Best Laid Dreams: Best Laid Series, #4

By Robyn Kelly

The final chapter in the Best Laid rom-Dom-com series.
  
Jillian and Jackson's June wedding is rapidly approaching (if they survive Christmas, New Year's and Valentine's Day). From Paris to Portmere, in sex clubs and snowball fights, they will encounter real and imagined drug lords, dragon-shifters, little old ladies, firefighters and step-brothers. 
  
One question remains. How many people are trying to kill them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robyn Kelly
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393375753

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Christmas Eve is the high holy day for procrastinators. We converge on the malls, determined to finally find that perfect gift that has eluded us since Thanksgiving. We scour the stores, weaving between mothers with strollers and gaggles of teenage girls on their cell phones. We search through every square inch of each shop, and then end up at Brookstone, buying this year’s overpriced gimmick, and asking for a gift receipt.

I was determined not to wait until the last minute this year, and on Cyber Monday I got something for everyone except my fiancé. I have Jackson’s stocking stuffers, a gag gift, a sexy gift, but not the big one. You know what I mean. The one he will open and say, How did you know? Or maybe, This is perfect. Or, You are the greatest gift giver ever.

I’m feeling the pressure on our first Christmas together. Jackson isn’t as excited by the holiday season as I am. It’s a typical attitude for people who were born close to Christmas or spent half their youth in juvenile detention. That’s why this has to be a home run. A cashmere sweater? Does Jackson even wear sweaters? How can I be engaged to a man and not know whether he owns a sweater?

If you don’t know my story, you must have been off the grid this year. I’m Jillian Whitkins, the woman engaged to Jackson Hunter. I’ve never been good at multi-tasking, so let me give you the whole backstory in one sentence and then get back to shopping. Jackson was a hot billionaire (was a billionaire—he’s still hot) who I thought was drugging a woman, so I sort of got involved, and that led to me working for him and then sleeping with him, and when he found out the reason he had been locked up in juvenile detention for six years was because of a family lie, he sort of went a little crazy and gave me an engagement ring and resisted arrest (not in that order), and since then his parole has gone very well (except for the time they thought he killed me), but when his former partner ran me over, Jackson promised the big man in the sky to give all his money away to keep me alive (because of a stupid fight I started), and when he actually began doing it, the media found out and dubbed him the Bye-Bye Billionaire. Now the whole country knows who we are. I hate these ties. Maybe I’ll get him a belt.

You see my dilemma. What do you give the man who had everything?

A woman with a small boy blocks the belt display, and she looks as frantic as I am. It doesn’t help that her son is trying to pull her to the toy store. If I distract the kid, she might finally pick one, and then I’ll have a turn. Did you make a list for Santa?

He turns to me, his eyes wide. "I want a PlayStation, and Call of Duty, and…"

He rattles off a list long enough for his mother to choose a belt and then grab his hand. And Legos, she reminds him.

He nods. "Star Wars Legos."

Legos? Jackson spent the last few months doing the things he missed as a child. We’ve ridden every roller coaster on the West Coast, splashed through a water park the same day my leg came out of the cast, spent Thanksgiving watching all the Star Wars movies (in between football), and for his birthday I took him to Disneyland. Maybe a toy under the tree is the perfect gift.

I head to the shopping center map since I haven’t a clue about toy stores. Target looks like my best bet, but it’s on the other side of the mall. I grab a soft pretzel on the way (never shop hungry). There must be something about my stride or the look in my eyes because shoppers move out of my way. Damn, there’s already a line out the door for Brookstone.

Heading to the back of Target, I turn left at the bicycles and arrive at what must have once been a paradise of presents. Now it’s a ghost town of empty shelving. My shoulders slump in defeat. I turn around, resigned to elbowing my way into Brookstone, when I spot it on the uppermost shelf. A big black box with the words Star Wars on the side, just out of reach. The shelving makes an ominous rattle when I try to climb it, and jumping doesn’t get me close enough either. Much as I want to grab a step stool from housewares, I can’t risk someone else stealing my prize.

