My Darling Jane: Chapter 8

A week later I’m piled up on the couch watching ESPN. The twins are seeing Hamilton with one of my sister’s friends who has kids about the same age. I’ve already checked the Find My Friends app to see where they are, and it shows them there. At least their phones are in the right place. They invited me to tag along, but musicals aren’t my thing. I’d be snoring five minutes in.

My phone dings. I glance and see a notification.

Cupid’s Arrow: Don’t forget Abigail C will meet you at The Urban Elixir at 7:30. From your location please allow 43 minutes to arrive at your destination with normal traffic.

Dammit. I completely forgot about the date, and for a brief moment, I toy with the idea of bailing, but I can’t do that to Jane.

I spring into action. It’s showtime.

Twenty-nine minutes later, I make it to the front door of Wickham. Jane said Abigail is a businesswoman, so I went with a navy blue pin-striped Armani suit, white shirt, and no tie. It’s the same outfit I wore into the stadium two years ago for the Super Bowl.

The doorman greets me with a smile. “Looking sharp tonight, Mr. Jannich. Cab?”

“Thanks, Herman. Headed to the Urban Elixir. It’s in the financial district.”

“Yes, sir. Nice place, I hear,” Herman says as he stands out in front of the building and flags down a cab for me. “Should I tell the girls you’ll be late tonight?”

“I appreciate it, but I’ll text them.” They are actually staying the night with the mom and her kids. I get into the waiting car.

Forty minutes later the cab pulls up to an alley between two monstrous glass buildings. The financial district is crawling with people at noon, but this time of night, it’s empty.

As I step into the bar, the sounds of a piano intertwined with the notes of a saxophone greet me. The burly bouncer at the entrance gives me a knowing nod, recognizing me. Despite the building’s modern concrete-and-glass exterior, the interior walls have rustic exposed brick.

The bar itself is a focal point, showing top-shelf whiskeys and scotches, the bottles gleaming under the lighting. I inhale the scent of peat and wood, my mouth watering. I do love a good whiskey.

Surrounding the stage, high-backed round booths line the walls, creating an intimate place. Two women clad in flapper dresses stand near the bar with bright smiles on their faces. One has dark-brown hair, while the other is a redhead.

“Welcome to the Urban Elixir,” says the brunette. “But shh, it’s a speakeasy. Don’t tell the cops. Do you have a reservation?”

Cute. “Yes, Abigail made it,” I reply.

The brunette nods knowingly. “Ah yes, Ms. Carey is expecting a guest.”

Suddenly, the redhead’s eyes widen in recognition. “Wait, are you Jasper from the Pythons?” she asks excitedly. “Can I get a selfie?”

Before I can even respond, she’s extending her phone toward me. As we pose, both girls master the art of the selfie pout, angling their faces to catch the light. The flash pops, unexpectedly bright in the bar, drawing curious glances from other patrons. The bartender, sporting a waxed and styled mustache, shoots us a look of mild irritation.

She inspects the photo, wrinkling her nose. “I wasn’t quite ready. Let’s take one more,” she insists, pushing the phone back into my hands.

I’m conscious of the time and the eyes on us. “I really need to get going—my date’s waiting. And, well, the flash is kind of harsh for the vibe here.” I offer them an apologetic smile and a polite nod, keen to find Abigail.

I’m led to a secluded circular booth in the back corner.

My gaze lands on my date as she stares at her phone. She’s striking, dressed in a tailored gray jacket and skirt that accentuate her figure. The white blouse she’s wearing is snug, revealing a hint of cleavage. Her blond hair is blunt and cut to her chin in a sleek style that frames an oval face. She looks around my age.

“Abigail?”

She gets up to shake my hand with a firm grasp. “Jasper. You’re taller than I expected.”

“I aim to exceed expectations,” I say wryly, letting her slide back into the booth first.

She gives me a once-over as I settle in, and when she finally smiles, it’s a flash of pearly whites. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I murmur.

