Jack surreptitiously watched Lydia walk out, her generous ass and hips in that tight gold-encrusted satin doing a number on his libido. Ramona was still laughing and telling Sebastian what great taste he had in women.
"She's not my girlfriend," Sebastian drawled absently. "Friend of a cousin who happened to become my friend too."
"Oh, that's nice! Not often you can be friends with your family's friends. Or friends' friends." And Ramona was off again. Her mouth, that was.
Jack was still reeling from that slam-dunk, which was not only hilarious but had saved him from having to deal with a cat fight between two women he'd had sex with.
"She's funny," Jack said vaguely, turning back to his meal when Ramona pressed him for an opinion. Oh, he had an opinion. He just didn't know what it was yet.
"Adorably cute, too, but not your type."
"Nope," Jack affirmed firmly. Whether she was asking for reassurance or stating a fact, he didn't know. "Hey, look, I need to get back to the office, but I need the walk. Ramona?"
"Oh, Sebastian can take me home."
Jack's lips pursed. Sebastian's mouth tightened.
Ramona was going the way of Paula. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.
"Bye, Jack!" Ramona trilled.
"Yeah. I'll be over tonight." With a parting gift.
He left the restaurant and headed down the street to walk off some of his tension and sort out his confusion about this person he was attracted to in spite of the fact that she wasn't dumb or opportunistic, wasn't beautiful or leggy or blonde blonde—a blowup doll—he smiled a little—could out-bitch the best without breaking a sweat, and had culture running out her ears.
Yesterday, she'd been thrilled to meet him in spite of the fact that he was rude, crude, and socially unacceptable except for the suit. They'd had a good time together at lunch, talking, dancing around the sexual tension that surrounded them like a thick fog.
Until he'd fucked it up.
And continued fucking it up until now all he wanted to do was punch something.
Jack went by boutiques selling overpriced tchotchkes and purses. He went by a little coffee shop selling expensive coffee that was worth every penny and more. He went by a little chocolate shop selling overpriced but average chocolate.
Fuck it. He needed a shot of chocolate so badly he'd take a Hershey's bar.
So he headed in and stopped at the case, staring down at it, his hands in his pockets, ignoring the people around him.
"Hi."
He looked up, straight into Lydia Charbonneau's plain gray eyes. "Hi." He hadn't been following her, but he wasn't completely surprised to see her. Tourists came here all the time and she had been going this way. "The chocolate here's not that great," he found himself saying, uncaring that the proprietor was right there.
"If you don't like it," the woman barked, "get out!"
He casually flipped her off while asking Lydia, "Have you picked anything out yet?"
She shook her head. "I'm still in line."
He tilted his head toward the door. "C'mon. I'll take you to get the good stuff."
The corner of her mouth tilted up. "Thanks."
He lightly brushed her back as he ushered her out the door into the cool March afternoon. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started down the street.
"That was rude," she said slyly, as if she thought it was funny.
"This is New York," he returned. "It's a cultural expectation. I'm pretty sure 'Could you be more of a cliché?' isn't nice cocktail chatter even in Flyover. 'Blowup doll' was fucking brilliant."
She laughed, and he almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. "You like chocolate that much you know where all the good places are?"
"I might not know much about much," he said with alacrity, "but I'm a chocolate connoisseur. And a junkie. I needed a fix."
"Ah. After the ex-girlfriend and current girlfriend meet up for a bitch-off."
That made him laugh, and he rubbed his mouth, casting her a grin. "You won, you master of girl games, you."
"I learned from the best."
"Clearly. You also saved my ass. Thank you."
Lydia shrugged. "She wasn't clever or original. It bugged."
"Ah, you don't mind bitchy. You mind boring." Her smile widened, and damned if he didn't nearly swallow his tongue. "That was actually a meeting of an ex-girlfriend and a soon-to-be-ex girlfriend."
"Ahhh, oh. Hm. That's ... interesting."
"It was already over—for me. Then she caught wood for Sebastian."
She burst into peals of laughter at that and Jack wished he were actually funny funny so he could keep her laughing. "I've not heard that phrase in reference to a woman."
"Meh. A clit's just a microdick, right?"
She laughed harder and he still wanted to kiss her, especially when she said, "You have a point."
