Cherry’s Jubilee (Lunchtime Chronicles: Season 7)

Chapter 7

Daniel

She comes out twenty minutes later with her friend pushing her in my direction. While they were gone, I looked around her tiny apartment. There’s not much for me to see. Only two pictures, a family picture at her sister’s wedding and one of her on her graduation day. She’s beautiful in both, but in the college photo, she has a bit of shyness to her. She’s probably thinking of where she fits in the world, and what she’s going to do next. At least that’s what I think. I’ve always known my path, and lucky for me, I’ve always wanted to follow in my dad’s footsteps.

She’s different in the wedding picture. She’s a siren. She’s sexy in a form-fitting powder blue dress. It molds perfectly to her hourglass figure.

“Here she is,” her friend says. “I’m Ginger.” She offers me her hand, and I take it. She smiles at me and seems friendly. I smile back.

“I’m Daniel Jubilee.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “And you knew that I knew on Saturday, didn’t you?” When all I do is nod, she says, “Have fun, kids.”

Cherry has the same shy look tonight as she did in the graduation picture. I extend my hand to her, and she looks at her friend. Ginger elbows her in the ribs, and she finally takes my hand.

I’ve remembered her touch all week. I only rested my hand on top of hers for a few seconds, but it’s like she branded me. Now that I’m touching her again, I know I didn’t imagine how she feels. Her hand is soft and surprisingly small for someone her height. I take it and lift it to my lips. Her skin is soft and smells of jasmine and vanilla. This version of her is different from the confident, talkative woman I met a few nights ago. The same woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the past five days.

She smiles, and my heart does something it’s never done before. It skips a beat at the sight of a beautiful woman, but Cherry doesn’t know how beautiful she is, and I know it’s my mission to show her.

“Have fun,” Ginger repeats herself, and after pushing Cherry again, we finally leave the small apartment—which I think is smaller than the master bathroom in my penthouse.

I hold her hand and lead her outside. Neither of us speaks as we walk down the stairs into the cool May air. My car and driver are outside, and he has the back door open to the Escalade. I gesture for her to go in and slide in beside her.

To my shock, she doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t ask where we’re going or ask for more details about why I haven’t called in six days. Maybe it’s because we’re not alone, but I don’t like her being this quiet. I want the smart-mouthed woman with the false bravado I met a few nights ago.

“Wow,” she says once I let her into my penthouse. The housekeeper takes her denim jacket, and I take her hand and lead her to the bar. She looks around the place and walks to the wall of windows overlooking Commonwealth Ave.

Instead of pouring her a glass of white wine, I stand there and admire her. She’s downright regal as she stands there with a hand on her hip. She has long arms, and long legs that I’d like to have over my shoulders. Her profile is like a perfect snapshot. I admire her full lips and perfect nose from here. I know her hands are soft, and I can’t wait to experience how the rest of her body feels, smells, and tastes.

“White wine?” I ask.

“I only drink French champagne,” she says with her back still turned.

I go to the wine fridge and pull out a bottle of her preferred drink. Once the bottle pops open, she turns and saunters to me. She gets there just in time for me to hand over her champagne flute.

“Is it to your liking?” I ask after she takes her first sip.

“It’ll do,” she says.

“Let me know if you want anything else,” I say. “I’m at your service.”

She eyes me from the rim of her champagne flute as if trying to read my mind. I stare into her brown eyes. Soon, that’s not enough, so I run my thumb along her cheek. A slight tremor runs through her.

“You can look, but don’t touch,” she says before stepping back.

“Yet,” I add. “Don’t touch yet .”

“For a man who’s left me hanging for almost a week, you’re very presumptuous, Mr. Jubilee.” She puts the flute down and slowly approaches me. The urge to put my hands on her hips, pull her into my body, and never let her go stirs inside of me.

I don’t know what’s happening, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was some witch who cast a spell on me. She’s all I’ve thought about, and even though I had to be present for my family this past week, especially my dad, she was never out of my thoughts. Hell, I called her about a million times and texted too, but they all went unanswered.

“Do you have something to say, Ms. Cross?” I ask. I lower my voice and head to ensure my breath brushes her ear.

She shudders before she gets on her toes and whispers close to my ear, “You don’t touch anything unless I say so. ”

I take her hands in mine. They feel warm. I reluctantly drop one and run the back of my hand along her soft cheek. The air leaves the room as I gaze into her dark eyes. I see so much there, and in this moment, I’m certain that she’s meant to be here. I’ve thought of it all week. Between unanswered calls, I convinced myself that what I experienced last week was a mirage and a consequence of one too many drinks, but I know now that’s not true.

“Tell me not to,” I whisper while I continue touching her cheek. When she remains quiet, I say, “You can’t. You have no control over this. Just like me.”

“Did you have any control of your phone, sir?” she asks. She yanks my hand down, walks away, and picks up her champagne. She downs it and holds the flute up. I refill it.

“I should ask you that same question. Do you ever answer your damn phone or answer texts?”

“Not if I don’t know who’s calling.” She tosses those words at me as if I’m an idiot for not knowing that.

“I told you who I was in the dozens of texts I sent,” I hiss.

“Don’t get snippy with me, Jubilee. You were supposed to see me last Sunday. You’re lucky I don’t leave right now. If this champagne wasn’t hitting the spot, I would.” She looks away from me.

“My grandmother died. She was my dad’s mom, and they were very close. My family is ridiculously close, and I had to be there for my father. She wanted to be cremated and left instructions for us to spread her ashes in five different places. In the past week, I’ve been in three different time zones. I took the red eye from L.A. yesterday and napped before seeing you today. You would have known all of this if you had answered your phone or read your texts,” I say. “And I’ll get snippy when I need to.”