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Authors: Rachel Hauck
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bothering with the hallway light when he got to the top.
Jimmy didn’t care whose fault it was. And while he didn’t have any experience with baby-making, he was pretty sure it took two to tango. It wasn’t right what Vera did, leaving, crushing Dad, and abandoning Jimmy.
But Dad blamed himself. The burden of guilt left him with enough heart to work and come home. Not much else. He was an old man at thirty-five.
Well, Jimmy wasn’t going to be an old man at sixteen. He flew out the kitchen door and jogged toward Clem’s. Tonight was his night. He was going to celebrate by talking to Colette. Because he’d be hanged if he’d choose a life like Dad’s.
Waiting on a woman who weren’t never coming home.
Chapter Seven
JACK
T he apartment was silent and dark when Jack entered, not bothering to be quiet. Out of habit, and with skilled movements, he tossed his keys onto the table by the front door. They landed with a clatter against the old, scuffed wood.
Taylor had rescued the thing from a junk heap on the side of a street with the intention of “reclaiming it.” She said it had character and once she restored it, the table would be a hallmark of their apartment.
However, it remained battered and scuffed. Not even the afternoon sun could get a shine from the thirsty wood.
Jack dropped down to the club chair facing the fireplace, the muted glow of the city his only light.
He felt sick. No, ill. Morbidly ill. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his tie away from his neck and dropped it to the floor beside him. He shrugged out of his jacket, wadded it up, and tossed it against the white brick fireplace.
Was he really so naive? How did he not see this coming? He never even suspected. Never. How could she?
He shoved up out of the chair and paced to the balcony door. Pushing it open, he stepped onto the wide, tiled space. The mellow midnight air breathed a swallow of life back into his cold bones and stony emotions.
Betrayed . He hated it. There was nothing worse. Nothing. This particular betrayal cut to the core.
Jack slapped his palm down on the flat, cold metal railing. The small noise barely made a ripple against the sounds of the streets. From the river, a tugboat horn moaned. And the melody of lights bursting toward Brooklyn from the Manhattan skyline layered long, wavy sabers on the water’s surface.
Raising his hand, Jack grabbed at the city—the buildings, the lights, the bridge, the teeming streets, the promise of success. It was supposed to be just that easy. Reach out, take what you want, and hang on.
But no, he was Jack Forester. How could he forget? Life refused to let him all the way in. Everything he wanted got ripped away. Ripped. Away. Eventually. No exaggeration. He could write a freaking book about it.
On top of losing a longtime 105 account today, Hops still pressured him about London.
“What are you doing out here?” Taylor’s voice broke in, a soft chisel against the rock of his thoughts.
He glanced around as she stepped through the door onto the balcony, the hem of her nightshirt barely brushing the top of her legs. Man, she looked good with her hair mussed up and twisting over her shoulders, the ghostly streetlights touching her profile.
“It’s late. You should be asleep.”
“It’s not late.” She came alongside him, propping her arms on the railing, leaning into the air. “It’s early. One a.m. early. Where have you been?”
“Working.”
He’d been bothered and jammed up that afternoon he ran into her on his way back to his ad agency after arguing with a client. The cold, along with the salting of January flurries, only aided and abetted his irritation.
“Hey, watch out.” He tried to sidestep the human barricade coming around the corner of 67th, but she moved in the same direction.
“Sorry . . . I wasn’t looking . . . Jack? Jack Gillingham?”
When he glanced into her royal blues, the ragged edge of his tension eased. “Taylor Branson?” He hugged her
Jimmy didn’t care whose fault it was. And while he didn’t have any experience with baby-making, he was pretty sure it took two to tango. It wasn’t right what Vera did, leaving, crushing Dad, and abandoning Jimmy.
But Dad blamed himself. The burden of guilt left him with enough heart to work and come home. Not much else. He was an old man at thirty-five.
Well, Jimmy wasn’t going to be an old man at sixteen. He flew out the kitchen door and jogged toward Clem’s. Tonight was his night. He was going to celebrate by talking to Colette. Because he’d be hanged if he’d choose a life like Dad’s.
Waiting on a woman who weren’t never coming home.
Chapter Seven
JACK
T he apartment was silent and dark when Jack entered, not bothering to be quiet. Out of habit, and with skilled movements, he tossed his keys onto the table by the front door. They landed with a clatter against the old, scuffed wood.
Taylor had rescued the thing from a junk heap on the side of a street with the intention of “reclaiming it.” She said it had character and once she restored it, the table would be a hallmark of their apartment.
However, it remained battered and scuffed. Not even the afternoon sun could get a shine from the thirsty wood.
Jack dropped down to the club chair facing the fireplace, the muted glow of the city his only light.
He felt sick. No, ill. Morbidly ill. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his tie away from his neck and dropped it to the floor beside him. He shrugged out of his jacket, wadded it up, and tossed it against the white brick fireplace.
Was he really so naive? How did he not see this coming? He never even suspected. Never. How could she?
He shoved up out of the chair and paced to the balcony door. Pushing it open, he stepped onto the wide, tiled space. The mellow midnight air breathed a swallow of life back into his cold bones and stony emotions.
Betrayed . He hated it. There was nothing worse. Nothing. This particular betrayal cut to the core.
Jack slapped his palm down on the flat, cold metal railing. The small noise barely made a ripple against the sounds of the streets. From the river, a tugboat horn moaned. And the melody of lights bursting toward Brooklyn from the Manhattan skyline layered long, wavy sabers on the water’s surface.
Raising his hand, Jack grabbed at the city—the buildings, the lights, the bridge, the teeming streets, the promise of success. It was supposed to be just that easy. Reach out, take what you want, and hang on.
But no, he was Jack Forester. How could he forget? Life refused to let him all the way in. Everything he wanted got ripped away. Ripped. Away. Eventually. No exaggeration. He could write a freaking book about it.
On top of losing a longtime 105 account today, Hops still pressured him about London.
“What are you doing out here?” Taylor’s voice broke in, a soft chisel against the rock of his thoughts.
He glanced around as she stepped through the door onto the balcony, the hem of her nightshirt barely brushing the top of her legs. Man, she looked good with her hair mussed up and twisting over her shoulders, the ghostly streetlights touching her profile.
“It’s late. You should be asleep.”
“It’s not late.” She came alongside him, propping her arms on the railing, leaning into the air. “It’s early. One a.m. early. Where have you been?”
“Working.”
He’d been bothered and jammed up that afternoon he ran into her on his way back to his ad agency after arguing with a client. The cold, along with the salting of January flurries, only aided and abetted his irritation.
“Hey, watch out.” He tried to sidestep the human barricade coming around the corner of 67th, but she moved in the same direction.
“Sorry . . . I wasn’t looking . . . Jack? Jack Gillingham?”
When he glanced into her royal blues, the ragged edge of his tension eased. “Taylor Branson?” He hugged her
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