I do not own Grey's Anatomy… apparently, no one does.

Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 5: Best Thing I Never Had

I stood just beyond the closed door after Jackson bid me goodnight and peeked out at him as he headed for his car and I can't stop ogling. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he appears to almost float down the stairs at a carefree pace. If this were a 1940's musical, I'd expect him to break out in song and dance any minute now. His head held high, he glances back one last time and if I'm not mistaken, I see him smirk triumphantly.

His car door closes, and I wait until it disappears out of sight before I bound up the stairs to my apartment. I am positively giddy and can barely open my own door as I fumble with the key ring. Once I'm safe in my space, I lean against the door and lazily slide down, feeling as if I could practically melt onto the floor. My heart is beating wildly, and I can't keep this stupid smile off my face. I'm sure my cheeks are colored an impossibly bright shade of red am I'm thankful that Jackson's not here to witness it. This had to have been one of, if not the best first dates I've been on in… forever. Jackson Avery is surely not the man I thought him to be. Of course, he's handsome, debonair and the perfect gentleman. He comes from a good family and has excellent breeding, so I wouldn't have expected anything less. But, he's also nice, funny and giving. That's something I'd never read printed about him in the tabloids and I suspect he doesn't share that part of himself with many people so to know that he trusted me, someone he barely knows, touched me deeply.

I'll admit, I was mistaken when we first met when I spouted all those horrible things I thought about him. My assumptions were clearly wrong, and I feel a pang of guilt for jumping to the conclusion that I knew exactly who he was. He's nothing like I pictured him at all and I have to wonder to myself why he actively chooses to let the public think he is this irresponsible, chauvinistic, womanizing playboy. Something tells me that I've only scratched the surface as to the person he truly is and the journalist in me can't help but be curious. I make it a point to try and keep my career and personal lives separate, but it's hard for that not to bleed over into my work, but I know that my date with Jackson will be something that won't make the pages of Sasse.

Just as I'm about to stand up off the floor, I feel the door press against me and panic only for a second before I roll my eyes in realization that it can only be one person forcing their way in. Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken her this long to make her way down to get the scoop. Actually, I wouldn't have been shocked at all if she'd met me on the front landing like an overprotective parent who impressionable virgin daughter is late coming home from a date.

"God, your finally home. Do you know how long I've been up waiting for you?" she barks at me, "I'm missing out on precious hours of beauty sleep. Not that I need it. I'm gorgeous."

"Hello to you to, Cristina," I respond in a honeyed tone knowing that it irks her.

"Yeah, yeah. Enough with all that. Tell me how your evening with Prince Charming went," she demands as she walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of water, then makes herself at ease on the couch.

She glares at me with, rapt in anticipation of what I have to say and like two teenage girls gossiping about the boy they like, I can't wait to tell her about him.

I kick off my high heels, hitch up my dress and sit cross-legged facing her.

"I don't even know how to describe it. He was not what I expected. I mean, I know his reputation, well, at least I thought I did, but this Jackson, the Jackson that I was with tonight was nothing like I'd imagined," I relay to her as she listens to me attentively.

"He was engaging and open when he talked about himself. He listened to me and seemed really interested in what I had to say. We talked about our families, about the work we do, about… everything. Honestly, it was refreshing. I know I prejudged him, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was expecting for some of my misconceptions about him to creep out, but they didn't," I say in amazement.

"So, did he talk about all those hot women he dates? Did you tell him about your dating dry spell? What delicious little details did he confess. C'mon, Red, spill," she asks greedily and almost expect her to rub her hands together manically.

"Like I said, we talked about a lot of things. How different our lives were growing up, extracurricular activities, I don't know, lots of stuff, but thankfully, our love lives wasn't one of them," I happily confess.

"Extracurricular activities? Who do you think you're talking to? Give me the juice. I know he told you more than that. I can tell by the look in your eye. You're holding out on me? Your best friend in the world? I'm offended," she says and pouts for effect.

I debate divulging what Jackson told me about his work in lower income communities, but wisely reconsider.

"You're right, he did share something with me in confidence and Cristina you know I'd tell you just about anything, but this is something I think I'll keep just between him and me," I say forthright and knowing she's my friend, I'm not worried that she'll take that as a slight.

It's then that she covers her mouth with one hand and points to me with one black, manicured finger.

"Oh my God! You like him," she shouts as if we're standing a hundred feet apart and not practically in each other's laps.

"Well, yeah. I thought that would be pretty obvious," I state flatly.

"No. I mean you really, really like him," she teases as if she's five years old, "Red, are you thinking about finally dropping your panties and letting him get up in there."

"Oh, God, Cristina. Why do you have to be so crass? No! I'm not. We've been on one date and that's the furthest from what was on my mind tonight."