"Hold on." With that, he stepped around her, off the curb, and hailed a cab. He gestured for Lydia to get in, then he slid in beside her, giving the cabbie an address for a tiny chocolate shop on Pine Street.
"That's all the way downtown," Lydia observed, and he was impressed she knew that.
"Where you from again?"
"KU. I mean, Kansas. Lawrence. University of Kansas."
"Ah. Oh."
"You sound disappointed."
"Not disappointed," he clarified, looking into her unique face. "Rearranging my assumptions and expectations."
"Oh, I see. Sadly, it's true. People from Kansas aren't uncultured swine."
Jack's jaw dropped, then he started laughing when he saw her playful smirk. "You're funny."
"So are you."
"That's also funny. Because nobody thinks I'm funny."
She shrugged and all that gold glimmered in the sunlight filtering through the cab's open windows. Her curls were flying here and there, plastering themselves to her face before she absently swept them away.
He couldn't help himself. He leaned into her and kissed her.
She squeaked a little into his mouth, her eyes wide, then relaxed and kissed him back. She closed her eyes, sighed, tilted her head a little so he could get deeper. It went on and on, and if it kept going like this, they'd end up in bed tonight.
"Mmm," she hummed, softly taking his face in her hands.
"Lydia," he whispered against her mouth, "come to my place."
"Shhh," she breathed and continued the kiss, finding his tongue, nibbling a little on his top lip.
She was driving him fucking crazy and if this didn't stop he'd fuck her right here, right now.
"And that is one reason," Jack said huskily as he slowly pulled away from her because he wanted to get an answer, "Ramona's about to become an ex."
That was the wrong thing to say. Her expression shut down immediately. Her smile vanished. And she—
"Fuck! Seriously?" he barked when she scrubbed her mouth on her sleeve—the sleeve of a seven-thousand-dollar outfit!
The look she gave him was pure poison, then she knocked on the ceiling.
The cab swerved to the curb and she got out, all in a few seconds during which Jack couldn't form one coherent thought.
"Wait! Lydia! Shit," he hissed as he scrambled for his clip and peeled off God only knew how many twenties for a five-dollar ride. "Shit," he said again as he then scrambled out of the car and jogged to catch up to her, storming down the sidewalk, her curls bouncing, the gold on her jacket twinkling, taunting him.
For such a short woman, she was quick.
"Hey, look," he said when he caught up to her. "I—" What? Didn't mean it like that? He certainly did. Wasn't usually that direct? He certainly was. "I'm used to New Yorkers," he blurted. "And stupid women."
She didn't respond. Didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge his existence. Just kept walking.
Dirp.
"No, look. I'm sorry. I was going to break up with her before I met you and—" That was probably not going to get him out of his hole. He needed to not try to be funny. "You have an odd sense of humor. I thought you'd find that funny." That, he realized, was actually true.
Yet he got nothing but angrily bouncing gold curls and crisp footsteps.
Then he realized he was begging. Why was he begging? He didn't have to beg anyone for anything. Especially women. He stopped cold. "Fine!" he yelled at her back. "Fuck you, too!"
Nothing.
He stood there frustrated, pissed off, at her, at himself, watching her get farther and farther away from him. He sighed and started after her again.
She stopped. Cocked her head. Then Jack heard a scream from across and down the street. Help! Help!
Meh, this was New York. Somebody got mugged. Big deal. Stuff like that probably didn't happen much out in Little Piano on the Prairie, so of course it'd get her attention.
To his shock, though, she bolted, not away from something—Jack—but toward the scream. Across the street, deftly dodging cars without a hitch, getting to the other side and ... disappearing into the crowd.
"Fuck," he whispered, taking a deep breath and heading across the street—fucking jaywalking!—after her. She was going to get herself killed, pulling rube touristy shit like that. They were all too nosy and do-gooding.
He knew when he'd caught up to her because there was a crowd gathered. He barged his way through it to see her, panting, with the collars of two kids in her injured hands, holding onto the squirming children with ease, shrugging her backpack up on her shoulder and failing. There were two beat cops, one talking to Lydia and one talking to a late-middle-aged woman whose arm was around an elderly gentleman.
"They're mine," Lydia was saying to the cop apologetically. "We're on our way to their therapist and they— Well. There's a reason they're in therapy."
"Lydia—"
She cast Jack another poisonous glare over her shoulder.
