Best Laid Plans by Robyn Kelly (robert munsch read aloud txt) 📖

It’s 7:29 and I’m ready. I would have liked some mascara, but my hands are a little unsteady. I don’t remember any man having this effect on me. When the intercom beeps, I will tell him to wait downstairs, and then I won’t be alone in my apartment with him. My clean apartment. My very clean apartment. And hopefully my hands will stop shaking by the time I get to the lobby.

At 7:30, there is a knock on the door, and I jump. When I look through the security lens, I see Jackson. He wasn’t supposed to be inside the building—then I remember that he owns it. The butterflies in my stomach turn into raptors.

“Who is it?” I squeak.

“You know who it is. Open the door.”

“I mean…just a minute.” I’ve already made a fool of myself and I haven’t even opened the door yet.

“Jillian, I know you’re standing right there.” His tone is very…what…can someone sound patient and demanding at the same time? “Jillian?” he asks again, not sounding so patient this time.

“I’m thinking,” I blurt out.

“What are you thinking?”

My heart races and the back of my neck is sweaty. “I’m thinking if I open this door, we are really going to do this.”

“Yes, we are. We are really going to dinner. We are really going to talk business. Unless you don’t open the door, and I have to stand in the hall all night.” He fakes a whisper. “I hope your neighbors don’t notice.”

His little joke lightens the mood. I tentatively unlock the door, and slowly pull it open, staying behind it as if it’s a shield. He stands in the hall watching me, trying to judge my emotional state. “May I come in?”

He’s so damn sexy in his dark-gray suit that I can’t speak. I just nod my head…a little too quickly, like one of those bobbing-head toys in a car that just hit a speed bump.

He moves cautiously into the apartment, eyeing me as if I were an injured animal that might attack. “Jillian, why don’t we leave the door open so you’ll have some fresh air. Have you eaten today?”

I try to think. Have I? I worked, and then met the realtor, and then cleaned the apartment, and then made his invoice, and then showered, and then had this damn panic attack. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Your blood sugar might be low right now. Do you have anything in your refrigerator? Can I look for you?”

My blood sugar. That’s right. This happened before. At my wedding. I wanted to fit into that damn dress, and starved myself. And then embarrassed myself. But Bill was too drunk to notice. “He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

Did I say that out loud? “My husband. I was thinking about him.”

“I’m sorry about your husband. But you need to think about yourself right now.”

“I was. The blood sugar. Yes, I think it’s low. But I don’t have anything to eat. My refrigerator died. Your refrigerator, I mean. I was going to go shopping.”

The elevator chimes and Mrs. Johnson walks by, with her groceries. I watch Jackson deftly intercept her.

“Pardon me. Jillian’s blood sugar is dangerously low and she doesn’t have any food in the apartment. Could you spare a piece of fruit or something? I’ll gladly reimburse you.”

Who is that man? He sounds as sweet as an Eagle Scout helping an old woman across the street. Mrs. Johnson falls for the act—hook, line, and sinker.

“Would a yogurt do?” She’s practically cooing. I bet Jackson uses that sweet voice to get women to do what he wants all the time. I just wonder why this is the first time I’ve heard it.

They both turn to look at me, and now I know how the animals in the zoo feel. Jackson smiles. “Jillian, would you like a yogurt?”

I swallow and try to hold it together long enough to answer. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Johnson. And Jackson…” He tilts his head. He looks so sweet and so concerned I can’t stand it. “Please stop talking to me like I’m holding a gun to your head.”

“Yes, Ms. Whitkins,” he mutters.

“Better take two.” Mrs. Johnson hands him a couple of yogurts. He hands her some money but she shakes her head.

“I insist,” Jackson whispers, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that it isn’t a dollar bill he’s slipping into her palm. She giggles like a schoolgirl (even though she’s old enough to be his grandmother) and finally leaves. Jackson sets the yogurts down on the table and heads to the kitchen for a spoon.

I step out from behind the door and take a seat. I’m so mortified by this entire episode I pray it’s all a bad dream, and I’ll wake up very soon.

Jackson returns, rips open a yogurt, and sticks the spoon in with one swift motion. We don’t talk while I eat. I start to feel my old self, except for the part of looking like a fool in front of this man. “I’m sorry.” I keep my eyes glued to the yogurt container.

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t forget to eat. You scared me.”

“I can’t imagine you scared of anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “I feel partly responsible. Like I said last night, I thought you were more experienced and I played too hard, too fast. I can misread things. You’re probably afraid of me, at least subconsciously. And then what you must have read on the Internet made it worse.”

“Are you trying to tell me this is post-coital stress disorder?”

“Pre-coital, Jillian. Definitely pre-coital. You don’t feel like you can trust me, and when I showed up at your door…”

Tonight was just one more embarrassing moment we’ve shared. It’s time to reboot. “Can we call a truce? Can we just agree that you weren’t drugging Pippa; I wasn’t scamming you; you offered to buy me, I didn’t understand so I spent all that money on your brother’s party; I overreacted when the real estate agent hinted you were buying the church; you overreacted when you kidnapped me.”

He shifts toward me in his chair. “I’ll agree if you change kidnap to abduct. I wasn’t doing it for a ransom.”

“Duly noted. Can we also decide to stop manipulating, threatening, overreacting, and abducting, and instead try communicating as our first response.”

Jackson smiles and nods his head.

“Then in the spirit of communication, I’ll be honest. You said you played too hard, but I still found it…erotic. I’d like to trust you.” He stares at me, and it’s too intimidating to hold his gaze. I pretend to concentrate on scraping the bottom of the yogurt container. “I’m not sure I can trust myself. I don’t trust I can finish what we started.” I look down at those lovely hands of his, and see them clench. “Even if I want to,” I add in a small, shy voice.

I must still be a little off-kilter because when I look into his face, his expression tells me either he’s confused, or surprised, or just trying to find a way to get out of here before I go totally off the deep end. I’ll give him the opportunity for a graceful exit. I owe him that. “I’m sorry for ruining your evening. They must have canceled the dinner reservation by now. I’ll get your invoice and if you have any questions, you can email me.”

He stands and I can’t help thinking that I could be on a date with a sexy, single billionaire if I had a working refrigerator. He holds out his hand. “No restaurant cancels a Jackson Hunter reservation. Come.”

We’re doing this? I put my hand in his and stand up. He helps me on with my coat, and I notice the front door of my apartment is still open. I close it behind me while he presses the elevator button. Suddenly it clicks.

“You didn’t leave my front door open for the air, did you?”

“I’m used to women being afraid of me. I always give them a clear escape route.” He motions toward the small elevator car. “I can take the stairs if you want to ride alone.”

“I think I can hold it together for five floors.”

The doors close and the elevator begins its slow descent. Part of me wishes he’d grab me and kiss me senseless but he’s all business, staring at the floor numbers above the door, and I can’t blame him. I do miss the flirty Jackson, though. If I can lighten the mood, he may realize I’ve returned from my trip to Looneytown.

“Why don’t restaurants cancel your reservations? Do you write scathing Yelp reviews?”

He turns his head, and looks puzzled. “You don’t know how power works in this town, do you?” Instead