"You are such a fucking liar. I can see it written all over your face," she declares and begins to taunt me in a singsong manner, "You want him to kiss you. You want to touch him. You want him naked."

"Shut up," I shout, but can't manage to keep a straight face as I begin to laugh at her childish antics as she begins to hump the air as if simulating sex.

"Well, at least tell me this," she asks after our laughter dies down, "Did he at least try to feel you up on the ride home?"

I shake my head at her in exasperation, "No, he didn't. He respected the boundaries, but he did kiss me goodnight."

"Ooh, now this is getting good. What did his lips feel like? He looks like he's be a really good kisser," she asks eagerly.

"How should I know?" I admit truthfully, "He kissed me on the cheek."

Her expression is blank as she ponders my words.

"On the cheek. Are you kidding me? What in the Mormon kind of hell is that a way to end a date?" she demands to know.

"I thought it was sweet," I exclaim, "Most guys would get all alpha male and wouldn't even hesitate to try and kiss me on the mouth, but Jackson, he's different."

"Jesus Christ, you're already falling for this guy," she pronounces as if her word is law.

"I am not," I state emphatically, but I'm not even sure if I buy what I've just uttered myself.

Just as I'm about to refute her claim further, my cell phone dings and my body practically vibrates when I pick it up to look at the screen and see I have a message from Jackson.

Cristina must be able to read it all over my face as I'm sure the faint smile painted on my lips is a clear indication.

"It's him, isn't it?" she asks but doesn't wait for me to answer as she snatches the phone from my fingers.

"Oh, isn't this cute," she mocks, then starts to read his message with I assume is her attempt to sound male.

"Thank you for the lovely date. I had a great time. Hope we can do it again, soon."

Before I can reach for the cell to see it his words, she takes it upon herself to respond.

"Wait, what are you writing?" I ask fearfully. It's not that Cristina would text back something filthy, but she's not about being making the situation a tad uncomfortable for me.

"Mind your own business. This is between me and your new boyfriend," she retorts as she types away furiously.

It only takes a second for him to reply to whatever it is she wrote as the ding fires back quickly.

Cristina chuckles and starts typing again and I'm filled with anxious energy.

"You'd better not be writing anything dirty. I'll kill you," I state with ferocity, but my threat is empty as they always are when it pertains to her.

"Don't worry, your puritanical status will remain intact," she says as she waves me off, "I'm just being coquettish. Got to make him really want you."

She sends the last message and when he replies, she hands the phone back over to me, evil grin in place.

I can barely contain myself as I scroll back to the top to see what transpired and as I start at the beginning of the chain.

Received 11:00 PM – Thank you for the lovely date. I had a great time. Hope we can do it again, soon.

Sent 11:02 PM – I had a really great time, too. I'd like to do it again soon as well.

Received 11:04 PM – Would it be okay if I called you in the next few days to set something up?

Sent 11:05 PM – I'd be perfectly fine with that.

Received 11:05 PM – Okay, then. Talk to you soon.

Sent 11:06 PM – Goodnight, Jackson.

Received 11:06 PM – Goodnight, beautiful.

I know I'm cheesing but I can't help myself. I feel like a teenager with a crush and I don't care who knows.

"You jerk!" I yell at Cristina then bat her on the arm once I realize that she hadn't written anything bad at all.

I go back to the text and review it all again when she interrupts me.

"Hey, Red. You know I'm so happy that you had a nice time with him, but April, I need you to hear this," she pleads, and I know what she has to say is serious. She never calls me April unless she wants my full and undivided attention.

"This all seems wonderful and he sounds like a great guy, but you've been on one date. I don't want you getting ahead of yourself. You haven't opened yourself up to a man in a long time and I don't want you to get hurt."

Her words are sincere, and, in this moment, I realize why she's my best friend.

I lean forward and embrace her in a hug and unsurprisingly she maintains my crushing hold for only for a seconds before wiggling free. Cristina isn't the expressive type and that she even allowed that much intimacy, even between us just proves how strong our bond is.

"Well, I'm gonna head back upstairs. I'll talk to you tomorrow," she announces as she closes the cap on her water bottle and places it on the end table.

"Alright," I say and shake my head in amusement. The idea that she would put her unused portion of water back in the fridge is comical at best.

Just before she leaves, her hand on the knob, I tell her, "You know I love you, right?"

And in typical Cristina fashion, she replies, "Bitch, you'd better," before shutting the door behind her.

I throw my head back onto the headrest and relive the night over again in my mind. I'm almost sad that it had to end but asking him to come upstairs would have been highly inappropriate and the last thing I want to do is lead him on.