"Lady, you gotta keep your kids under control," the cop said threateningly. "I can take you in for this." He looked at the kids' clothes, then hers. "They don't look like yours."
"Oh, um, they ... dress this way to bug me. I'm— Look," she said, her voice trembling as if she were about to cry. "I'm a single mother. I was auditioning for an acting job—"
Jack rolled his eyes. Both cops snorted.
"—and my ex-husband's going to take my kids and, officer, I swear to you, we barely escaped with our lives."
She was chewing the fucking scenery.
"Hey, baby," Jack said, stepping forward. He held out his hand to the cop. "Fiancé. My fault. They got away from me while she was auditioning." Well, she had been auditioning today. "Ex really is homicidal." One kid was flushed and his struggles were fading. The other kid was still squirming and though Jack knew Lydia probably had the grip of an iron claw, she was also in pain. Her knuckles were purple and swollen, and needed to be bandaged.
So he grabbed the big one by the back of the neck and squeezed a little, surreptitiously, just to make sure the kid knew he meant business. That was when he seemed to realize they really were being rescued, so he slowly stopped trying to get away. The little one was starting to wilt completely.
She let go and picked the kid up, let him slump against her shoulder, rocked him a little, and rubbed his back. This seemed to convince the cops she was telling the truth.
He looked at the victims. "I can pay the damages."
"Nothing was taken," said the woman who clutched her purse to her chest, "but they knocked over my father."
Yeah, the guy looked like he'd blow away in a good breeze. "Then can I get you to the ER?" Jack asked smoothly. "Happy to pay for it."
That shocked the woman and her father. "I ... uh ... "
"I really need to get these two to their appointment," Lydia said earnestly, turning back to the beat cop and looking up into his eyes.
Jack shivered a little at how creepy it was that the guy stopped, stared, blinked, then shook it off and said gruffly, "Yeah. Your boyfriend here—"
"—can get names, addresses, and phone numbers," Jack said quickly. "Go on, precious," he said through his teeth when he looked at her. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, and just to be a dick, he leaned in and kissed her again. He almost yelped when she bit his lip.
No one noticed.
"C'mon, kids," she said lightly. "We're burnin' daylight."
"Hicks," muttered the woman as Lydia shuffled the kids past, through the crowd, and down the street.
Jack gathered all the information he could. The pair declined to go to the hospital, make a statement, or press charges, but that might have been because of a generous flash of green from Jack's money clip.
As soon as he could, he took off down the street, hoping he hadn't lost them, but he heard them before he saw them. Rather, he heard Lydia lecturing. Loudly. Angrily.
He turned into Central Park and saw them in a narrow nook, the big kid sitting on a ledge cowering in front of her. He had no escape. There were brambles behind them, a fence on one side, rocks on the other, and Lydia was blocking his escape route. The small one was still in her arms, his eyes closed.
So Jack stopped and leaned against a stone pillar, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Tell me where to find your doc!" she demanded.
Jack blinked. That wasn't normal riot-reading conversation. She turned and glared straight at Jack. "The girl's got a fever and she might need antibiotics. She needs medical attention now, but she can't go to an ER."
Jack scowled. "Why not?"
"They'll put them in foster care, that's why, which, for these two, is worse than how they're living now." She threw her backpack at him so hard he oofed. "Go get some Tylenol and bottles of water or something. Make yourself useful."
Okay, that was it. It was official.
He hated her. Hated.
But he didn't even have a chance to move before the small child—who didn't look like a girl—shifted and practically rolled out of her arms. Lydia caught her just in time, but Jack strode over and plucked her out of Lydia's arms. Jack knew nothing about children or how hot they ran, but not only was she bright red, she was practically steaming.
He glared at the boy—at least, he thought he was a boy—and said, "Answer the question. Now. Your sister's burning up here."
"Spanish Harlem," the boy muttered.
"Where in Spanish Harlem?" Lydia demanded.
"Third and one-thirteen."
She turned and bolted past Jack, then he heard a sharp whistle. "Come on!" she yelled.
Somehow all four of them managed to get into the back of a cab whose very large driver, it seemed, was a nosy fuck. "Hospital?"
When Lydia gave the intersection, he turned around slowly and looked at her. Then he looked at the boy, who said, "Simon."
