“Nah. It’s a Jesse Scott’s Night Off.”
“It would be if I could go buy that organ from the Met,” Jesse grumbles.
We rent skates and stumble onto the ice. “Jingle Bells” plays over the speakers, and the air smells like cinnamon and Christmas. A lady sails across the ice, spinning and doing fancy jumps. Showoff. Does she think this is the Olympics or something? (Okay, okay, I’d totally do those jumps if I knew how.)
Jesse and I trip and fall around the rink, laughing our asses off, and he pulls me into his arms beneath a towering, sparkling Christmas tree. He tries to twirl me in a circle, but our feet slip every which way. We grab each other to stay upright and share a long kiss.
“This moment is worth coming to New York,” I say. Worth every moment I spent working at Caldwell’s, worth selling my Suzuki.
Then Jesse announces we’re going to this place that makes “big-time bread pudding.”
The bread pudding utopia turns out to be a southern-style diner called Mama’s. Tons of pictures of mothers are crammed on the walls—and not only famous mamas like Queen Elizabeth, Kate Middleton, and Hillary Rodham Clinton, but regular ole people too.
Jesse hands me a cup of bread pudding while I study photo after photo. “I want to give them a picture of my mom,” I say.
Jesse points at the wall with his spoon. “My mom would probably say all these mamas are sinners.”
“I’m sorry about your parents, Jess. What they did to you on Thanksgiving was awful. What they’ve been doing to you for forever is awful.”
He slowly spoons pudding into his mouth and nods.
I scoot to the other side of the table to sit beside him. “When are you gonna realize your uncle adores you? That Mr. Logan adores you? And Holly? And me?
“I’m sorry, Jess. I know the situation with your parents is complicated. But you can’t quit the business because of them. You love music. And God gave you a gift. It’s time you start owning it.”
He drums his fingers on the table, eyes watering. With a sad look on his face, he spoons another bite into his mouth. He must be upset, because no one in their right mind could eat this bread pudding and frown at the same time.
“And if you want to quit to have a life, I think you’ve already got one. Tonight was great.”
A small smile. “I am happy these days.”
I decide to change the subject to lighten the mood. “I’m leaving you for Liam the sexy piano player.”
“Well, then I’m becoming a roadie for the boarding school babe.”
“Wait, what? Who are you talking about?”
“You know, the girl I turned the lights out on? The one with the French braids? I’ll be in charge of her little plaid skirts.”
“Have fun with that.”
Jesse whispers in my ear, “Remember that little black skirt and corset you wore the day you shadowed me? God, it drove me crazy.” He feeds me some pudding and kisses my nose stud.
Then his phone rings. He massages my inner thigh as he speaks. “Hey, Mark… Eating bread pudding… No, I didn’t try to buy the organ… I dunno, a bunch of underwear and bread pudding and a stuffed penguin.” Jesse suddenly looks up at me, grinning. “This was the best day ever.”
When he’s off the phone with his manager, he says, “No word from Charles and the producers.” He runs a fingertip up and down my arm, making me shiver with pleasure. “Do you want to go to my hotel and relax?”
• • •
Jesse keeps me close as we cross the sidewalk to the Peninsula. I can see why he likes being in New York—people still stare and paparazzi still snap photos of him as bellmen whip open the doors to the hotel, but everybody keeps their distance for the most part.
A bellman gives a slight bow. “Welcome, Mr. Scott.”
“Thanks.”
In the lobby, I tug off my mittens as I gaze at the chandeliers, the grand staircase, and a twinkling Christmas tree. A man—presumably a manager—rushes out from behind the front desk, shiny black shoes clicking on the marble floor, and accompanies us to the elevator, shielding us from onlookers. The man gives Jesse a key card and shakes his hand. We ride the elevator to the very top floor, and then we’re alone in front of a set of double wooden doors. His hotel room.
Jesse opens the door for me, and I hesitate. “My mom and brother are probably online looking at pictures of us entering the hotel right now.”
“We don’t have to stay here.” He slips the key card in his wallet. “I can take you back to your mom.”