45 - Penthouse Living in Queens

“Top floor, huh?” Jon tucked both hands tighter into his jacket pockets, hiking the gym bag so that it didn’t slide to the floor.

“Penthouse living in Queens,” she teased with a wink and twisted the key in the lock.  “Not quite the same as your new digs, but it’s fine for us common people.”

“You’re anything but common, Mou.”

Delaney Gardener was a unique woman.  He’d known that from the beginning, but she reinforced it a little more each day.  Today’s proof was in the warm hug she gave Avery Anstead at their first Tribeca listing. 

A statuesque raven beauty who could moonlight as a runway model didn’t intimidate the tiny woman with the cosmetic free face.  Delaney’s entire knee poked through a rip in her jeans as her scuffed tennis shoes butted up against Manolo Blahniks, and it didn’t bother her a damn bit.  Her grin was borne of genuine pleasure when greeting the realtor who was living up to her billing so far.

They’d looked at two different properties before she thoughtfully turned to Jon, asking if he minded veering from the schedule a bit.  During those first viewings, she’d gotten a handle on what he really wanted and went rogue, moving them out of the scheduled Tribeca neighborhood and into SoHo. 

Just a few blocks from his old place on Mercer Street, actually – on West Broadway.  

The three-story penthouse unit had a wine cellar, massive master suite with a hot tub just outside, and terraces upon terraces – including one that was the entire rooftop.  That level of the building was only equivalent to the eighth floor, so it wasn’t a lofty view, but he liked it and made the offer at about three this afternoon.

By the time Delaney embarrassed his ass by climbing a massive rock wall like a monkey while he struggled to find hand and footholds, Avery had already received acceptance from the sellers.  The super realtor was making insane promises about a move-in date of two weeks from now, and if that actually happened, he was going to give her the listing for his house in Jersey. 

He was also going to express his gratitude to Delaney for the referral, Jon added to himself as they entered the apartment. 

“I work for a living.  Don’t judge me,” she ordered over her shoulder when passing through a doorway out of the foyer. 

"I work for a living too, smart ass."

He followed her and let his eyes roam the space she called home.  They’d come immediately into the dining area, and her table and chairs were dark wood, both heavy and well-used.  They complemented the living area at the other end of the long room.  It was also done in shades of brown – a leather and microsuede sofa, wingback chair, desk, tables and lamps – but all of that was brightened by mottled yellow walls, unframed art and autumn-checked curtains.  The area was infused with life in the form of potted plants and a…

“Is that a birdcage?”

“Yeah.”  She stepped around the dining table and followed his gaze.  “That’s Nero.  He’s the only thing Poppy left behind.  I dislike the little beast, but I can’t seem to make myself get rid of him.”

“What kind of bird is it?”

“Canary.”

Jon had never known anyone who had a pet bird, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about it crawling in bed with them. 

“I’m going to dump my gym bag in the bedroom.  Want me to take yours?” 

“Yeah, sure.  Thanks.”  They’d both showered and changed back into jeans and t-shirts at the gym, so he handed over the bag.  When she disappeared through a doorway and around a corner, Jon lifted his voice to ask, “Mind if I look around?”

She was back before he finished the question and waved her hand negligently in the air.  “Not much to look at but help yourself.  This is the living room, obviously.  Kitchen behind you, bathroom behind me.  My bedroom to the left of the bathroom and makeshift studio to the right.”

“Studio?”

“Not your kind of studio,” Delaney chuckled.  “Art.  Painting, pottery, ceramics...”

“Got any finished work in there?”  He’d known about the art teacher thing but somehow hadn’t connected that to her being a practicing artist.  Now he was inordinately curious about what that studio might hold.

Dimples flashed as she rearranged her ponytail into a topknot.  “A few things.  Kung pao chicken with zucchini noodles okay for dinner?”

For him, huh?  That made him happier than it should, and Jon was now even more eager to nose around her studio.  “Sounds great.”

“Good.  Won’t take long to fix.  There’s wine in the fridge when you finish your ten-second tour.”

With that, she turned toward the kitchen whose base cabinets were green, upper cabinets were yellow and countertops were red.  The place definitely had personality, and he went the opposite direction, finding himself inside a tiny hallway.  She’d said the studio was on the right, but he couldn’t resist peeking into her bedroom first.

It only took a couple of steps to put himself in Delaney’s private domain, which was as cool and relaxed as the woman herself.  The walls were a pale, matte blue and overlaid with a glossy design of the same color, giving the appearance that they were etched.  The hue was repeated again in her bed covering, and the two antique side chairs were upholstered with a pattern of complementary shades.

He only spared the white curtains and floral rug a glance while wondering if the artwork hanging over the brass headboard of a hastily made bed was hers.  On his way to take a closer look, Jon was distracted by a framed photo on top of the dresser. 

A radiant Delaney was in the center, and she was sandwiched between two young women in their flowing graduation gowns.  One of them looked very much like Delaney and Petra, as she was petite and had long auburn hair.  The other girl was tall and lithe, with dark, wavy locks whose ends brushed her jawline.  Both had light gray eyes.

“You like it spicy or not so spicy?” called the woman who also possessed the same aquiline nose as her companions in the photo. 

Jon had imaged Violet and Poppy to be identical twins, but if these two weren’t her daughters, they were definitely family members.  Maybe Petra had girls, too?

“Not so spicy,” he called back, dragging his attention from the assortment of female doodads on the dresser surface to the bookcase that stood beside it. "The picture on your dresser.  Are those your daughters?"