The cab driver nodded and the child deflated into the seat, closing his eyes and leaning against Lydia, who wrapped her arm around him and hugged him close.
Jack had no idea what was going on, but he kept his mouth shut and marveled at how fast they got from the Lower West Side to Spanish Harlem.
He stopped in front of any one of a dozen shitty rows of shops between a hundred thirteenth and hundred fourteenth.
"Go!" Lydia barked at Jack while she dug in her purse. Jack did as he was told, carrying the girl and letting the boy guide him. He didn't look back for Lydia, as she seemed to be able to handle herself well here, for a touchy rube from Flyover, USA.
It wasn't long before she caught up to them, her chest heaving. "If she's too heavy," Lydia panted, "I can carry her."
Jack just glared at her. "Your hands got better all of a sudden."
"Adrenalin," she snapped, she followed the boy into a dark, dank, disgusting labyrinth of waste, sewage, and humans who all resembled trash bags.
At the end of the third turn there was a wall. A dead end. Jack panicked.
"Shit, this girl's going to die in my arms!"
But the boy stuck his hand in a hole and pushed the wall. "Simon!" he called. "Mary's sick."
And where there had been a wall, there was now an entrance to a ratty apartment. "In here," said a tall, wiry black woman with short dreadlocks and wearing scrubs. Jack followed where she was pointing, which was a small exam room that looked meticulously kept.
"Hey, is this kid contagious?" Jack demanded.
"With any luck," the woman said, "no. Put her on the table."
Jack carefully laid the girl on the table, a standard padded thing with the paper covering properly over it. It crinkled normally.
"Undress her."
Jack grimaced. "Um. No."
"Undress her!" Lydia barked from the other room.
"Fuck you!" he yelled as he set about undressing a little girl while the woman—doctor? nurse?—washed her hands and put gloves on. She worked silently, taking vitals, looking in her ears with the thing he didn't know the name of while he gingerly tried to get her ratty tee shirt off.
"Scissors," said the woman calmly. "Behind you."
Jack began to hurry when she showed him the child's temperature: 104.5.
"How bad is that?" he asked quietly, now snipping her clothes off without hesitation.
"Bad. Towels in the second drawer down. Soak them in cold water."
Jack was uncultured, not uneducated, stupid, or shit in a crisis, so he followed his common sense and worked with the—
"Are you a doctor or a nurse or what?"
"Doctor. Most folks just call me Simon."
Simon says. "Jack."
"Nice to meet you, Jack. Ear infection," she said after further examination, which involved prying the child's mouth open. "Possibly strep throat. Normal kid stuff that's fatal for street kids. I need to get some Tylenol and antibiotics in her. Just keep keeping her cool. Jesus!" she called. The boy appeared in the door of the exam room. "How long has she been sick?"
"I don't know."
"What were you doing before you ran into these two?"
"Mugging an old man," Jack muttered as he worked. "Central Park West, Sixty-fifth."
"Dammit!" the doc burst out, slamming her hand on the table and glaring at the boy over her shoulder. Jack glanced up to see him cowering, which he figured was in order. "I told you not to go down that far."
"Somebody needed a message delivered."
The doc sighed heavily, but didn't respond. "How did you know to bring them here?" she asked Jack. "That suit's bespoke."
"I didn't," he muttered. "The lady in there. Lydia. She got this ball rolling."
"She saved this little girl's life. Lydia!" she shouted. "Make Jell-O."
"Okay!" Water immediately began running, and cabinets opening and closing.
Simon swung around to glare at the little boy again.
"Cut it out," Jack said. "He's a kid."
"He's a street kid, and he knows better. He lets Mary run roughshod over him."
Jack's eyebrow rose. "Jesus and Mary? Are you kidding?"
"Some stupid shit's idea of a clever joke. Your girlfriend?"
"Oh, hell no!" came her voice from the other room. A cabinet slammed closed.
Simon's eyes flickered up to Jack, her mouth twitching in amusement. He looked away. No, not his girlfriend. Not now. Not ever. He'd screwed that pooch, killed it, skinned it, roasted it, eaten it, and shat it back out again.
"Prep her arm."
Jack turned, scratching his memory for what that meant, and looked for alcohol pads by instinct. Found them. Clipped off the sleeve of her tattered shirt, turned her arm over, and rubbed the alcohol over her skin. More alcohol. More.