I know I haven't dated much lately, but I'm not unschooled in how it all works. After getting to know him better, Jackson doesn't seem the type to expect me to have sex with him the first night, but that doesn't mean he'd turn down the offer. But Cristina's right. I can't afford to go gaga over him. As far as I know, this could all be an act. A ruse to get my defenses down so he can bed me and add me to the long list of women he's rumored to have concurred.

I immediately deny my traitorous thoughts because in my heart of hearts, I feel this is far from the truth. Jackson wore no mask and I believe that he has been more real with me tonight then he has in a long time with anyone and I'm hopeful at the idea that he cares enough to be honest with me.

I hoist myself up off the sofa and put Cristina's half drank water away. It'll be there for her in the morning when she comes down to visit me.

I doublecheck the locks on the door then turn out the lights and head for my bedroom. Placing my shoes back into their designation spot in on the rack, I slip out of my dress and pull a pair of comfy pajama bottoms and a camisole out of the bureau drawer. It's Saturday tomorrow and I don't have anything big planned, so I don't bother setting my alarm, hoping to get in a few good hours of uninterrupted sleep in before I take on the day.

I start out on my side, but it only takes me a minute before I'm lying on my back as my brain won't allow me to rest. I know what or rather who is on my mind and I know that if I try and force myself not to think about him, I'll never fall asleep.

So, I give into my desires and reflect on how good he looked tonight dressed in his suit which seemed as if it were tailor made to fit just for him. I remember how he smelled when he leaned in to kiss my cheek. He smelled of spice and leather and it made my head spin at how intoxicating it was. And though it was brief, when he took my hand and led me to our table, I reveled in how strong and comforting his hand felt in mine. His laugh was so infectious that I couldn't envision how anyone could hear it and not join in. His smile with his perfect white teeth and how he would sometimes give me this lopsided grin was too adorable for words. The smoky tone when he spoke. Not in the way of someone who has partaken in too many cigarettes, but smoky as in sexually attractive in a mysterious way with the slightest of lisps that I found captivating. His lips which oh so briefly met my cheek were so soft that I prayed to the heavens above that I would get the chance to feel them pressed against mine. But his eyes. His eyes are what drew me in. Yes, they're gorgeous with their coloring somewhere between blue and green, but that's not what entranced me. There was something behind them. A complexity that somehow bared his soul to anyone who dared look close enough and I wanted that person to be me.

Suddenly the room feels too hot. My clothes to binding and I know the reason why. I'm aroused, and this feeling isn't going to go away. I brazenly slip one hand beneath the cotton fabric and place the pad of my middle finger on my clit. I rub it at a delightfully slow pace as I intend on making this sensation last.

I fantasize about Jackson watching me. His hands all over my body. His long and I have no doubt, talented fingers touching me in places no man has ever before. I've been groped plenty of times, but anything below the belt has been strictly forbidden. This is probably the first in a long time that I've entertained the idea of tossing my principles. It's not that I'm opposed to the idea of having sex. Far from it. I just want it to happen when I believe I'm ready and with the right guy.

I start to pant as I reach a fevered pitch, the sensation building, and I never want it to stop. With my other hand, I reach under my top and pinch my nipple hard when without warning, I scream out, "Jackson," unabashedly into the night, my body twitching as I cum. It takes me longer than normal to come down from this natural high, but I eventually drift off to the best sleep I've had in ages.

I wake the next morning at nine, refreshed and ready to start the day. I yawn, stretch my arms over my head, then close my eyes so that I can clearly picture Jackson's face and ponder what it would be like to wake the real him next to me and titter as the thought of it warms me. I get up from the bed and walk over to the window and gaze out onto the street below. I am greeted with pedestrians already up and moving and a temperature that is fitting for the season. New York weather can be erratic at times, but this morning, the sun is shining amidst a cloudless sky and I wait because I'm sure any second now, birds will show up on my windowsill to whistle a jaunty tune.

I'm in the shower when I hear the front door slam and Cristina calls out to me, "Hurry, I've got coffee!"

She's right on schedule and it doesn't take me long to dry off and get dressed then meet her at the dining table where she has the newspaper already spread out, a cream cheese Danish crammed in her mouth as crumbs falls out when she speaks.

"So, how long before I left did you think about pretty boy and rub one out?" she questions without a hint of jocularity.

I'm about to contest her assumption when it dawns on me who I'm talking to, "Not long," I concede.

"Not surprising," she states vehemently, "So, what's on your agenda today, Red?"

"Not much," I say with a shrug, "Errands. Working on a new article. Gonna call my mom and sisters to catch up. The usual. You?"

"Got a date tonight," she tells me and wriggles her eyebrows for effect.

