Bad Wedding (Billionaire's Club Book 9) Read online

  Early.

  It was early and she hadn’t had enough caffeine.

  That was the only explanation for the nonsensical question.

  Jackson glanced down at her, eyes melted chocolate, and then he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Yeah, baby, I do.”

  Clink.

  A chunk of her wall crumbled and hit the dirt.

  Before she could focus—or in reality, panic on that realization, he grabbed her hand, tugged her to the door, and whispered, “Time to make some of your sweet treats, baby.”

  She was woman enough to admit the raspy words made her shiver.

  Made her want.

  She felt him a second before he slipped the tray from her hands, holding for her as she filled the case with warm muffins—double chocolate chunk, raspberry with a cream cheese swirl, her ever-popular lemon poppy seed, and, though she wasn’t admitting it to the universe (or herself) banana chocolate chip for Jackson.

  It had been three days since she’d begun staying at his condo, and those three days had been filled with . . . right.

  Jackson was there.

  It was the same and yet different.

  They’d always fit. Within a few seconds of literally bumping into each other on BART nearly seven years before, they’d fit. Numbers exchanged, coffee grabbed, movies seen and shared tub of popcorn consumed. It was always easy, their bodies in tune in the bedroom and out of it.

  And perhaps that easy, the way they’d slid into each other’s lives seamlessly, how they’d liked the same TV shows and food, how they’d just plain gotten along from the beginning had hid the problems in their relationship. Because they got close and they did it fast and within a few short months, Molly hadn’t been able to imagine a life without him.

  She’d gotten attached.

  She’d been afraid to lose that close if she pushed to delve deeper than he was willing to give.

  So, they’d existed. They’d continued on that path and she’d been happy.

  But after Jackson had broken up with her, once she’d lost that connection anyway, Molly had realized how unhealthy it was. She shouldn’t be afraid to push the person who she was going to spend the rest of her life with.

  She should be free to be her.

  And maybe now she could be?

  Before she could focus fully on that, he’d gone and returned with another tray. “Here you go, baby,” he murmured, holding it up for her to load the next shelf. She glanced up, got lost in those chocolate eyes, warmed and shining down on her. There was something there, something different and open and deeper . . . and it gave her hope that—

  The bell over the door tinkled, and Ronnie walked in.

  “Go,” Jackson told her. “I’ll finish up.”

  Her favorite regular (shh, don’t tell anyone) made his way to the counter, put down his traditional five, ordering his coffee and his lemon poppy seed muffin—there was a reason she made them every day, and it wasn’t just because they were delicious and sold well.

  They were Ronnie’s favorite. His wife had made them for him and he’d had them for breakfast every day for the last fifty years of his marriage.

  When his wife had gotten ill, he would come in and buy two of them every morning, packed up to-go, and take them home. But eventually . . . he’d come in and bought only one lemon muffin, then he had begun to stay and eat it while drinking a cup of coffee, his expression lost and closed down and . . . well, it had told her enough.

  So she made them.

  Every day.

  She bantered with Ronnie, told him to grab his table, and poured his coffee, but then when she turned to grab the muffin, Jackson already had one readied on a plate.

  He remembered the lemon poppy seed.

  He remembered.

  Clink.

  Another piece of that wall chipped away, fell to the ground.

  Although, this time it wasn’t so scary.

  “No!” She sat bolt upright in a cold sweat, heart pounding, head spinning, and totally confused as to her whereabouts for several long heartbeats.

  But then a gentle hand touched her cheek, a soft, raspy voice reached her ears, “It’s okay, baby. I’m here,” and she calmed enough to be coaxed back down onto the mattress, to allow herself to be tucked into Jackson’s arms.

  Probably, she should have moved, used her moment of alertness to go out into the living room and sleep on the couch like she’d told him she was going to do, like she’d told him every night she was going to do since she’d begun to stay here.

  But it didn’t matter if she got tired and drifted off on the couch or if she fought tooth and nail with him about not sleeping in his bed, she still ended up there.

  Hell, just that evening she’d threatened to order a bed online to fill the empty second bedroom, but Jackson had argued he liked his empty room because it showed off the windows.

  Showed off the windows.

  What the hell did that even mean?

  He’d just been trying to annoy her. And know what? It had worked. She’d flounced off into the bedroom, taken a long soak in his huge bathtub, and she’d crawled into his bed, eyes sliding shut almost before her head hit the pillow.

  Tonight, however, she hadn’t woken alone.

  Tonight, she’d woken up with Jackson in bed with her.

  And . . . his arms felt good.

  Too good.

  He was snuggly and warm, and she didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay in his embrace forever, especially when he held her like she was precious and whispered soothing endearments in her ear. So words that made her forget all about the dream that had woken her, heart racing.

  The fear disappeared because . . . God, she’d missed sleeping with this man.

  “It’s okay,” he kept murmuring, one hand rubbing up and down her back. “It’s okay, honey. Just sleep. I’ve got you.”

