Bad Wedding (Billionaire's Club Book 9) Page 5

  Molly.

  It was all for Molly.

  He sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “Tell me exactly what I need to do.”

  Nine

  Molly

  Zero-dark thirty.

  Stumbling out of bed.

  Attempting to corral her hair, to pull on clothes that coordinated—sort of—shoes that matched—occasionally proving more difficult, especially when comparing black to navy.

  Today, she settled with plain gray sneakers with jeans and a T-shirt that was emblazoned with the bakery’s logo.

  Easy. Simple.

  Necessary.

  She hadn’t slept well since the day a month before when Jackson had walked back into her life, her dreams punctured by memories of him, by memories of after him.

  Which made getting up at three-thirty in the morning seriously unforgiving.

  Thankfully, she’d managed to hire a second baker, so her early mornings were now limited to the three middle days during the week—Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

  Being able to sleep until six on the other days made it so she could function.

  She may not be thriving, but at least she could function.

  And she knew that was a win.

  Head down, move forward, keep going, and things would be okay, wounds would heal, shattered hearts would be pieced back together, a spine would be strengthened and able to hold a head high.

  Her coffee pot was already percolating, that first mug filled, her travel carafe next to it, readied for its own supply.

  Molly made the switch, set the maker to go another time and it began rumbling, popping, and hissing as it filled the To-Go cup that was the second necessary piece of her wake-up routine.

  The first being that initial mug ready to go.

  She picked it up, blew on the hot liquid, then drank quickly, ignoring the burn of the too-hot coffee, relishing the spike as the caffeine hit her system, shaking the clouds from her mind and enabling her to locate her purse, keys, and cell.

  By the time the travel carafe was full, her mug was empty, and she was awake enough to operate a motor vehicle.

  She set the empty mug in the sink, grabbed her stuff—and the To-Go coffee—then headed out the front door of her duplex.

  And almost mowed down a man.

  The scream caught in her throat, then dissipated when she saw it was Jackson, her mouth dropping open.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Before she could unstick enough to verbalize that thought, he stepped close, real close, and brushed his mouth across her cheek, very near her ear, in which he whispered, “I’ll explain in the car.” Then he swept her purse from her hands, wrapped an arm around her waist and started leading her to a vehicle that was not hers.

  She repeated. What. The. Fuck?

  But when her feet started to skitter, to fight the forward motion, Jackson bent again and nipped her ear. “Don’t fight me. It’s not safe. Car, baby.” Her eyes flew up, saw that his jaw was tight, his body stiff, even though his voice had been gentle . . . and so it seemed smarter in that moment to not argue, to just walk to his car.

  To allow him to open the door and help her inside.

  To wait until he’d started the engine and then pulled out of the spot to burst out with, “What the fuck, Jackson Davis?”

  His gaze cut to hers then returned to the road, navigating the nearly empty streets with all the care of a professional driver navigating the world’s most important race.

  “I’m here,” he stated calmly.

  That was it. I’m here.

  As though that were supposed to bring some clarity to the situation when he’d disappeared and come back then disappeared again—

  You asked him to go.

  Yeah, there was that.

  So, she stifled the temper that only seemed to ramp when Jackson was around and forced herself to calmly ask, “Why are you here?”

  Silence for an interminable stretch.

  Then, “It goes against every grain in me to tell you this, when I feel like I should be protecting you, not telling you something that will make you terrified,” he said, and just that precursor to the explanation was terrifying. Add in the careful tone, the stiffness in his jaw, his body, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. “But I promised myself that I wouldn’t carry anymore secrets. You deserve to know the truth of what’s happening.”

  Molly swallowed hard then asked, “And what’s the truth?”

  “The truth is that when I came to the bakery a month ago, I brought you back into the focus of the Russian mafia.”

  Oh, fuck.

  “When I came, when I stayed, they realized you still had value to me, and they’ll exploit that connection to get what they want.”

  Double fuck.

  “The government knows, they’ve been following you and protecting you since they found out from their source that you’re back in the crosshairs, but they’re also close to shutting this cell down, close to giving the group a death blow that will put them out of commission for many years, if not forever.”

  That was great. Eliminating the mafia forever sounded like a good thing.

  Yet Molly couldn’t help but focus on one word in particular. “Crosshairs?”

  He pulled into the small parking lot of the bakery, slid his car into a spot, and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t think they were still following me so closely. I hadn’t heard from the government or gotten any threats from the mafia for more than a year. I’d thought they’d moved on from me or I would have never come to visit you.”

  Her hands were trembling, her heart pounding.

  Crosshairs. Following. Government. Mafia. Threats.

  It should have been the starting plot for a movie.

  Instead, it had been Jackson’s life for the last four years.

  “Baby.” He cupped her cheek. “Please know—”

  She turned her head, met his chocolate eyes that looked so dark in the shadowed dimness of the early morning. “Why are you here?” she asked.

  He frowned. “I—”

  “No, I mean, today. Now. Why are you here this morning?”

