23 - Highlights

“Hey.”

The man had mastered the art of seduction with a single smile, and his “regular guy” look of damp hair, faded jeans and a Yankees tee didn’t do a single thing to detract from it as he stood in the open doorway of room 912.  The bare feet might have even intensified the effect.

I’m totally going home with wet panties.  I just hope I don’t leave a spot on the seat.

“Fuck.” The abruptness of the gentle swear and direction of Delaney’s thoughts had her wondering she’d spoken aloud, but he was taking in the dark jeans and sleeveless wrap-around top she’d worn to the concert.  “I meant to tell you that hanging out with me is casual – very casual.  Sorry about that.  Do you want to go change into something more…  Do you want to change?”

“It’s okay.  I’m good,” she assured, relieved that her thoughts hadn’t overtaken her mouth but flustered by the realization he caught himself just short of delivering the age-old seduction line about slipping into something more comfortable.  Despite the warm air in the hall, goosebumps puckered along her arms, and she hoped that was the only visible puckering.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement and took a backward step on the wood floor that looked the same as the one in her room.  “Then come in.  Please.”

As she glided past him, Delaney kind of wished she carried a purse.  Using her pockets for the barest necessities as more convenient and smarter, considering her tendency to leave things behind.  She'd end up losing her entire life with one forgotten bag of items, and really, she just wanted something to do with her restless hands.

In lieu of a massive Coach bag like Petra's, she swept both palms over her back pockets and came to the sinking realization that there was nothing in those pockets but a crinkly paper ticket from tonight's show.  Her phone was on the nightstand and the room key was on the dresser where she'd tossed it

“Freep,” she muttered under her breath as Jon’s door closed behind her.  She was hopeless.

“Something wrong?” 

“No," Brushing off the concern, she followed the direction of his outstretched hand toward the suite's living area.  "I just forgot my room key."  

“You want me to have ‘em send up another?”

“Nah, it'll be fine." 

The floor may be similar, the colors were subtler here than in her room.  Dining chairs and window seat were upholstered in a pale shade of sand that matched the area rugs, while the sofa with matching ottoman were a deeper hue – more like wet sand.  The bar, throw cushions and accent tables were all dark chocolate, leaving the settee next to the corner fireplace as the only true color in the room with its aqua fleur pattern.

Skirting the ottoman to reach the far window, Delaney blindly perused the lights of Montreal with arms tightly criss-crossed at her waist.  She hadn’t been this nervous since… ever.

“Petra and Pearl will probably be there when I get back.  If not, I’m very familiar with the lost key routine.”

“That’s right.  You didn’t have ID the other day and Petra seemed... unsurprised.”

Hearing a muffled ‘pop’, she turned to find he’d removed the glass stopper from a chilled bottle of Hampton Water and was setting it on the bar.  Pale pink wine spilled into one waiting glass and then another as Delaney's heartbeat stuttered.  There was something undeniably sexy about a barefoot guy in a worn-out t-shirt pouring wine, and it turned her nerves to an entirely different form of anxiety. 

My Zip-loc is about to split at the seams.  It can only hold so many raging hormones.

“Thanks for the politically correct version of that.”  He joined her by the window, and she untucked a folded arm to accept her drink.  “I’m sure she was livid since I’m always forgetting that kind of stuff.”

“And I’d say you know your sister well.”  His wry observation came with a chuckle to match.  “Still no idea how the accident happened?”

Tearing her eyes from the thoughtfully creased features to again survey the Montreal night, she kept it short.  “Nope.  Rumor has it that I wandered out in front a bike messenger.   Marilee – my shop manager – told me I was running on empty that day and hadn’t been sleeping well.  Sounds like I just wasn’t paying attention.”

Marilee also said she had no idea how Delaney got to Greenwich Village since the dysfunctional delivery van was still parked behind the shop that evening and wouldn’t start.  Delaney didn’t know, either.  She was just grateful Julio’s friend got it fixed for cheap.

“Sit with me,” Jon invited, gesturing to the nearest sofa cushion with his glass.  When she hesitated, he used a foot to slide the ottoman out of her way and to the middle of the sofa.  “You take one end and I’ll take the other.  We can share the footstool that way.”

She couldn’t imagine plopping her feet up on a footstool alongside his, but Delaney nodded nonetheless and sank to the window-end of the couch.  While sipping her wine, she inconspicuously observed Jon settling into the opposite end.  He tucked his back into the corner and lifted both legs to the ottoman, crossing them at the ankle before bringing the wineglass to rest on his thigh. 