My friend Lori says I have a problem with asking for help. Really, it’s easier to just do it myself than watch someone else do it all wrong. I consider standing at the end of the aisle and flagging down an employee.

At that moment, a voice comes over the intercom. Shoppers, the store will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring your purchases to the cashiers now. And Happy Holidays.

Crunch time, and not a single red-aproned employee in sight. The only thing standing between me and Christmas is on this top shelf. Fortune favors the brave. If people can scale Mount Everest, I can surely conquer Target. Using the shelving for leverage, I step into my shopping cart. With the added height, I reach the summit. The box is almost pristine, with only a few marks where the security strap rubs across the edges. According to the package, there are over 4,000 pieces inside, including little figures of all the Star Wars characters. This is perfect. The Death Star!

It’s a big box, requiring both hands. It’s funny how much I stressed over this, only to have the universe lead me right where I needed to be.

Unfortunately, the universe isn’t done with my Christmas expedition. A high-pitched squeal behind me pierces my eardrums. It’s the little boy from the belt display screaming while racing a shopping cart through the toy department, and right for me. Before I can react, he collides with my cart, sending me careening down the aisle.

There is a grove of artificial Christmas trees, decorated with lights, tinsel, and glass ornaments, all of which go flying when I crash into the fake forest, clutching the Legos tightly to my chest. I’ll gladly pay for the damage, but considering no one is around, I grab my cart and head for the cash registers. I would feel guilty, but who would wait this long to buy a tree?

I race to the front of the store and find lines longer than the Great Wall of China. Taking a breath, I remind myself what this season is about. Peace, goodwill, and love. But right now, I’d love the cashiers to move a little faster.

My phone starts playing The Wedding March. Jackson has been fiddling with my ringtones again. Hello, dear.

Where are you?

It’s a rhetorical question because he tracks my phone. I would object, but the police really did think he killed me, so at least now he knows where to find my body. Last-minute shopping.

You’re going to miss the appointment with your lawyer.

Damn, I forgot about that. What kind of lawyer works Christmas Eve? And on a Saturday? Couldn’t we reschedule for January?

No. I’m sending the car to pick you up. Be out front in five minutes. He hangs up before I can reply.

By now I can see the checkout counter, so I just might make it in time. With nothing else to do, I peruse the impulse purchase selection on either side of me. Grab the Santa Pez dispenser and more wrapping paper.

Four minutes later, I make it to the front of the line. The young man behind the register stares at the Death Star. Your son is a very lucky kid.

It’s for my fiancé.

He leans on the box. Lady, if it doesn’t work out, I will totally date you.

I’m pulling my wallet out when I notice the total. Is that right?

He rattles off the prices of all the little items, but when he gets to the Lego box, that’s when I realize my mistake. I’m not sure I want to spend $500 on something Jackson might not even like. I’m thinking of searching for something less expensive, but one quick look at the line behind me tells me there is no going back. I shut my eyes and slip my card into the machine. I’m hoping the trip to Disneyland didn’t max out my credit. Otherwise, the Pez dispenser might be all I can afford. If the difference between the men and the boys is the price of their toys, there must be some very young men out there.

Visa is feeling generous this holiday season, and approves the purchase. The box is too big to fit in one bag, so I have the cashier put another bag over the top, making it snoop resistant. I walk out of the store and find the car idling in front.

King takes my packages while opening the car door. King replaced Ron as our chauffeur, now that Ron is a famous artist. I don’t know whether King is his first name or last name. In fact, I don’t know anything about him. Not from lack of trying. The man never speaks. Just nods and grunts. I doubt his services are limited to only driving. Since he started, there have been all sorts of security systems installed at home and at work.

Traffic downtown is light, with most companies closed today. When we arrive at the lawyer’s building, King hands me a piece of paper with the company name and room number.

I’m a little mad Jackson is ordering me to do this today. I had graciously (I thought) offered to sign any prenup he drew up. He told me I was in charge of writing it, and to be selfish. I’m sure it’s some sort of reverse psychology thing. He’s pestered me every week since to find a lawyer, until finally scheduling this appointment for me. Does the rate double on holidays?