She’s very pretty.

Nice choice, Jane. She’s no substitute for you, but I’m curious to see where this goes.

“Thank you for arriving on time. I appreciate punctuality,” she says, leaning back in the seat. “I’ve already ordered for us. Our drinks will be here soon.”

“Actually, I was thinking of trying a whiskey—”

“Not yet. I got us martinis,” she says gently, cutting in. “They’re made with gin from their own copper-pot still, Prohibition style. It’s exceptional and not to be missed.”

Martinis are not usually my thing, but hey, why not? I smile broadly. “Martini it is, then. When in Rome, or in a Prohibition-style bar.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I thought we would start our date discussing each other. Obviously, we were both able to research each other to get any information available. I know you were a successful quarterback with the Pythons—”

“I’m still a successful quarterback. I’ve got several years left in me. Retirement is far away.” Despite Dalton Talley showing up.

“Right. And the playboy image, the string of girlfriends. That’s accurate, right?” Her brow arches.

“Well, there’s more to it than that, but I’m assuming you’ve read the online tabloids.”

She nods. “No problem. I get it. People will write anything to get attention in the media. I assume you’re up to speed on my achievements, Forbes ranking, and philanthropy. All true. But the Berrysoft scandal? I was only advising the board. I’m totally innocent. My lawyers and I are clear on that.”

“Ah.” I have no clue what Berrysoft was.

“With that out of the way, let’s dive into the more interesting stuff.”

Our martinis arrive, and I take a sip, wincing at the taste. It’s more terrible than I expected.

I nod. “Uh, yeah, did my homework too. Impressive stuff, really.”

“Oh? What did you find out?”

“Uh, well . . . the money you’ve made. My research showed you to be very impressive.” I read the profile Jane sent but did zero research on my own. I thought that’s what the date was for.

She shifts gears. “So what are you looking for in a partner?”

This woman gets down to business quick.

Where’s the flirty banter, the lingering gazes?

I toy with the napkin under my glass and decide to just put it all out there. “Someone who wants to be with me because of who I am inside. Somebody authentic. What about you?”

Abigail speaks with the precision of a tough lawyer, each word measured. “In any relationship, it’s about partnership, a balanced exchange of benefits. As long as both parties gain proportionately, the relationship flourishes. But the moment there’s an imbalance, where one person feels they’re giving more than they’re receiving, it’s bound to break down.”

She pauses, gauging my reaction.

A “balanced exchange of benefits”? Huh.

“Sure,” I say, filling the empty air.

“True loyalty,” she continues, “is contingent on this balance. It’s unrealistic to expect devotion without considering future mutual benefits. The partner I seek must be an intellectual equal, someone who matches, if not exceeds, my ambition and achievements.”

“Got it,” I add, trying not to zone out.

“I’m not looking for a caretaker, nor do I intend to be one. I need someone who can independently thrive, especially during times when my career demands my full attention. And, of course, I’m prepared to offer them the same independence.”

I gaze into my drink, her words echoing, but my thoughts drift to my bio mother. Was that her reasoning? A pursuit of “her balance” that didn’t include me? Did she expect me to thrive without her? Have a better life?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. I’m here to escape, not cut into that wound.

“What if your partner becomes sick? Or needs more emotional support?” I ask. My adoptive mom lost most of her vision in her fifties due to a genetic disease, and my dad was her rock. He learned braille. He had the house modified to prevent accidents. He learned all the new technology that helps with vision issues. He became her eyes, describing every person and setting.

It hasn’t slowed Mom down one bit, but it’s because he’s been there.

“I don’t plan on being sick. I have yearly exams, physical and mental.”

I smirk. “But life is about surprises. You don’t know what’s around the corner. Sure, some are bad, like illness, but some are good, like finding a twenty in an old coat.”

She shrugs it off. “If I discovered lost money, it would make me angry at the opportunity loss, and if I became ill, I’d want to be alone. I have the means to support myself. I’d hire doctors and nurses to live with me.”