"Anyone I know?" I ask.

"Nah. It's this new guy I met on the subway. I've been sizing him up for a few weeks and he seems harmless enough, but I'll be sure to vet this one. I don't need any more conveniently married men with kids in my life," she says with a huff.

"Well, like you told me, be careful and just in case, my stun gun is always at the ready," I state, and we laugh at the memory of Owen running down the stairs.

We chat a while longer before she leaves to attend to her own errands. It's almost ten o'clock and I don't want to waste such a picturesque day, so I take care of the mundane tasks that need completion before venturing outside. I clean up the mess Cristina left behind, then wipe down the kitchen counters, sweep the wood floors, vacuum the rugs, clean my bathroom, then gather any miscellaneous items I see strewn around. My place all neat and tidy, I bag my clothes for the drycleaner, make a quick shopping list and take the half empty trash to put in the garbage can by the stoop.

I stroll around the neighborhood as I make my stops and say hello to the faces I recognize. There's this misconception that people in New York aren't friendly. Well, it's not that they particularly are, it's only that people are so busy being, busy that the everyday niceties escape them. But those amongst my community have seen me enough and sometimes I can't stop that small-town farm girl from seeping through.

By the time I make it home, it's after two. I know my mom's probably been up since dawn because even on the weekends, I can count on my parents to get up with the chickens. I dial her number and the joy in her voice when she learns it's me makes happy. I try to talk to my mom at least twice a week, but she knows my life can be hectic, but being so far away from home, I don't like her to think that there's not one moment I don't miss them. My father isn't much of a talker so when she lets him know it's me, I can hear him in the distant say, "Hey bean. I miss you," before he saunters off to do whatever it was he was doing before my mother's brief interruption halted him.

My mom updates me on all the happenings from home. Who got married. Who got divorced. Who's having a baby. Who the new talk of the town is, but before long as expected, she asks me if there is someone special in my life. It's far to soon for me to talk about Jackson because I have no clue where this is going with us, so I don't even bring him up. Besides, though I don't believe in bad luck, to be on the safe side, I'm keeping the details about our dating close to the vest.

We talk for another hour before I call my sisters all in succession. The length of time on the phone with them varies depending on which kid of Libby's is hollering out to her help, whether Kimmie's husband will quit hovering and allow her to have a conversation in private without interjecting. He's not controlling, just nosy, and Alice who has plans to meet with friends and promises to call me later on in the week. So, when I'm done, I figure it's as good a time as any to labor on my own projects.

I grab my computer from my desk and take up my favorite spot on the chaise in my bedroom. I crack open the window open and take in a breath of fresh air and dive in. I've done the majority of my research for my take on, 'How Important is Sex to a Healthy Relationship?' Yes, I know, it's ironic, but I spend time researching, making observations from the people I know and my own relationships in the past and in the end, I'm ultimately pleased with what I've written so far.

I'm just about to tackle my perception of the perspective when I hear my phone ring. I have it face down on the floor next to me as not to distract me while I'm writing because I tend to get distracted when I see those notification pop up on my Twitter and IG feeds.

I hadn't been expecting any calls, so when I turn it over and see Jackson's name flashing across the screen, I drop it back to the floor as if it's burned me.

When he said he'd talk to me soon, I certainly hadn't expected him to call the very next day. Did guys do that, I wonder. I thought calling the next day was breaking some kind of guy code. At least that's the general consensus was anyway.

It's on it's forth ring and I'm sure he won't wait much longer so I hurriedly answer, sure that I sound out of breath, "Hello?"

"April. Hi, how are you?" he replies, and I'm already swooning.

"I-I'm good, thanks. How are you?" I ask him as I try hard to tamp down the waiver in my vocal cords.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," he continues, "but I was sitting here thinking about you and I know that I said I'd call and I hope this isn't weird that we just saw each other last night and I'm calling already and I assure you this isn't like me at all and I wanted to know if you'd like to have dinner with me Wednesday night, I mean if you're don't already have other plans and I know we just saw one another but…" he manages to say in one long breath as he trails off.

I cover my mouth with my hand as I snicker quietly to myself once he's finished. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he was nervous. The Jackson Avery I know of doesn't get nervous and I find it endearing that I have that effect on him. When he's done with his ramble of a statement, I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line awaiting my response. I don't intend on torturing him any longer, so I answer promptly.

"I just so happen to be free Wednesday night, so it's a date," I reply enthusiastically and subconsciously wonder if it's fitting that Wednesday is also known as hump day.

"That's great," he says, just as excitedly before continuing, "So, what are you up to today?"