  “I need to be where you are.”

  Simple words she once would have given anything to hear. But now they seemed to have a different meaning.

  “Because I’m in danger?”

  He nodded.

  Unbidden, her heart sank. “I see.” She reached for her purse, slung it over one shoulder. “Let’s go in. I can’t get behind.” She pushed out of the car, her travel carafe still in her hand, the contents untouched, but her brain all too awake.

  More danger.

  More martyring.

  Only this time, instead of leaving, Jackson had forced himself to come back.

  Being forced to spend time with a woman he’d left behind.

  Every. Girl’s. Dream.

  She extracted her keys as she walked to the back door, slipping them into the lock, pulling open the heavy metal panel, pretending not to notice that Jackson was right behind her, his body inches from hers, the smell of cinnamon and mint tangling in her nose, her spine tingling with the urge to allow herself to melt back and lean against his hard chest.

  Instead, she punched the code for the alarm, waited for him to trail her in, then hit the dead bolt she’d installed after he’d shown her the picture a month before.

  Yes, she’d installed it. She’d gotten good with a drill over the years, and while she knew the lock wasn’t foolproof, that it wasn’t even the door through which the photograph was taken, it still gave her some peace of mind. No one was getting through the back door.

  She stashed her purse in her office, grabbed an apron from the hook in the kitchen, then placed her phone in the cradle to start her morning playlist of whatever was upbeat and pop and could help her channel sweet and light vibes.

  Because it reflected in sweet and light pastry dough.

  Lie.

  But also, she was the boss, her baked good
s were the shit, and thus no one was going to argue with her. She got to listen to her saccharine music. She got to bake. And everyone else got to eat.

  The fast beat blared to life through the wireless speakers as she washed her hands and started gathering ingredients.

  Flour. Eggs. Yeast. Butter. Milk—

  The music stopped.

  She spun. Seriously? The man was invading her life. Not because he wanted her—not that she wanted him either, but still! He’d waylaid her outside her duplex, had bustled her to his car, and was only here because he felt guilty for bringing something down on her that he didn’t have any control over.

  “Why are you pissed?”

  Molly froze. “Why am I pissed? Why am I pissed?” She threw her hands up, began weighing out flour into the giant stainless-steel bowl in front of her. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because my ex-fiancé has popped back into my life twice now in a month, after not seeing him for years. And only because he was pissed that I wanted him out of my life for good.” She shook a little more flour out, checked the weight. “Or maybe that my ex just declared that he’s staying around because he’s got a misguided notion that he can protect me? Did you take a superhero military man course in the time we’ve been apart and can now go Captain America on any bad guys who might bother me?”

  She set the bag of flour to the side, moved on to the yeast and milk, warming the latter, allowing the former to soak in the warm liquid while continuing to measure the remainder of the ingredients.

  “No.”

  “So, what makes you think that you can protect me better than I can protect myself?”

  Silence.

  “I’ll hire some security,” she snapped. “Up our actual system here, take stronger precautions, but I don’t need you, Jackson.”

  And she most especially didn’t need him just because he felt obligated to protect her.

  Once everything was weighed out, she went over and started the music again then headed to the sink to wash her hands for a second time.

  Good hygiene was important.

  But just as she’d picked up a knife to start cutting butter, the music cut off again.

  Was he fucking kidding?

  She slammed the knife down, spun to face him.

  He came very close. “Still not sure why you’re pissed, sweetheart.”

  “You—”

  He bent. “The agent said I needed to be here, and I’m going to be. End of story.”

  The agent said he needed to be there.

  Her heart pulsed with pain, but fury quickly trailed that pain. Jackson shouldn’t be able to have this power over her. She shouldn’t feel so much longing toward this man who’d broken her. And yet, it was there. Because no matter how much she fought it, an invisible thread tied them together.

  Or at least tied her to him.

  Because apparently, Jackson was only here out of some misguided notion of duty and because some government agent told him he should be.

  They were over. Done. Four years and gone. Finished. Out of her business with a spectacular goodbye fuck included as a Happy Meal prize.

  Now she just needed to take a hacksaw to that thread and get him to leave.

  And then she needed to bake some fucking rolls.

  Jackson dropped his hands to her waist, jostled her lightly. She glanced up, had to force herself to not get lost in the melted chocolate of his eyes. “You can be pissed all you want. You can argue and launch your cookie sheets—”

  “Sheet pans,” she snapped, smacking his hands away and stepping back. “Or baking sheets, not cookie—”

  A flash of white teeth, but he didn’t reach for her again, just crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, seeming so calm and composed when she felt like there was a tornado exploding to life within her. “You can launch your sheet pans at my head all you want, but I’m not leaving.”

  She was tempted to go find a sheet pan, just so she could take him up on the offer. “I’ve heard that before.” A beat. “Or no, I guess I actually haven’t heard it because we never got to the till death do us part portion of the festivities.”

  Chocolate eyes cooled. Hardened. “I didn’t want that.”