“I see. Interesting.”

She smiles. “When Jane called me about our match, I was excited. Your success is important to me. You’re clearly accomplished.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

“You’re obviously attractive,” she adds.

“My mom says people have layers like an onion. Hopefully we’re all more than just our outward appearances.”

She nods. “Easy for you to say. You’re one of the hottest guys I’ve had drinks with.”

“Ah.”

“Moving on, you’re dedicated to your sport, with little time for anything else. Like me with my career. We match in that regard. Agree?”

My mind shifts, struggling to stay present. I’ve started watching the guy who’s playing the saxophone. “I want to be needed. To miss and be missed. Maybe I’m a true romantic at heart.”

She frowns. “I’m not.”

I chuckle. “Oops.”

The conversation bounces back and forth. She lays out her cards: no kids, ever. Separate finances, always. Each person footing their own bills. She loves the city and hates nature. Her worst nightmare is to go camping. She prefers high-end experiences, art, and food. She is goal oriented and loves a schedule with every minute planned. She has her own personal Pilates instructor and chef. It’s a clear, no-nonsense blueprint of herself.

I counter her points. I talk about spoiling my family with gifts and going on big family vacations. I detest ballet and musicals. I do love a schedule, but I’m spontaneous. I try to eat healthy, but in the summer it’s beer and whatever I can find that’s delicious—then I work it off. I don’t mind footing the bill, but I’m not opposed to a woman paying her own way.

Then the waiter swings by our table and asks if we’re having dinner.

I’m down to eat, and I tell her I’m hungry, but she’s not, so I order a whiskey, quickly, before she can order another martini.

“How long is your penis?”

I nearly spit out my drink. “Wow, that’s direct.”

“I’d rather be up front now than find out later we’re not compatible. Experience has taught me looks can be deceiving. You’re tall, athletic, but that doesn’t always mean, well, you know.”

Part of me is bemused by her up-front attitude, but the other side is feeling awkward as hell.

“It’s not just about length, of course,” she says with an elegant shrug. “The ratio of length to girth matters.”

I match her straightforwardness. “How about you?”

She replies coolly. “I’ve never had complaints. I do what it takes to keep my men from getting bored.”

“Ever been in love? Found your soulmate?”

Her smirk is cynical. “That’s a fairy tale. Sure, there might be a few men I can tolerate. But just one for forever? Hardly. In fact, I’m not opposed to having an open relationship. We’d need to have a contract for it and agree to get regularly checked for diseases.”

I decide to address her earlier question. “Well,” I say, “size isn’t everything. It’s about how you use what you have. Let’s just say I have a monster truck and know how to drive it.”

Her lips curl into a slow smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she purrs.

I lean in closer, our faces mere inches apart. “Tell me, what is it that you truly desire?”

She drains the last of her drink. “My office is nearby with an apartment for late nights. Want to come over and find out?” She runs a finger down my hand. “I like you, Jasper, but let’s be real, we’re like oil and water. Still, I wouldn’t mind a little fun. Wanna bang a billionaire?”

I am a billionaire.

Have I ever fucked one?

I don’t think so.

She’s undeniably attractive, and I like how focused she is on what she wants. I admire the intensity. I’m the same when it comes to football.

Her eyes hold mine. I’m intrigued by her refusal to conform to conventional notions of love and relationships. There’s an authenticity about her. I could fuck her. And we’d probably hook up a few more times, then call it quits. Been there and done that. It feels good at the time, but then it’s empty.

“Gonna pass, Abigail.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Really? Now, that’s unexpected.”

I need more than physical attraction. I like softness, a little vulnerability in a woman. “Should I apologize?”

“No, of course not.” She snaps her fingers at a passing waiter, then smiles at me. “I’m paying the bill, then I’d like you to escort me to a cab. Perhaps you’ll change your mind on the way out.”