"Oh, you know, the usual Saturday routine. Chores around the house. Errands to run. Nothing exciting I'm afraid. I just got off the phone with my mom and sisters not too long ago. As for now, I'm editing a story I'm working on. What about you?" I ask and pray that his day has been as uneventful as mine.

"Pretty much the same. Met my friend Ben at the gym and played some ball. Puttered around the house. Tonight, I'm attending a party at Jay Z's 40/40 Club to celebrate his new album. You know, hanging with all the beautiful people," he says with a sardonic chuckle.

Now that I know more about him, I understand that he attends a lot of these events not because he necessarily wants to, but because it's expected of him and I don't know why, but I'm instantly jealous thinking of all the women that will be surrounding him tonight.

He doesn't belong to me. We danced at a club opening and went on one date. I have no claim over him and it would be foolish of me to think that a man like him would go stag or at the least go home alone. I so badly want to ask him if he's taking a date but suppress my curiosity no matter how tempted I may be of the answer.

"That's supposed to be some event. Carina's been talking about that all week. Ad nauseum," I say and laugh hoping he can't hear the bitterness in my tone.

"Well, I already promised him I'd make an appearance," he states and if he had been reading my mind, tacks on, "I just hope that I can get in and out unnoticed because I really don't feel like being around people tonight. Well, certain people that is," he tells me, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

I don't know if he added that bit of information for my benefit, but I bow my head sheepishly at his implication that he wants to spend time with me.

"Alright then," he resumes, "I'll let you get back to your writing and text you Monday with details on where we'll be meeting."

"Can't wait," I say honestly, "Bye, Jackson."

"Goodbye, April," he says ending the call, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear.

Something is happening between us. Something that neither of us expected and right now I don't know if that's if it's a good thing or not. Only time will tell.

I delve back into my work and continue for another hour and end the night in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn and watch Pitch Perfect 3 for the umpteenth time. Cristiana stopped in before her date for me to give her the once over and to borrow my red Steve Madden Daisie faux leather high heels. She always says that they are totally fuck me pumps and since I'm not putting them to good use, maybe she should. I know it's all talk. She rarely gives it up that quick.

The rest of my weekend is more of the same. Work. Television. I go for a run, then more work and vegging out in front of the television.

Monday at work my mood is upbeat. I'm already anticipating my date with Jackson on Wednesday and am busy plotting in my head what I should wear. I say good morning loudly enough for those in my vicinity to hear me as I walk in and present my assistant, Sarah with a freshly baked cinnamon raisin bagel I picked up for her from the deli next door.

"Good morning, April," she begins and talks in that rapid-paced fashion that I've become used to.

"I have your itinerary for the week and have updated your online calendar. I just need to know if you still plan on attending Women in Media luncheon so that I can send back your RSVP. You have a telephone call scheduled this afternoon at three with January Jones, and you wanted me to remind you to review the color copy of your upcoming column. Also, Addison postponed the nine-thirty meeting until ten-thirty and Carina has been calling for you nonstop," she concludes then looks to me for further instruction.

"Can you gather my notes from last week's staff meeting, prep my question list for this afternoon and make me a double expresso," I tell her as she trails me into my office.

As for Carina, I don't even bring acknowledge her. I know exactly what she wants, and it has nothing to do with work. She wants to know how my date with Jackson went Friday night and I know she'll be disappointed, but I don't plan on providing anything but the basic details. It's not that I don't like Carina or trust her. I just don't want to become the anonymous woman that Jackson Avery had been seen out to dinner with in her daily blog. Of course, she wouldn't do anything to harm or out me, but she has a job to do to and covering the rich and famous is part of it. One poor decision on my part to disclose the specifics of our evening together will surely do nothing to endear Jackson towards me and I will always strive to maintain the privacy of my relationships. I refuse to be her main source material.

I successfully end up avoiding Carina much of the day and even though she sits near me in the morning meeting, I avoid eye contact and doodle consistently when I'm not notating anything important to give the appearance of being occupied, yet she manages to trap me in the elevator as we leave for the day.

"Bella, you know I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. Have you been avoiding me?" she asks suspiciously.

"Of course not," I scoff in an attempt to play off the fact that I'd been ducking her, "You know how it is. Busy, busy, busy."

"You never told me how your date went with, Jackson. Where did he take you? What did you two talk about? Are you seeing him again?" she asks in rapt progression and I can't help but reason that this is the reporter in her coming out and not an interested friend.

"Yes, we went out. We went to Morimoto and as for the last part, that's none of your business," I impart with a wink.

"Sparare, you're no fun. I tried to corner Jackson the other night and let me tell you, he's just as secretive as you are," she whines.

Now, that was good news to my ears. Though he's widely known, he doesn't freely offer up details of his life and I know now that most of what people say about him is second-hand information, guesses or straight up lies.

