphone?”

  He points to me. “My new assistant will get to it. She’s going to be handling all of my correspondence.”

  “How are people supposed to get in touch with you?” I can hear the frustration in his voice.

  Shaking his head he replies, “They don’t have to. You’re here now. We can talk. That’s all that matters. Who else is there who needs to reach me?”

  Emerson takes in a deep breath and looks like he might say something else, but presses his lips together instead.

  “Have you eaten yet?” Jackson asks.

  “I grabbed a quick sandwich.”

  “You need more than that, Son.” He puts his hand on Emerson’s shoulder. “Let’s see what else Earl left us to heat up.”

  When Emerson gives me a quick glance the exchange of energy between us is more powerful than I expect. It actually takes my breath away.

  I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t want Jackson to think there is anything going on between us.

  Not that anything was going on between us.

  Or ever would.

  Even if I wanted it to.

  Which I don’t…

  Do I?

  I’m usually a very decisive and driven person, but right now I feel extremely confused. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this confused.

  Maybe it’s because no guy has ever made me feel the way Emerson is making me feel.

  It’s overwhelming and frightening, but also a little bit exciting.

  My rational mind knows I need to rein in whatever I’m feeling because nothing can happen between us.

  I need this job, more than I need a relationship, which I don’t need at all.

  And I’m not sure Emerson is even interested in me anyway.

  Jackson looks back and forth between the two of us. “Just so we’re clear,” he says. “When I said no hanky-panky that rule applies to my son as well.”

  I can feel my face heat and I’m sure I’m turning red with embarrassment. Are my thoughts that transparent?

  “Of course,” I somehow manage to utter.

  I’m not sure I should look at Emerson again. I don’t want to get myself in trouble.

  Until he says, “Pop, you know I’m not a fan of vanilla.”

  Now I’m glaring at him, but he won’t meet my gaze. Did he just call me vanilla? Is it because I’m white, or does he think I’m plain and unexciting? He did imply that I was a cookie-cutter California blond when we first met. Maybe he still feels that way.

  Whatever he meant by the remark I know it definitely wasn’t a compliment. I guess there really won’t be any issue with me breaking Jackson’s rule.

  I’m apparently too vanilla to be attractive to Emerson.

  “I’d better get back to the office.” I hold up my small bag of supplies.

  As the two men head for the kitchen Emerson doesn’t even glance back at me.

  Of course I am just the help. And I’m vanilla too.

  I march back to the office and close the door so I won’t be disturbed.

  Vanilla? Seriously? The word is haunting me, taunting me, and making me rhyme.

  I just want to punch it.

  Maybe I’m so upset because the people I meet don’t generally insult me like that. Usually when people meet me they immediately like me.

  Especially guys.

  It’s for the best, I suppose. I’m here to work, not fool around.

  But it still stings.

  I roll up my sleeves and organize as much as I can without having the file cabinets.

  In the bottom drawer of the desk, shoved way in the back, I’m surprised to find an old framed photo.

  It’s a young Jackson sitting on a lovely white sand beach with his arm around an extremely attractive black woman.

  Could that be Emerson’s mom?

  Jackson is smiling, and he looks so happy he’s glowing. The woman looks happy too.

  When I was doing research on Jackson prior to starting this job I viewed a lot of photos of him online. There were hundreds of them taken of Jackson and his wife before she died and he became a recluse. In all of those photos I don’t recall him ever looking as happy as he does in the photo I’m holding in my hands.

  I place it back in the bottom drawer where I found it just as the door to the office opens.

  “Wow,” Jackson remarks. “This place looks amazing.”

  “I’m not done yet,” I tell him. “The file cabinets are being delivered tomorrow. Then I’ll really be able to get the place organized.”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges. “I’m very impressed. And I’m not that easy to impress.”

  We both stare at each other for a long moment.

  “I wanted to ask you a question.”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  “How would you feel about me using the pool?”