  “Do you want me?” she asked, and later she would blame the combination of his snuggly arms and the lingering drowsiness from her nightmare, but mostly it was just that she needed to know.

  His hand froze. “What?”

  “It’s just . . . when you picked me up and brought me to the bakery last week, you said you were staying near me because Dan told you to, not necessarily because you wanted things to work out between us. Is that . . . is that still the case?”

  Silence.

  Arms slipping free.

  Her gut sinking.

  Then the light flicked on, blinding her for several seconds.

  “What the hell did you just say?” he asked, gaze furious.

  She sat up, tugging the blankets with her when she remembered she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I . . . it’s okay, Jackson. I mean, I get it if too much time has passed, and things have changed for you. I just thought . . .” She trailed off.

  “Molly. What. The. Hell. Are. You. Saying?” Each word was clipped out, like raindrops plinking against metal.

  “I just— I guess I was wondering if you thought that when this is all over . . .” Here she lost her steam, gaze flicking to his face and then away, but when he didn’t say anything, she kept talking. “Um . . . I guess I thought we could see about maybe . . . if you and I, these new, changed, better versions, might have something special . . . like we used to?”

  She finally clamped her mouth closed, trying to not analyze the mess she’d just spewed.

  Her cheeks felt hot, her skin too tight, her discomfort growing by the second.

  Because Jackson didn’t say anything.

  Anything.

  Know what? That couch sounded pretty good right about now.

  She shoved herself off the mattress, took one step toward the bedroom door, and found herself tugged back against a hard chest. “What did you just say?” he asked again, and Molly only shook her head in reply. She’d already done the verbal vomit. There was no way she was going back and repeating for a second round.

  Thankfully, Jackson didn’t actually seem to need her to repeat it.

  He spu
n her in his hold and said, “Are you seriously asking me if we can have another shot?” A hard shake of his head. “Honey, I’m the one who should be begging you for that. I’m the one who’d planned on begging you for that.” He cupped her cheek. “I just spent the last three hours ordering you llama-emblazoned towels and potholders, and more spatulas and a stand mixer with llama decals for my condo, because you’ve always liked it when your kitchen stuff matched, and that doesn’t even touch on the llama pajamas and the grocery order for your favorite ice cream and chocolate-covered pretzels, or the bath stuff in your favorite scent—”

  “You were able to find Bourbon and Strawberry?” she asked, which was totally not the important part of what he’d just said.

  He nodded anyway.

  “But it’s discontinued.”

  The ghost of a smile. “I have my sources.” A beat. “Honey, I spent the time looking for your favorite things because I spent this week hoping I just could get you to not hate me, forming a plan in my mind, a long, hard-fought quest to get you to just give me one more shot to make you happy, and then you just turn to me and casually ask if we could see where things go?” His eyes warmed. “Fuck, baby. Nothing like ruining my process.”

  She didn’t take offense to the last because it was said lightly, his eyes teasing. Instead, Molly pressed for some clarification. “But in the bakery, you said that you were only staying because Dan told you to.”

  “He did advise that,” Jackson said.

  A sigh.

  Because why the subterfuge?

  He understood the meaning of her sigh without an explanation. “Because you were so angry, baby. I thought . . . well, I thought it would take ages to convince you to give me another chance.”

  Her gut tightened, and she let her eyes drift away.

  She’d spent barely a week with this man in the last four years and had asked him to give them another shot.

  Was she insane?

  Or worse, had she gone back to the same pathetic weakling she’d been in the past?

  But then she thought of the conversation with the first night in his condo, the way he helped out at the bakery, how he didn’t minimize her work. Then she thought of Jackson staying up for hours, saw his laptop on the nightstand, the screen showing a page of models wearing bright, colorful pajamas, and she knew he’d spent time looking for things she liked, knew he was expending effort to show he cared.

  And she knew this was different.

  Being included, being treated as a partner, not something fragile to be taken care of.

  She thought of why he’d done what he’d done.

  How they’d both changed.

  And she knew this wasn’t old habits or the past repeating itself. This was a shot at something different.

  Something more.

  Jackson didn’t pretend to not notice the internal war waging no doubt reflected in her expression. Instead, he said, “I know. I know I changed things between us, that there is something irrevocably altered that we’ll never get back, but also, Molly, please just know that nothing has to be decided tonight,” he added. “Let me take you on that quest to convince you to give me another shot. Keep your heart safe and secure until I’ve earned your trust back.”

  He meant it.

  And that’s when she finally believed everything.

  “You know,” she murmured. “I always had this complex when it came to how I compared myself to my family.”

  He frowned.

  “I know you didn’t know.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I know that probably doesn’t make sense. I just mean, I was so ashamed to feel inferior, knew logically it wasn’t something I should be feeling, that I should be confident and comfortable in my own skin . . . but I wasn’t.” She sighed. “I knew it was bad to think that way, so I didn’t tell anyone. Not even you.”

  “Mol—”

  “Let me finish?”

  He nodded.

