“You did it on purpose,” she snaps.
“Get over yourself, Courtney. These girls are always welcome.” He turns to me. “Big T is out, sorry, but stay. I got a new margarita machine I’m playing with. It’s my present to myself, and it’s fabulous. How about a drink? I’ve got strawberry, pineapple, or regular?”
Cece waltzes past Courtney. “How kind of you! You pick my flavor, Jasper. Extra tequila, please.”
“Francesca? You want one?” he asks as we follow him deeper inside the penthouse to an open plan with a den and kitchen. I take in the white leather furniture and heavy glass tables, the floor-to-ceiling windows that show Central Park and Manhattan. A white fur rug is in front of a split fireplace that opens to a room lined with bookshelves.
My eyes widen at the metal-fenced staircase that leads to the upper levels. Jeez. I mean, yeah, it takes up three stories and some of the rooftop, but it’s a freaking mansion in the sky. My apartment would fit in the den-and-kitchen area alone.
“Strawberry, please,” I murmur faintly as my anxiousness ramps up.
He’s rich. He has power. He had me investigated. He has freaking lawyers.
“Francesca, are yousureyou want alcohol today?” Cece says as she elbows me and nudges her head at the margarita machine.
“Oh, right. Nothing for me, then. I’m going to a gallery later,” I tell Jasper as he moves around the kitchen, gathering supplies.
“Big T mentioned that Darden hooked you up.”
I nod, then explain how I meet with clients, get an understanding of what they want, and then shop for them at various places.
He motions us to take a seat. We ease down on high-back caramel-colored leather stools around a granite island. He tells us about the machine, how it holds three pitchers at a time with different blending and shaving settings. He talks fervently about how the machine makes mojitos, piña coladas, daiquiris, and mudslides. I hide my smile at themess he’s making as he digs out strawberries, pineapples, and limes from the fridge. Juice drips down his hands as he gathers them together and puts them in the pitcher along with tequila and other liquors. He explains the deal he got on the machine—a thousand dollars—about the game they won last week, about his new car he ordered (an Aston Martin). He stops to take a breath. “I feel like I’m doing all the chitchat, sorry. What’s up with you guys?”
Before we can reply, Courtney plops down on a kitchen stool next to me. “I’d like a margarita too.”
“Saypretty please,” he says.
She flicks a strand of honey-colored hair. “Pretty pleasemay I have a regular margarita.”
“Fine.” His arm muscles flex as he pours ice in the machine, his gaze on her. “Did you find a place to stay? There’s a hotel a block away. I’ll pay if you’ll go. Pretty please.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow to see my parents in Florida for Christmas, but I’ll be back to harass you.” She smirks. “Didyoufind a place?”
His brown eyes glitter. “Ilivehere. I was invited. You just showed up with a bag and some fake tears.”
He turns the mixer on, the sound of ice drowning out whatever Courtney’s reply is.
“I’d like mine with salt on the rim,” she says when he sets her drink in front of her.
“Try sugar,” he mutters. “It might make you nicer. Better yet, eat a chocolate bar for me, huh?”
“Go to hell, quarterback.” She glares at him. “And put on a shirt. No one wants to see your six-pack.”
“I do,” Cece says.
“Same,” I add.
“Thanks, guys, and Courtney, get it right. It’s an eight-pack.” He slaps his abdomen, then shimmies his hips.
Biting my lips to not laugh, I watch the back-and-forth between them with bated breath.
He gives Cece a strawberry margarita, then me a sparkling water. “Ladies. Enjoy.” He does a bow with a hand flourish.
I look around, and a gasp comes from me. In the hallway is ... “Oh my God. Is that a ...”
“Yes, it is. Come on; I’ll show you,” he murmurs. “I need a break from a certain someone anyway.” He leads me to the hallway and out of hearing range.
“Jackson Pollock?” I breathe as I take in the large painting.