The elevator doors open to an elegant foyer. The woman behind the reception desk has a fake smile on her face.

I probably don’t have to introduce myself, but I do anyway. I’m Jillian Whitkins.

I know, she responds. Your face is everywhere. I don’t think she’s particularly happy about that. I know I’m not.

I’m ushered into the waiting area, decorated in black leather, chrome, and glass. A little too modern for my tastes. Instead of well-thumbed People magazines in the waiting room, the selection of celebrity gossip is so pristine I’m afraid to touch them. I notice that each one has a messy divorce on the cover.

Ms. Whitkins?

I turn to the masculine voice and can’t believe it’s Troy Mastren. He extends his hand. I was surprised you insisted I represent you.

That makes two of us, I mumble under my breath. Troy was the lawyer for Brad Stone, the ass who ran me over with his car. Then he tried to smother me with a pillow. Troy’s brilliant defense was that I sent mixed signals to his client about my sexual desires. He made a point to mention how many times I’ve been hit by cars, making it sound like a fetish. It doesn’t help I’ve been labeled the Queen of Kink.

Troy clasps both hands over mine when we shake, trapping me in his grip. We’re usually closed today, but as this was the only time you could meet, I opened the office just for you.

That’s why the receptionist is so grumpy.

He releases my hand and gestures to the hall. Shall we get to work?

His spacious office is decorated in the same leather and chrome as the waiting room. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he takes the chair next to me. So, you want some advice on a prenuptial agreement between you and Jackson?

More than advice. I’m supposed to write it.

He shakes his head. Typical Jackson Hunter move. Overwhelm. Then you’ll go running to him for advice, and he’ll tell you exactly what benefits him. It’s a good thing you chose me.

I didn’t choose you. Jackson did. He said you’re the second-best lawyer in San Francisco. Troy raises an eyebrow, so I add, Since you’ve never beaten his lawyer. He also said Troy’s probably looking for work considering Brad Stone went to jail despite his best defense. Jackson also forgot to tell me I’d be Troy’s next client.

Troy takes offense to be called second-best. You can lose a battle and still win the war.

I’m not here for a war. I’m here for a prenup.

Troy nods his head and reboots the fake smile while he grabs a legal pad off his desk. Well, let’s make a list of your assets. Property?

I shake my head. No, I don’t own any property.

Investments? 401k? I shake my head, but he won’t stop the humiliating list of things I don’t have. Art? A car? Anything of value?

I cut him off. I don’t own anything, and if our marriage doesn’t last, I don’t want anything of his.

Troy clears his throat. That really isn’t the best attitude to have around a prenup. If Jackson suddenly leaves you twenty years from now, how will you survive? You need to plan for that today.

I’m making a good salary, and I’m living rent-free. I’m like the Aesop fable about the grasshopper and the ant. And I’m the ant.

He sighs. Then let’s talk about a cheating clause. When he cheats, you get half of everything. It might make him think twice.

"With what I know about men, thinking and cheating don’t belong in the same sentence."

Random drug testing?

It’s not Troy’s fault that Jackson arranged a phony meeting. Much as I hate this man, I know he won’t be satisfied until we concoct some nasty penalties for my future husband. How about a fine if he leaves wet towels on the bed.

We could add that. I’ll warn you, strange clauses can invalidate the entire prenup.

That’s fine with me. Then I guess we’re done.

Troy looks a little out of his element. We don’t have anything to put in a prenup yet.

Oh, okay. Jackson promised to find me a rent-controlled apartment and said I could keep any clothes I had left.

He points at my hand. Jewelry?

I stare at the ostentatious engagement ring. I don’t care about the jewelry.

Troy shakes his head. Right now, you believe in love. You think everything will work out fine. I’d hate to imagine years from now you find yourself out on the street, penniless, wishing you had taken my advice, while Jackson replaces you with a trophy wife.

I stare at the ring, twisting it from side to side on my finger. What would happen to me if in a couple of years Jackson decides he’s had enough of marriage? Should I ask for the jewelry? I could probably sell this ring for enough money to retire on.

All right. I’ll keep any jewelry he gives me.