  “I know!” She slammed her hands down on the table, nearly upsetting the bowl of flour and not caring in the least.

  “I don’t think you know,” he murmured. “I don’t think you believe me when I say that not showing up at that church was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. That I wanted nothing more than you—”

  “Except, you didn’t!” she screamed. “Because if you’d really wanted me then you would have come, or you would have talked to me earlier. You could have explained. You c-could—” She stopped talking, dropped her gaze to the flour, and focused on breathing, on just . . . breathing.

  No tears.

  No more fucking tears.

  “I should have talked to you.”

  Molly snorted then started dumping ingredients into the industrial mixer. Flour in, salt in one corner, eggs, the milk, and bloomed yeast. Each part coming together, each part doing its job, each—

  “I—”

  She flicked the knob, drowning out the rest of Jackson’s sentence.

  Which was just as well. Because that tornado was still spinning inside her, upsetting all the carefully built structures within her—the confidence she’d laid brick by brick, the insecurities she’d buried deep, the—

  He turned off the mixer.

  She saw red, fingers came up to grab the bowl, but instead of launching it at his head like she really wanted to, Molly walked a few feet and chucked it into the sink.

  “You don’t understand—”

  And that was when she lost it.

  “I have a fucking job to do!” she screamed. “Why can’t you understand that? Maybe the job isn’t something you think is valuable, but I do, and I’m going to do it without you interfering. Okay? Okay? Or is that too much for me to ask, you arrogant, egotistical, selfish bastard—”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said and crossed his arms, jaw tight, stubborn expression on his face.

  “Fine.” She tossed her hands up. “Fine! But I have shit I need to do. Things you’re preventing me from finishing because you’re in my face and turning off my music and mixer. If you want to park your ass at one of my tables, fine. Then park it.” She forced herself to take a breath. “Just stop sabotaging my business, shut your fucking mouth, and let me do my fucking job.”

  His expression went unfathomable. “You’ve changed.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Real shocker there. People grow and change and—”

  “No, you’ve changed because of me.”

  A sigh. “No, Jackson. I changed for me. I changed because I realized I wasn’t fully formed, that I couldn’t truly be a partner in anything—in business, in love, in friendship—unless I finally became my own person.” She turned the mixer back on. “So, kudos to you for making that happen,” she said over the noise.

  “I’m sorry for my part in it. Sorry for all the mistakes I made.” He moved toward her, but this time didn’t touch the mixer. “I’ve changed, too. I wasn’t fully formed, either. I was a taker and as much as I would have loved to make you my wife, I would have drained you dry.”

  Her breath caught.

  His fingers brushed lightly over her cheek. “I didn’t— I’m glad I didn’t have the chance.”

  He stepped back. “I’ll be here for as long as the threat is. And then I’ll excise myself from your life as painlessly as possible.”

  That didn’t sound painless.

  It sounded horrible.

  But by the time she realized that, he’d turned, flicked on the music, then picked up a messenger bag she hadn’t seen him carry in and slipped out to the front of house.

  The lights flicked on.

  Her heart pulsed to the beat of the music.

  But today, it didn’t make her feel light and sweet.

  And neither were her rolls.
<
br />   In fact, she had to throw the whole batch out and start again.

  Ten

  Jackson

  Well, no one could say he hadn’t deserved the verbal lashing that Molly had dished out.

  He did and then some.

  His only hope was that she’d gotten out the hurt, that she’d heard his apology, that they could navigate their way forward.

  Because while he was impressed with the woman who’d built this place, who’d now opened two additional locations to much success, that angry female who’d unloaded on him in the kitchen wasn’t anything like the Molly he’d fallen in love with.

  She was more.

  And yet, he knew that if she couldn’t let go of what had happened between them, they had no hope of moving forward.

  They couldn’t keep rehashing and tearing each other apart.

  They needed to navigate new terrain.

  Which meant that he needed to help her see they could have something great between them again. That it might not be the same as what they’d had, but that it could be more and wonderful and—

  His cell rang.

  He glanced at the screen, saw that the number was Dan’s, and picked up. “Yeah?”

  A beat of hesitation, then, “You okay?”

  Pinning his phone between his shoulder and ear, he began pulling out the things he’d need to work from Molly’s shop—laptop, mobile hotspot (since he couldn’t trust his business to an unsecured WIFI network), pad and paper (because sometimes his mind worked better via old school methods)—and replied, “Fine. What did you need?”

  Another pause. This time longer.

  “What, Plantain? I’ve got shit to do—”

  “That was a pretty intense fight,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure—”

  Jackson almost dropped his phone. “You were inside?”

  “No. I . . .” He sighed. “We have eyes and ears inside the bakery. Just to make sure—”

  Dan kept talking, but Jackson stopped listening, or stopped actively listening, because he was replaying the fight with Molly, hearing the soundtrack of what she’d said, what he’d said, and wondering how many fucking people had just heard them airing their shit.