It's awkward.
It's wrong, and it's weird, and it's Lemon, for God's sake.
Lemon...
Lemon, saving his ass once again in front of a roomful of people.
Lemon, looking lovely in a colorful sundress, and as a result of her own efforts, not that of some reality crew.
Lemon, whose lips are softer than he'd thought.
Then it's over, and he makes the effort of the century to compose himself. He doesn't want his emotions playing over his face here, not in front of everyone he knows; not to mention the millions of people who watch the show. And there are millions. Queen of Jordan is a surprise hit.
Not that he has emotions. Or at least ones that he's assigning a name to. There are only faces, hair colors and numbers swirling in his brain at the moment: Avery, blond, mid-thirties. Lemon, brunette, early-forties. Diana, also brunette, keeping-it-tight-but-probably-early-fifties. It's like the most disturbing 3-4-5 triangle.
Jack's always hated geometry. And this Pythagorean triple issue is the last thing that he needs at the moment.
Now, in his office, he pours himself a drink, finally relieved from the camera crew, Diana, temptation…
The worst part of this is that he knows that Liz isn't affected beyond mild embarrassment. She's in a steady relationship, with her long-held dreams on the horizon. It's horrible, really, how opposite they are on this. She barely responded—not that he gave his best effort, either—and he can't help wondering what it would have been like to kiss her at Gerdhart's party, in front of Kathy Geiss during their soap-opera fiasco, or the day he returned from Washington to a floral-dress-attired Lemon…
Yes, things may have been different.
But he will not dwell on this. He fears for his and Liz's future, because he knows that what he must choose and what he wants to choose are not entirely the same.
Avery is returning soon, and he will embrace it. Perhaps he'll still dream of brunettes, though. His thoughts are his own.