Troy’s fake smile is replaced with a real one. I feel manipulated, but what would Jackson do with jewelry except give it to another woman? Are we done?

Troy is on a roll now, and moves into fatherly-advice mode. I know this is uncomfortable, but it’s best to grab for security now, while you still have some power. If this was a messy divorce, we already know he has the best lawyers. You’d be stuck with second best, or worse.

That’s the problem with being snarky. The words come back to haunt you. I don’t want his money.

What about children? Does he want kids?

He mentioned it once. And when Jackson wants something…

Tom tosses the legal pad on his desk. I think it’s noble that you aren’t asking for any alimony. I can tell that you’re a strong, independent woman. Let’s say you have two kids. We can’t put any child support or custody clauses in a prenup. But think of the difference in lifestyles after the divorce. Who would your kids want to stay with? The mom who has to work full-time, and do the cooking and cleaning, or the billionaire dad who has all the cool toys. Why not ask for a million a year in alimony for each child you have together. For the sake of the children.

I hadn’t thought of kids. What if we had twins, and he divorced me when they were in the terrible twos? Could I even work full-time, or would I only see them on the weekends? I see two pairs of eyes crying when they have to stay with me, screaming for Daddy to not let the bad woman take them. Okay, alimony if there are children. But not a million. I’ll have to think about a number.

I’ll do the first draft, and we can review it.

That’s my cue to stand. I don’t want him putting any more doubts about this marriage in my head. I open his office door, but his voice makes me pause in the threshold.

Really, a million per child is perfectly reasonable in the situation. I’ve made a career out of counseling people who once believed that Jackson was human. I’d hate for you not to benefit from my expertise with the Assassin.

I hate that nickname, and I’m sick to death of people thinking the worst about Jackson. We’re the only ones here, so I shout, Since your former client tried to run me over with a car and smother me to death, I think your track record of judging humanity is a little off.

I stomp down the hall and see Jackson sitting in the waiting room, grinning from ear to ear. He stands up and gives me a kiss before he looks over my shoulder. Hello, Troy.

I didn’t realize Troy was behind me. Jackson smiles and points to the table. I see you set the stage.

That’s why the magazines were pristine. He just went out and bought every one with a messy divorce on the cover.

Troy laughs it off. It’s just a coincidence. High-profile marriages are harder to keep together.

Especially with lawyers like you around, Jackson adds.

I’ve heard enough of this bickering. I take Jackson’s hand. I didn’t expect you to be waiting for me.

Jackson wraps his arm around me. It’s a good thing I got here early. I thought your meeting would take longer.

Obviously you didn’t because you were here waiting for me.

Jackson just smiles.

Your bride-to-be is a very trusting woman, Troy says. I hope she won’t regret it.

Jackson takes my hand. I’m sure she won’t, he says as we head for the elevator. The receptionist doesn’t look so put-out while she stares at my fiancé.

Once on the elevator, he pushes me into the corner but I cross my arms over my chest to block him getting too close. Why didn’t you tell me that he was Brad Stone’s lawyer?

Oh, didn’t I mention that?

You know you didn’t.

He grabs my wrists, prying my arms open and leaning into me. I’m sure he told you what a terrible person I am.

He tried!

Jackson chuckles. The highlight of my week was seeing you storm out of Troy’s office.

I realize the game now. You sent me there on purpose.

He drapes his arm around my shoulder. I doubt he’s ever met someone who had anything good to say about me. Did you take any of his advice?

I believe there’s something called lawyer-client confidentiality.

He stares at me, studying my face. Then he smiles and kisses me. I bet you drove him crazy.

That’s why you sent me there? To drive us both crazy?

I sent you there for the advice of an experienced lawyer familiar with me. Not that any of it matters. Divorce won’t ever be an issue, so you can stop tugging on your ring.

The elevator doors open, and I see the car outside the lobby. Jackson opens the door and slides in behind me. He runs his fingers through my hair and extracts a piece of tinsel. What’s this?

A souvenir.

Jackson looks down at the bench seat and starts to pick up small shards of colored glass that must have fallen from my coat. What the hell were you doing?