She continues to talk exuberantly almost as if I'm not even there and I'm silently relieved when the elevator comes to a stop and we pour out into the lobby. I don't wait for her to corner me again and quickly way goodbye and hail a taxi for home to await Jackson's call.

It's a month later and I'm the happiest I've been in a long time. Jackson and I have been dating the entire time and we show no signs of slowing down. We've been out to dinners, clubs, art exhibits and he even surprised me with tickets to Hamilton. Dating him is an experience. While he is extremely wealthy, he doesn't fault it while still showing me the finer things. We haven't gotten anywhere near sleeping together, but we've definitely moved on from cheek kisses.

It was on our third date when he dropped me off at my home and at the top of my stairs before he turned to go he leaned in and planted one right on my lips. It didn't last long and was chaste, but it was by far the most erotic chaste kiss I'd ever had. In the moment, I had an internal debate as to whether to invite him upstairs but nixed that thought straightaway. It's not that I don't want him, I do, it's just that I didn't want to give him false hope. He's proven to be nothing but a gentleman, but I don't know how much longer my good girl routine is going to last. He doesn't seem to expect anymore than I'm willing to give but I know at some point he's going to attempt to move things forward and I have no clue as to what my reaction will be.

After that, it there was hand holding, then his hand placed on the small of my back as we walked, then an arm thrown over my shoulder and finally deeper and longer kisses. I believe things are progressing nicely but tonight, I fear I may be tested like never before.

Tonight, I'm meeting Jackson at his place for dinner. Over the course of the last several weeks, I learned so much about him and one of the more interesting is that he cooks. I mean, it's not by any means unusual to find a man that lives alone to make himself a meal, but I always figured him the type to eat out nearly every night or have a personal chef to do all his cooking. He told me that was skilled at making gourmet meals and wanted to show me personally what he could do.

Arriving at his building, I'm directed to the elevator where the operator uses a key to select the penthouse floor. As it ascends, I fidget uncertainly with my clutch. I'm not overly dressed as he said that this was going to be completely casual, but I hope that it's not too casual for his tastes. He's yet to see me dressed down and I think what I've selected to wear is appropriate.

I have on a pair of dark blue jeans that aren't tight but fit as if they were painted on. An ivory long sleeved silk charmeuse blouse that dips just low enough so that the top button clasps near my cleavage and a pair of black ballet flats. My hair is loose, but I've bumped the edges to give it some lift, but I didn't want it to look like I spent a lot of time on it. I want to give the impression that what I chose was an afterthought. That I'm carefree and go with the flow.

When the elevator stops I walk a few feet to the only door on the floor and it opens before I even have the chance to knock. Obviously, he'd been alerted of my arrival but the look on his face when he sees me causes me to blush. He doesn't' hesitate as he leans in to kiss me and at this point in our relationship, it's not strange for him to do so.

"Come in," he says ushering me inside and when I pass over the threshold, he comments on my outfit, "Wow, you look amazing."

I turn in the entrance and finally get a good look at him. He too is wearing jeans with an indigo blue vee neck tee that probably costs more than everything I have on put together and a pair of sneakers I don't recognize but I'm sure are expensive.

In other words, he looks hot.

"You can put your purse there," he suggests as he pointing to a mahogany accent chest against the wall.

Wordlessly I place it down and follow behind him.

"Well, this is it," he says spreading his arms wide, "Would you like a tour before I start cooking?"

I nod but find I'm speechless as he shows me around his domain. I mean, I've been to fancy homes before, but this is ridiculous. I have a very good salary and where I live is considered an affluent neighborhood. Addison lives in a townhouse she owns over on Park Place and I know she's worth somewhere in the tens of millions, but this, this is beyond my comprehension. Jackson's family worth is in the billions and this place surely attests to that fact.

He lives alone but he has five bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, terrace and God knows what other amenities come along with living in a building of this stature, but one of my favorite things about his penthouse is the view. It looks out over Central Park and there is a perfect view of the New York skyline. I'm awestruck to say the least.

He's proud of his place and I can tell that it's not due to vanity. He shows me some of the art he collected and has scattered around his home. I do find it odd that there is one room he omits from the tour, but I don't question it. If he wanted me to know what it was in there, he'd tell me.

I follow him into the kitchen and take a seat in a high bar chair where I see several ingredients spread out across the massive marble counter.

"My gosh," I express in amusement, "What are you making?"

"Well, I thought we'd start out with a Caprese Salad, then for the main course, a Salt-Baked leg of lamb with Olive Potatoes," he says with a flourish of his hand.

I giggle at his antics, "Mmm, that's sounds delicious and it smells wonderful."