"That's good. Thanks."
He watched her put two syringes of stuff in her arm, one after the other.
"Now," she said, "go put her on the couch and keep her cool."
"What's the Jell-O for?"
"We have to keep her hydrated. Easier to get water in 'em with Jell-O and popsicles."
"No popsicles," Lydia called. "Bodega?"
"Out, right, two blocks up, across Third." Simon looked up at Jack and murmured, "Your girlfriend's sharp."
His jaw locked.
Jack pulled the girl into his arms, took her into the shitty little apartment and laid her carefully on the ratty couch. But the exam room was spotless, so he had to assume the couch was clean enough.
"No, don't hold her. Her fever won't go down with heat against her."
Lydia was moving around like she'd been here before, and after opening the refrigerator and staring, she slammed it closed and disappeared into the exam room, coming out again in scrubs. She found her purse, took out some cash, threw her purse at Jack, and left without a word.
"Soooo," Simon said, handing Jack a bottle of water and sitting in a soft chair opposite to the one he'd claimed. "What's the story?"
He told her what he knew, which was little enough.
"And why are you two in on this together if you're not together?"
"Wrong place, wrong time," he muttered. "Said the wrong thing."
"Ah."
"We just met. Three days ago. She's not impressed."
She said nothing more. Neither did Jack. They both watched the little girl, with the boy hovering on the edges. Simon made a gesture and there he was, in her lap, snuggled up against her.
Jack gestured around. "What is ... ?"
"It's clinic, obviously," she answered, half annoyed, half condescending. "People who can't show up in an ER come here. Lots of stuff that needs penicillin, broken bones, gunshot wounds." She gestured to his clothes again. "You're pretty far away from home. You coulda told her to handle it and gone home. No skin off your nose."
He shrugged. "Do you need money?"
"I always need money."
He nodded and took out his clip, then tossed it to her.
She looked at it, took the clip off, counted it, and tossed the empty clip back to him. "Many thanks."
"You got a phone?"
"In the kitchen."
Kitchen was generous. It was little more than a couple of cabinets, a tiny sink and tiny oven. The refrigerator was normal sized—and chock full of medicine.
"Insulin, mostly," she said when he stood there gaping at it. "We have some diabetic old folks around who still want to keep living, God only knows why."
Jack called his right hand Melinda to tell her he was out for the rest of the day, and whom he wanted to cover his clients.
"You must be a high roller."
"I'm the CEO of a bank," he said tightly, dropping into the chair. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."
The slightly condescending air dissipated.
Jack didn't know how much time had lapsed before Lydia returned, her hands full of grocery bags and two teenagers following her with more. She ordered the kids to sit down and thunked a jug of orange juice between them, then began putting the rest of the food away.
The little girl began to stir. Whether it was the noise or what, Jack didn't know.
"Thank you," Simon said. "Lydia, was it?"
"Yes. How is she?"
"Fever's gone down, but not enough."
Lydia glanced at Jack. "Go home. Your part's done."
His jaw clenched and he stared up at her stonily. "I'll go home when I damn well please."
Her eyebrow rose. "Don't you have a girlfriend waiting for you?"
It took him a few seconds to come up with something more original than fuck you, but he watched her speculatively while he thought. "If I didn't know better," he drawled, "I'd start getting the idea you're jealous."
She flushed a little. Good God, really? Maybe there was hope. "What I am is insulted."
"Mm hm. You don't have any reason to be jealous," he purred. "I can show you how jealous you don't have to be."
She snarled at him. "Slut."
The two boys at the table snorted so hard orange juice came out of their noses.
But Jack just shrugged and went back to nursing his water, watching the little girl stir, and sensing every step Lydia made while she fussed with food. Dishes. Faucets. She ordered Jesus to the table and gave him a glass for OJ too. All four of them were speaking Spanish, which shouldn't have surprised him, considering her outfits. One of the teenagers said something to her in what sounded like a snotty tone of voice. She snapped back, then faster and sharper as she got in the teenagers' faces.
They went from snotty to completely cowed in about thirty seconds.
Simon slid a shocked look toward the kitchenette and her eyebrows rose.
And then they looked Lydia in the eye. Cowed turned to terror.