  “You know my family,” she said, and he nodded again. “You know they’re wonderful, that they never consciously made me feel inferior . . . but I still did. I mean, my siblings are so successful, and I didn’t get into a great college. I wasn’t athletic or popular like them. I loved to read and bake and stay home.” She nibbled her lip. “And they didn’t ever say that was a bad thing. My parents were supportive of going to culinary school instead college, bought me loads of books. I—I just never shook the feeling of being an ugly duckling.”

  “Your parents are proud of you, honey,” he said. “They came to the opening and tried all the food, and they could hardly contain their pride. Anyone could see it.”

  “Except. Me.”

  He froze.

  “I know we’ve both said that we’ve made changes over the last years, and I know we both meant it,” she told him. “But my changes came from therapy. After . . . us, I went into this dark place, similar to this unhealthy place that I’ve spent the last week dipping my toes into, only it was much worse.” She took a breath. “I thought you dumping me was the culmination of all of my unworthiness. I just knew that you were too good for me and that it was only a matter of time before you moved on—”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t say it was logical. It was fucked up thinking, something destructive I’d been holding on to and feeding for years, including the years we were together.”

  “Honey—”

  “But therapy taught me that those feelings, as you so eloquently said, were bullshit,” she said and touched his cheek. “It took me a long time to believe that, but I won’t lie that seeing you after all of this time, confronting the feelings you brought forth within me, I backslid a bit.” She thumped a fist on her chest. “I hoped. I wanted. But I wasn’t free of those thoughts, of thinking that you weren’t here for me. I went to the dark side again, even if it was just briefly.”

  Jackson gently placed his hand on her nape. “If I make you feel that way, we shouldn’t give this another chance. I don’t want to be the one to destroy you.”

  The truth was there in her heart.

  “Don’t you see?” she asked, moving closer. “Don’t you see that you don’t have that power anymore? I took it back. Or . . . maybe you never had it in the first place, maybe it was always me, letting this self-destructive monster lose in my mind and heart.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that, Mol.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how I can care about you as much as I do and let you risk yourself. I should back off, should—”

  “And there,” she said.

  He frowned.

  “There’s your self-destructive monster.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Mine reduced me, shrank all of my wants and needs and accomplishments and pride in myself and my work into a tiny, damaged ball.” She stepped closer. “Yours takes all of the good qualities you have—your heart, your protectiveness, your ability to care and feel deeply—and makes you fall on your own sword.”

  He inhaled sharply, and she wrapped her arms around him.

  “I want to give us another chance. To see if we can slay these fucking monsters and move forward as something better,” she said. “But, honey, you have to know your own mind.” She hugged him tight. “I think you need to level with yourself about what you really do want, if the thing you truly desire is us in a real relationship. Or . . . if us being in a relationship again will just be another iteration of you sacrificing yourself for the good of others.”

  “That’s not—”

  Her cell blared, her very early alarm telling her it was time to head to the bakery.

  She stepped out of his arms, reached for her phone, and silenced it.

  “Don’t tell me now,” she murmured. “Think about it, and we’ll talk later.” His face darkened, and she hugged him again, tight and quick. “You owe yourself the time, honey. And you owe it to me, too.”

  His lips had parted, protest no doubt at the ready, but at her words, he stopped, eyes softening, and nodded. />
  Molly knew she was doing the right thing by giving them time.

  What she didn’t know in that moment was that later she would wish she’d heard him out . . . because later she didn’t have the chance to hear anything from him at all.

  Sixteen

  Jackson

  That day he was given a stool in the kitchen to park his ass, rather than his spot in the front of house, along with one half of a stainless-steel table he shared with extra takeaway boxes to park his laptop and cell phone. Molly kept the coffee flowing and the pop music blaring, but Jackson had learned his lesson.

  Don’t touch the volume.

  Don’t interrupt her when she was working her magic.

  Surprisingly, being up at the ass crack of dawn wasn’t terrible. He was definitely tired, especially after spending so much of the last week with minimal sleep and maximum worry, but being awake so early also meant he had a chance to actually reduce the number of emails in his inbox instead of just trying to tread water.

  Being allowed back into the kitchen for more than a few minutes meant Jackson was able to step into Molly’s office for a few minutes (and close the door to drown out the sound of Ariana Grande’s latest), to take any necessary calls, as well as, to check in with the security company Dan had recommended. The team he’d hired had joined forces with Dan’s and was plugging any holes they could pinpoint.

  They were safe.

  As they could be.

  The rest of the time—that being time not spent on the phone or managing his inbox, he did what Molly had asked of him that.

  He thought.

  It should be simple.

  She knew how he’d grown up, that his parents had been uninvolved, but he could see how he minimized the impact of such a childhood. Any time he’d spoken of his past, he’d always framed it in the vein of independence was good for him—it had allowed him to think outside the box, to do things for himself instead of relying on his parents.

  Now he wondered how much of a coping mechanism that was.

  Instead of being pissed that his parents had considered their careers more important than him, he’d made the decision to think it was for his betterment.