"I hope so. I've never made this particular dish for anyone before so if it's bad, we can be sick together," he says, with fingers crossed.

"Why don't you pick out a wine," he says indicating the wine refrigerator that is completely stocked.

I amble over to the massive appliance and peer through the glass door until I see something that fancies me. I spy a Lafite-Rothschild that I've been dying to taste. It's a bit expensive for my budget, but I open the door and pull it from the shelf.

"Is this one okay?" I ask hopefully.

"Whatever you like is okay," he replies and gives me a toothy grin.

He opens a side drawer and passes me a wine cork. Magically, two wine glasses appear, and after I've opened it, I set the bottle down and let it breath for a few minutes before pouring the two of us a glass.

"Is there anything I can do to help," I inquire.

"You sure can," he says, and I can see the delight in eyes.

He goes to the pantry and takes out a white chef's apron for me. I come around the counter and before I can reach for it, he slips the loop over my head then wraps his arms around my back so that he can tie it.

I can't help but look up into his dazzling eyes as he secures the string into a tight bow. My own eyes are glued to him as he licks his lips and I feel a flash of heat wash over me.

To hell with it, I think and as I'm about to make a move, his arms move from around me and he turns back to the tomatoes he'd been slicing.

I don't know if I should be offended or relieved.

He hands me a knife and instructs me to cut the fresh mozzarella for the salad as he continues prepping for the course. I watch him intently as he cooks. The way his biceps flex as he stirs what's in the pan. His broad back that in encased beneath his form fitting shirt. His trim waist which begs my vision to travel lower to his ass that looks scrumptious in those jeans.

We talk about nothing in particular. I give him the scoop on what's new and happening coming this summer. According to my magazine, that is. We talk about a few movies that are coming out that we should go see. Eventually he takes over the conversation and I know he's talking to me, but I can't help but visualize what he looks like naked and am startled when he calls out my name for what I'm sure isn't the first time.

"Ready?" he asks as he brandishes two plates full of what he has now dubbed as his signature dish.

I carry the salad and we take a seat at the kitchen table. It seats eight, is made of exotic wood and is anything but subtle. He says it's less formal than the dining room and thinks we'd be more comfortable.

He takes the seat at the head of the table, so I have no choose to sit right next to him and I think that was his plan all along. I think it's cute that when hi shoe keeps brushing against mine and it reminds me of what kids do when they're trying to let the other person know they want to be near.

He asks me about my week at and I fill him in on all the exciting and not so exciting details, but what impresses me the most is that he doesn't seem bored at all when he's listening to me. He takes in every word, commenting when appropriate and asks thought provoking questions. It's then that I remember that Jackson's job isn't to be a man about town. He manages several real estate holdings for his family so he's extremely intelligent. He then tells me all about the wheeling and dealings he's done the past week and though I don't know much about real estate, I can tell he's versed on the topic, but also note that his heart isn't really in it. There's something about the inflection he uses when he speaks about it. It's something he must do, not something he loves.

As I start in on the lamb, the fork raised halfway from the plate, I sense him observing me.

He jerks his chin, giving me the go ahead to taste it and I say a silent prayer that it isn't disgusting because the last thing I want to do tonight is disappoint him.

I chew hungrily and scrunch my forehead as if I'm thinking seriously about it. I'm only teasing him of course as he waits patiently for my review.

"So, how is it?" he asks with bated breath.

"It's… it's scrumptious," I say and take another huge bite as proof.

I can tell he's pleased as he inches closer and busses me on the corner of my mouth and the act is so intimate almost choke.

We continue to eat dinner and throughout I can't help but notice how much he's flirting with me tonight. Half-lidded gazes and lingering looks. He's hardly taken his eyes off me. He holds my free hand in his and at one point even lifts it to kiss my palm.

Yes, we've kissed, we've embraced, we've danced so closely that I couldn't tell you where my body began and his ended, but tonight, it's different and I'm vexed.

By the time we're finished diner, I'm content and he suggests we move into the living room. I settle on the supple leather couch as he picks up a remote and turns on some music. Instantaneously, the sounds of Sade fill the room as he refills our glasses with wine then takes a seat next to me.

This is certainly new for us. It's nothing like sitting at the dinner table or next to each other at the theatre. We're the only two people in this room and there are no obstacles between us.

We're slightly turned toward each other but neither of us say anything and then I know without question tonight's the night. It's going to happen and I'm remiss to stop it. As if reading my mind, he takes the glass from my me and places it along with his on the coffee table.

One hand braced lightly on my cheek, he ducks his head and kisses me, and I swear to God, I see sparks. Our lips part and he presses his nose lightly against mine and looks to me for approval. My throat constricts but I bob my head giving him permission to continue.