This version of him was undeniably more appealing than the over bright, bouncy concert model.  That wasn’t to say there was anything wrong with the concert model.  She was crazy about it and would pay to see him perform any night of the week.

The man relaxing on the other end of the sofa, though….  This was Jon the man instead of Jon the performer.  Gone was the toothy smile that would photograph well, and in its place was an understated version that didn’t care about being photogenic.  Its sole purpose was to reflect contentment with where he was and what he was doing. 

Delaney liked it a lot.  

The only thing she might change would be the way his hawkish eyes studied her.  They saw too much.  Knew too much.

They had her anxiety tearing at the bulging Zip-loc to mingle with her rampant hormones and make Delaney just a little nuts.  She crossed her legs, squirming on the cushion in the silence until she couldn't stand it anymore and blurted the question that had grown too big to be contained.   

“What do you want from me?”

Despite her ill-mannered abruptness, Jon displayed no sign of reaction.  He didn’t twitch, change position or shift his gaze before leisurely informing her, “Same thing I’ve wanted since the day we met.  To get to know you.”

Okay, that getting to know her thing was intriguing but involved another trip down Memory-Less Lane, and Delaney was less than thrilled by the prospect.  Petra hadn’t actually said the words “last time” again tonight, but Pearl had unintentionally done it when they were in line at the bar talking about the wine brand that was now in Delaney’s glass.  It seemed like the longer she stayed in this Bon Jovi universe, the more perturbed she became.

Would she ever reach the point when someone didn’t refer to a lost recollection?  When would the new outweigh the old?

“You wanna talk about it?” Jon probed gently, obviously sensing her frustration.  “I can tell you what I know about your lost time, or I can shut the hell up and move onto something else.  Your call.”

Talking about it wasn’t high on her list of fun things to do alone in a hotel room with this man but being in the dark about their shared history was even lower.  Resigned to hearing stories of another woman’s life, Delaney angled into her corner of the couch and folded one leg under the other and tried to explain. 

“Missing ‘things’ don’t bother me – the flower arrangements, deliveries, meals, phone calls, even the concerts.  None of that is a big deal.” 

“Then what does bother you?”

Swinging her dangling leg, she let her eyes drift to the live plant beside the settee.  She’d opened the door to telling him the truth, but did she really want to share her insecurities?  No one knew how this trip was affecting her.  She hadn’t told anyone, so why would she tell him?

Because he’s the void that haunts you most.

Faded denim eyes were waiting for Delaney to find them again, and she did with an upward tilt of her chin.  

“Honestly?  What bothers me most is not knowing what you know about me or what I know about you.  It’s like you’ve already got the punchline, but I haven’t even heard the joke.” 

Jon didn’t laugh.  He didn’t smirk.  He didn’t mock.  He swirled the remaining tablespoon of wine in his glass and solemnly relayed, “Pretty sure you didn’t find out anything about me last week that you didn’t already know from being a fan, other than I’m usually an introverted asshole during soundcheck.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t laughing, but her lips itched to curve at his brutal self-assessment.  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you referred to as an ‘introverted asshole’, but Petra did mention you were different today.”

Without validating – or even acknowledging – Petra’s observation, he redirected his focus to the fireplace and addressed the second part of Delaney’s concern.   

“What I know about you… is that you think my sixteen-year-old is better looking than me, but you’re not a cougar.  You have kindness and attitude of epic yet equal proportions.  You can wrap most men around your little finger and you fucking know it.  You have a personalized dictionary for swearing, annndd… you know how to enjoy a motherfucking concert the way it’s meant to be.  Good enough?”

The recitation was provided as readily and effortlessly as his name, without underlying emotion or the hint of a deeper meaning begging to burst free.  He simply stated what he perceived to be fact, and that perception held Delaney in awe. 

She blinked at him, baffled at the quantity and quality of information he knew.  It was a lot for the short amount of time they’d supposedly been acquainted, and the accuracy rate was startling.  Had he been paying that much attention or was he one of those who possessed an uncanny ability to read people? 

Either way, his analysis was disquieting enough to have her guzzling the last bit of wine and hopping off the couch.

“Yeah, thanks.  But I don’t remember your son, so I’m pleading insanity on that one.  Refill?”

“Always.”  He handed over the glass and raised his voice so that it would follow her to the bar.  “Now I wanna know something from you.”