  It’s literally right outside the door of the guesthouse and I’d really love to take a dip. I just hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds by asking him if I can use it.

  He waves away my concern like a gnat. “I should have mentioned that. Help yourself. I don’t use it, so somebody might as well enjoy it.”

  “You don’t swim?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. Why would someone buy a house with a gorgeous pool if he doesn’t swim?

  He laughs. “Try buying a house with an oceanfront view without a pool. They don’t exist. My wife had to live by the ocean, so we got a pool with the view.”

  I nod. “I love to swim. I was born and raised in California, so I guess it comes with the territory.”

  “Use it all you want,” he tells me.

  We both look out the window at the same time.

  “You’d better get down there if you want to catch the last of the daylight.” He glances at his watch. “It’s already past six o’clock. Earl usually works from nine to six, when she’s here. I know she told me when she was coming back, but I can’t remember what she said. I forgot it was Spring break. Maybe she’s spending the break with her granddaughter.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “For everything.”

  “I should be the one thanking you. You’ve already done more than my last three assistants combined.”

  Once he disappears down the hallway I hurry out of the office and down the hallway in the opposite direction.

  I look around to make sure Knox is nowhere in sight before I open the back slider and slip outside.

  I practically run back to the guesthouse and quickly change out of my clothes and into my bikini.

  It gets chilly as the sun goes down so I throw on an oversized sweatshirt over my swimsuit then slip on some flip flops.

  I grab a large towel and head out to the pool.

  Shit. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Emerson in swim trunks and a t-shirt heading from the main house right for the pool.

  I think about turning right back around before he notices me, but I’m not quick enough. He waves in my direction.

  Now what?

  I was hoping to relax and have some time to myself.

  His words start to echo in my head again: You know I’m not a fan of vanilla.

  “You don’t look so thrilled to see me,” he observes.

  I realize I’m scowling. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “I swim every night. It’s great exercise.”

  “Maybe I should go.” As I turn to leave he puts his hand on my arm. My entire body heats with his touch.

  I pull away from him. “I didn’t think you were a fan of vanilla.”

  His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out.

  “I’m not vanilla,” I spit.

  �
��I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Even though he sounds sincere I’m still angry at him.

  “But you still think I’m vanilla, whatever that means.”

  He rubs his chin. “You’re not the type of girl I’m usually attracted to.”

  “And why is that?” I challenge.

  He gulps. “I usually go for girls with more style and soul.”

  My eyebrows lift so high I can feel them practically reach my hairline. “You think I lack style and soul? Seriously?”

  He nods.

  “Like you’re the type of guy I’m attracted to,” I fire back.

  “Let me guess. Every guy you’ve ever dated was a blond with a surf board.”

  “Not true,” I shoot right back.

  “I’m not buying it.”

  “I dated guys at Yale who didn’t surf.” Admittedly I’ve never dated anyone who wasn’t blond, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “So we’re not each other’s type,” he throws back at me.

  “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

  When our eyes meet every part of my body gets shivery. Why is that happening if we’re not each other’s type?

  I decide to ignore him and go about my business. Jackson said I could use his pool and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  I remove my sweatshirt and toss it on to the lounge chair next to me.

  Emerson’s jaw drops when he sees me in my bikini. Not his type my ass. He’s practically drooling.

  I ignore him and dive into the pool.

  He practically rips his t-shirt off, tosses it onto the lounge chair with my sweatshirt and jumps into the pool right next to me.

  Luckily the pool is heated so it’s not the least bit chilly. Although the heat that is being generated between us right now may be enough to melt ice.

  Emerson can’t seem to take his eyes off of me.

  “You don’t think my swimsuit lacks style?” I tease.

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m not soulless,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t reply. He just continues looking into my eyes. Is he trying to see if I really do have a soul somewhere deep inside of me? That’s what it feels like.

  “What kind of music do you like?” I ask him. I always thought you could tell a lot about people by the music they listen to.

  “I’m kind of old school. I listen to jazz mostly.”