He kisses me again and makes his way from my lips, across my jawline to my cheek, then my ear where he nibbles on the lobe. My pulse quickens, and my body vibrates. I'm so turned on that I don't know what to do with my hands. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not a child. I've been in this position before, so I swallow as best I can with dry a mouth and plant my hands on his waist. All I can feel is his tight muscles as they shift when my fingertips dance across his abs. The next thing I know he moves and advances so it's on my neck and when he opens his mouth wider and laves his tongue over my pulse point, I can't help the salacious moan that erupts from somewhere deep down below.

He takes it as a sign that I welcome what he's doing to me and I do. This only makes him grow bolder and as his right hand is busy cradling my face, his left hand slowly slides down the silk material of my blouse and his fingers brush accidentally against my breast, I assume as it traverses until he takes a firm grip on my ass.

He draws up together even closer if that's possible, then suddenly, he's suddenly me again. This time, he uses his tongue to gently part my lips and unexpectedly, all I taste is him. It's not the lingering herbs from the food we ate or the full-bodied notes from the wine. What I'm discerning is all Jackson and Lord help me, but I want more.

I tug at the shirt and pull it from the waistband of his jeans. He takes my cue and peels it from his body to reveal himself and I'm confronted with a vision. He's all caramel skin and sculpted physique and all I wanna do is take a bite.

I take the lead and kiss him, but something changes. I feel my body tilt backward and before I realize it, I'm flat on my back.

He hovers over me and uses his teeth to gnaw his lower lip, "Now you, April Kepner. You are delicious."

I let out the tiniest of squeaks as he makes a path from my lips to my neck then to my collarbone and until his own lips are planted against my breastbone.

I'm panting heavily by this point, my eyes darting erratically in every direction in as I try to find something I can focus on to ground me.

This is a natural part of the progression in a relationship I affirm. I mean, we haven't explicitly stated what we are to each other, but this what we are is far from casual. It's only normal that he expects at some point I would want to consummate the relationship. But when his fingers grace the top button of my shirt and he pops it open, I panic.

I'm scared. Not of him or of the thought of having sex, I don't know, just afraid. I'm sandwiched between him and the couch and I feel like I'm sinking under water and I can't breathe. Suddenly, he feels way to heavy and I push him away from me and stand, trying desperately to rebutton my shirt.

I must look a frantic mess because his lips are pursed in confusion and he's scrutinizing me as if he's never seen me before.

"April are you okay?" he asks, and I can tell that he's concerned.

"Ye-Yes," I say as I begin to stammer, "I just remembered I have something I need to take care of."

"What? Take care of. It's nine o'clock. Where are you going?" he asks and I'm sure he's even more perplexed.

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well. It just came over me all of a sudden," I mutter, unable to keep my lies straight.

As I start to take off, he grasps my forearm gently and turns me so that I'm facing him.

"April, did I do something wrong?" he wonders and the confusion that is written so plainly on his face nearly breaks me.

"No, no. Not at all. I promise. You've done nothing wrong. I- I have to go," I say as I stumble over my own feet.

"April, please," he begs, "just talk to me. If I offended you or moved to fast, I apologize. I would never do anything to upset you."

"You haven't Jackson," I say hoping that it's enough of an explanation, but don't wait for him to ask me more as I hurry for the front hall, snatch my clutch off the table and damn near run for the elevator.

I push the button frantically as if that will make it come any faster. I'm worried that he'll try to stop me, but I notice that by the time the elevator arrives, and the doors close behind me, he hasn't stepped out to follow me at all.

As we descend, I try to maintain my composure but furiously wipe a tear that has fallen. Went I get to the lobby, the doorman hails a cab for me and it's only when I'm safely in the backseat that I allow myself to cry.

I am so angry with myself. Angry, embarrassed and ashamed. I left him standing there with no justification for my behavior. I could have told him weeks ago that I not that I was a virgin, but that I didn't think I'd be ready to have a sexual relationship with him anytime soon. It's not like he ever pressured me, but now he probably thinks I'm some frigid bitch who's just been stringing him along.

When the taxi stops in front of my place, I pay the cabbie, not bothering to wait for my change and rush the stairs. I know Cristina's out for the night, so I have no one's shoulder to cry on. I pray that any moment now my phone will ring, and it'll be Jackson, but as I sit in the dark of my bedroom, my wishes go unanswered. I'm too much of a coward to call him myself so I cry until there's no tears left.

I fear I may have ruined everything, and it hurts more than I could have ever imagined because I think I've fallen in love with him.

A/N: Chapter Title Song – Best Thing I Never Had by Beyoncé

Italian translations:

Bella – Beautiful

Sparare – Shoot