"Yeah.  High school graduation."

So her twins were fraternal instead of identical.  He wondered what other kinds of interesting things he might find out in her bedroom.

There were photo albums, some art books, knickknacks, a jewelry box, a stuffed mouse and a shelf of Bon Jovi memorabilia.  Guest pass stickers from her nights backstage were stuck to the side of the shelf that held his maracas. 

It was strange seeing them out of context.  It was even stranger to know he’d given them to her only two weeks ago – two weeks ago, tonight, actually – when it felt like a lifetime.  How was it possible for her to so seamlessly slip into his life in such a short time?  

Okay, in all honesty, living in a hotel room when he wasn’t on tour didn’t count as his real life.  He was in the process of redefining that, but she was part of that definition.

Her sassiness, strength and sweetness were all in perfect proportion with one another.  He liked the way she made him laugh, talked to him like a real friend would, and just about every other damn thing about her so far.  He hadn’t really been kidding the other night when saying she’d better start showing him some flaws soon – other than snoring.  Nobody was perfect, but Mou was pretty damn close to his perception of it.

They hadn’t talked about the specifics of their relationship.  As far as he knew, she might be planning to go out with someone this weekend while Jon was out of town.  Someone she could actually go out with on a date – like that damn paramedic.  She hadn’t mentioned the guy again, and he didn’t know if that was good or bad.

It’s time to clear that shit up.

Abandoning her bedroom until later, he didn’t bother looking in the darkened bathroom or studio when passing by.  He’d check them out later.  Right now, something more pressing had come up.

“Mou.”

Guileless dove eyes lifted from the pan on the stove.  “Yeah?” 

“You’re not fucking anybody else.”

One cheek tucked into a dimple as she went back to stirring something that smelled good enough to make his stomach growl.  “No, I’m cooking.”

“This is not the time to be a smartass,” he warned, folding his arms and leaning against the sink.  The casual flippancy pissed him off, scoring her first negative mark on his imaginary scorecard. 

“What is it the time for, then?  Expressing my gratitude for the best sex I’ve ever had?  Relaying my humbled awe at the privilege of being naked with a rock star?”

“It’s time for you to answer me with a simple, unqualified ‘okay’.”

“Answering implies that there was a question or suggestion posed.”  A quick flick of the wrist turned the front burner down while she lifted a steam pot lid on the back one.  “I didn’t hear either.”

“Goddammit, Mou…” he huffed in frustration, reaching out to spin her away from the stove so that she looked at him.  “When I leave town, I don’t want you going out with other guys.”

Delaney silently blinked, studying his eyes.  “Then you’re not going out with other women.”

“It’s not that easy,” he told her evenly, figuring they might as well get this out of the way.  “I have social obligations – especially in the Hamptons.  I’ll spend time with women I’ve been close to.  I’ll kiss them, hug them and act like they’re the great missed opportunity in my life.  That’s just the way it goes.”

Still, she held his gaze as though there was some great secret in their depths.  “Will you sleep with them?”

There were women he’d slept with before, quite honestly and, seeing that this would be his first Hamptons trip as an unattached man, they may view it an opportunity for a repeat performance.  He would also be fair game to the well-heeled divorcees who had always kept their distance in the past.   There had already been several “condolence” calls this week, but Jon had been so engrossed with Delaney he hadn’t really acknowledged the underlying intent. 

Gone were the days of simply hanging out on the beach to enjoy the sun, sand and his kids.  Jon Bon Jovi was back on the market.

“Since it’s taking so long to come up with an answer, I’ll retract the question.”  She also retracted herself from his grip and picked up the wooden fork to stir the pot.  “I won’t be held to a standard that you aren’t willing to hold yourself to.  When you figure out what that is, we can talk about it.”

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

“It’s not taking that long to come up with an answer,” Jon hotly denied.  “Reality is setting in.  This trip to the beach is going to be vastly fucking different since my marital status has changed, and I’m not happy about it.”

“Sorry.”

Except she didn’t sound the least bit sorry as she picked up a speckled white dish to plate their food.  She sounded like she couldn’t care less that he was about to feed himself to the wolves. 

“Come with me.”

“No.”  A plate with fragrant kung pao chicken was pushed at him.  “Silverware is in the drawer on the other side of the sink.”

“Dammit, Delaney.  Please?”

Resting the serving spoon on the side of the pan, she sighed lightly into his face.  “I told you why I can’t.  And you said you wanted me kept out of the public eye for a while.  Unless I miss my guess, the Hamptons on Memorial Day weekend will put me directly in that eye – just so you can keep horny women at bay.   You can always tell them 'no'.  It works wonders, in case you haven’t heard.”

He closed his eyes.  Christ.  Sacrificing her feelings and well-being for his convenience wasn’t a great way to solve his problem – or keep his girlfriend.  He’d just put the wolves off by telling them he was trying to woo a woman in the city.  They may not believe him, but that was their damn problem.  Jon knew it to be true.

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.  Forget I asked.”  Sliding his plate onto the counter, Jon reached for her waist and gently twisted so that he could brush soft lips over hers.  Delaney didn’t return the kiss, so he murmured what he should’ve said in the first place, “I’m not going to sleep with anybody, Mou.  You’re the only one I want in my bed.”

Her neck craned back so that analyzing gray irises could examine his eyes again.  For what, he didn’t know, but she studied first one and then the other until her cheeks sunk under the weight of satisfied dimples. 

“And yours is the only bed I want to be in.”