“Sounds like you know plenty already, but okay.”

The grin was fleeting but still clung to the corners of his mouth when he asked, “Petra says you don’t cuss because you’re a kook.  What’s the real reason?”

Smirking, she pulled the glass top and tilted the pretty rosè bottle so that its contents splashed happily in the glasses.  That was a much lighter topic than her faulty memory and his powers of observation.

“For the last five years, it’s mostly to infuriate her,” she confessed, feeling herself loosen up.  If they could keep it on a superficial level – and he wouldn’t stare at her so intently – she’d be fine.  “Before that, I consciously developed the habit.  Parents get testy when their kids drop the f-bomb at home and then say they heard it in art class, so I cultivated a different f-bomb.  Freep.”

“You were an art teacher?” he asked, taking the replenished drink to cradle it in his left hand as she scooted back into her corner of the couch.

“Yeah, for almost twenty years.”

“Holy shit.  You can’t be old enough for that.”

That first glass of wine – acting as an encore to the three at the show – was making its way into her blood.   Coupled with the shift in subject matter, it all but demolished her nerves.  Delaney was finally entering a stage of relaxation that allowed her to grin at him and point to her dimples.  

“They create the illusion of youth.”

“I guess they do.”  A speculative eyebrow vaulted high as he pulled one heel from the ottoman to dig into the sofa cushion.  “That mean you’re not tellin’ your age?”

“I didn’t know you were asking,” Delaney ribbed playfully. “But since you are, I’m forty-seven.  Mind if I take my boots off?”

“Knock yourself out.  Ya know, forty-seven wasn’t bad, as I recall.  I’d go back if I didn’t have to live through fifty and fifty-one again.”

Mentally doing the math, she tucked Monet socked feet under her bottom and grimaced.  “Ew.  That was the ugly losing your guitarist phase, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” came his heavily breathed agreement. “And that’s enough about that shit.  Tell me something about you.  You have an ugly phase in your past?”

Delaney let her gaze slide to the window as she sipped slowly in a ploy to delay the question.  The subject wasn’t one she wanted to discuss and took things back to being heavy, so she savored the wine as long as she reasonably could before resorting to fluffy vagueness.   

“Yep.  Happened about the same time as yours, coincidentally enough.”

“Well, then, I propose a toast.”  Lifting his glass, Jon waited for her to do the same before proclaiming, “To 2013….  Fuck you.”

“And the horse you rode in on.”

“Goddamn right!” he approved with a wink, and they both tipped glasses that were embarrassingly in need of another refill.  “I’ll get it this time and bring the bottle.”

Letting her head sink back into the sofa cushion, Delaney thought that sounded like an excellent plan.  The wine was good and the company was proving to be better, beyond the obvious perk of his good looks.  Jon was surprisingly easy to talk to and exhibited a surprising interest in listening.

“This is probably the best rosè I’ve ever had, by the way.  Excellent job on that.”

“Thanks, but I can’t take much credit.  This is Jesse’s deal and I try to let him do it.  I’m just chief investor and a celebrity name.  Oh, by the way, he said he’s going to come to the shop in the next few days.  When you get back to work.”

“He is?”  She peered up at him as her glass received a more liberal serving than their first two. 

“Yeah.  You promised him suggestions on what to put with the fancy Hampton Water displays.  I guess carnations aren’t in the same social strata or something, according to what he says you told him.”

Her nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.  She loved carnations, but seriously.  

“Well, duh.  This pale beauty deserves something more exotic and delicate than a freepin’ carnation.  Yeah, send him by.  I’ll hook him up.”

They finished off the first bottle and started on a second, with the words flowing as easily as the wine. 

He asked about her parents.  She asked about his brothers.  He wanted to hear about her non-floral art.  She was dying to know about songwriting.

Once they’d slid comfortably from one topic to another a few times, Delaney did end up asking him to fill in the memory gaps that only he could, and Jon willingly obliged.  He not only recapped their one-on-one conversations, he reinforced a couple of scenes that Petra had already supplied.  His color commentary on her sister had Delaney laughing. 

She’d fully expected this episode of reliving “someone else’s” to be as awful as all the other times, but that turned out not to be the case.  That was probably because Jon relayed it as casual conversation instead of pressuring her to remember, like Petra did.  His way of recounting events was just a friendly chat that relieved much of her frustration and brought with it a sense of peace. 

Delaney finally felt like she and Jon were at least working from the same highlight reel – and it was a good one.