Last-minute shopping can be dangerous. I attempt to change the subject. What did you do today?

Jackson doesn’t say anything. He just holds up the tinsel and the pieces of glass, and gives me the I’m waiting stare.

I fell on some Christmas trees.

His eyes widen. How do you fall— You know what, I don’t want to know. He drops the items on the floor of the limo, crosses his arms, and stares ahead. For about five seconds. No. Tell me. Explain how you managed to fall on Christmas trees.

I was shopping for your gift, and I can’t tell you more because it’s a surprise. Instead of staring at his glaring expression, I glance out the window. We are on the freeway, and that’s not how we get home from here. Where are we going?

I can’t tell you because it’s a surprise, is all he says, before we both lapse into silence.

When we take the exit for the airport, I try not to smile. I bet we’re going to Paris for Christmas! That’s why he had me get a passport in September. How did I not know if he’s been planning this since then? I’m a better snoop than that!

We bypass the terminal and drive to a private hanger near the runway. Security waves us through, and we stop in front of his private jet. There are already people pulling our luggage out of the trunk, and I snatch the Lego box from the porter before I lose track of it.

Jackson wraps his arms around me from behind, grabbing the box and giving it a couple of shakes. I swat his hands and step out of his reach.

He’s wearing a predatory grin. Feels heavy. What’s inside?

Coal. That’s what bad boys get.

He steps closer. Bad boys get a lot more than that.

Not this Christmas. All your other gifts are still in Our Place.

He swings my duffel bag from behind his shoulder. The ones you hid in this? I brought them. He hands the luggage to one of the crew.

You were snooping?

You know I hate surprises. He stares at the box in my hands. They were already wrapped, so your secrets are still safe.

I give the Legos a bear hug. You’re not going to see this one until tomorrow.

He chuckles. We’ll see. He steps closer, his breath hot against my neck. I bet you’d beg me to open your present if I put my mind to it.

It’s his tone, more than the words, that makes my body shudder (in a good way). Jackson easily snatches the box from my grip and heads to the plane.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and when I finally catch up, he’s already at the back. Opening the door to the bedroom, he disappears inside. I give the flight attendant a quick nod when she greets me, and run after him.

He is stowing the package in a closet, and I’m glad to see it’s still wrapped in the plastic bags. Jackson sits on the bed, the same one that got me a membership in the mile-high club. He opens a latch on the headboard and the inside compartment is filled with wrapping paper, tape, ribbon, and scissors. I assumed you might have left things for the last minute.

He made this my own private gift-wrapping room. I don’t know why twenty dollars’ worth of gift-wrapping supplies makes me feel so close to him right now. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe it’s knowing we’re headed to Paris, or maybe it’s just the thoughtfulness that makes me feel supported. Whatever the cause, if we’re going to be on this plane for ten hours, I have plenty of time to show my appreciation. I plop down on his lap and give him a kiss.

If this is what I get for buying wrapping paper, I can’t imagine what you’ll do when you see your real gifts. He gives me a kiss on my forehead. Let’s get set for takeoff. The sooner we leave, the sooner we arrive.

We take our seats, and I snuggle up against him. This is the part of the holidays I love best. That little space in time where all the cards and gifts have been sent, the stores have closed, and there are no more tasks needing my attention. Then I remember there’s a raw turkey in the fridge. How long are we going to be in Paris? Should I call Robert and ask him to move it to the freezer? I hate to waste food. Especially considering I spent a fortune on one of those organic, free range, minimally processed, fresh ones. It breaks my heart to think of that bird living a pampered, sheltered life only to end up in the trash.

I smell smoke so you must be thinking, Jackson purrs.

I’m just trying to guess your nefarious plan.

There’s nothing nefarious going on here. I’m just abducting you and forcing you to be my sex slave. The same as always.

Should I struggle?

If you want. But I’d much rather hear you beg.

Well, maybe if you’re good, Santa will bring you that gift.

Then I’ll be very, very good.

I doubt that.

Once we’re airborne, I peer out the window. We’re flying over land rather than