Dazed (Connections, #2.5)(6)

“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’m not sure,” I whisper back.

“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 cock 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?”

“Yes I did,” Jagger proudly answers.

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.