Lydia plunked a plate of sandwiches down in front of them, sandwiches Jack didn't even notice she was making, and lectured a little more before she gave them popsicles.
"Lawdy," Simon whispered with awe and settled back into her chair, looking shellshocked.
"You speak Spanish?" Jack asked.
She shrugged. "Bits and pieces." He gestured toward the kitchen and she shook her head. "No idea."
"What's wrong with the baby?" Lydia called from the kitchen.
"Ear infection," Jack said. "Possibly strep throat."
"Just waiting for the fever to break," Simon said.
"Where is she going to stay?" Lydia asked.
"Oh, here. They crash here when they feel like it." She paused. "How did you know they'd have someone like me available to them?"
Lydia hesitated. "I've had some experience with black markets. Being underground. Invisible. Their clothes aren't completely trashed. Neither are their shoes. Kids like them don't run free like that without a home base."
"You grew up in the streets?"
She hesitated again, and her glance flickered to Jack. "In a manner of speaking."
"Really poor, then."
She shrugged. "Family business didn't take off for a while. Then it did."
That could mean anything, but Simon said simply, "Ah," as if she knew what it meant.
"Are you hungry?" Lydia asked.
"Actually," Simon answered, "I am. Yes. I haven't had a chance to get lunch."
With that, Lydia turned and began taking pans and food out. Jack watched her work, dressed in those shapeless scrubs, her movements quick and efficient as she put a skillet on the stove, lit the burner with a match, spooned some gunk out of a tiny crock and slapped it in the skillet, cracked eggs into a bowl, beat the shit out of them with a fork, and poured them into the skillet. Salt. Pepper.
Jack had no idea why one would have to light a stove with a match.
Mary was awakening. She was groggy. Mulish. Still feverish but not in the danger zone. Sulking after Simon gave her a stern, growling lecture on not going below eighty-fifth, and staying on the east side of Central Park. Lydia scurried to get a purple popsicle in her hand, then she brought Simon the scrambled eggs.
"These are good," Simon told her matter-of-factly.
"Thanks," she said absently as she dished up Jell-O for Mary. All of it. She put on water for another batch and began cleaning up after herself. "I'm going back to my place," Lydia announced after she'd put the new pan of Jell-O into the fridge and put away the last dish. She turned to the teenagers, said something in Spanish, after which they got up and cleaned their dishes. Then put them away.
Simon watched this in what looked like awe.
"Hey, Simon," Jack said, gesturing to Lydia. "She banged up her knuckles pretty well this morning. Can you do something for her? They're not broken."
Both Simon and Lydia looked at him in surprise, then Simon looked at Lydia, who reluctantly held them out for her inspection. "And you've been working like that?"
Lydia slid Jack a blistering look. "You do what you have to."
Simon merely grunted and took Lydia back into the exam room.
Jack watched the two women, their heads bent together, Simon taking care of her. It seemed to him, from the way she responded to first Sebastian then Jack taking care of her hands, Jack putting her shoes on, then Simon bandaging her hands, that she didn't get that much. Lydia's body was relaxing and she was just hanging her hands out there to be swabbed and bandaged.
After rescuing a couple of street kids. Making food. Buying and carting groceries. Making more food. Ripping two tough-looking teenage boys a new one. In Spanish. Then feeding them, too.
He clenched his jaw and looked away, listening to snatches of their conversation concerning logistics, getting more details of the day's misadventure, praising each other for their quick thinking, discussing the long-term care of the kids, including the teenagers and whatever she'd said to them.
Finally they were done, Lydia emerging with tidy bandages around her fingers, her face looking a lot less strained and in pain.
"I'll be back in the morning to check on her and bring your clothes back," she was telling Simon as she stepped into shoes that looked halfway practical.
"I'll go with you," Jack said as he heaved himself out of the chair.
"No," Lydia said coldly over her shoulder. "You won't."
"Fine," he returned and when she straightened, he tossed her purse and backpack at her so hard she oofed when she caught them. "Your flamenco outfit's gonna need extra special cleaning," he drawled.
"It's a traje de luces. A suit of lights, for people who are too important to learn Spanish." With that, she stormed out the door, the teenagers following like trained puppies.
"She speaks Spanish?" Mary asked in wonder, looking up over the couch at Jesus, who looked delightedly hopeful.
Jack looked at Simon, who said, "You got your work cut out for you."