Bad Wedding (Billionaire's Club Book 9) Page 7

  They weren’t done.

  Not by a long shot.

  Fingers brushing across her cheek, drifting down her throat. Breath hitching, pulse thundering, lips parting.

  “Are you going to hate me forever, honey?”

  Her eyes flew open, and Jackson was there. Right there. Kneeling next to her, his mouth so freaking close, his scent so overwhelming, the heat from his body so intense that she forgot about the order she was going over, forgot about her wounded heart, about the painful past.

  She leaned forward and sealed their mouths together.

  It was a spark in dry tinder.

  Heat exploding into fire, into need.

  His hands came to her face, angling her head, pulling her out of her chair and into his lap, her desk rattling with the force of him colliding back into it. But then his tongue was in her mouth, then he was kissing her like he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and . . . she forgot.

  That she was in her office.

  That this was four years after she’d been dumped.

  That this wasn’t her and Jackson and what they’d had before.

  His tongue stroked hers, his lips alternated between firm and soft, coaxing and demanding, his fingers clenched on her hips. Molly moaned and reached for his chest, starting to tear at the buttons on his shirt, pelvis canting, wanting, needing to get closer.

  Jackson caught her hands, tore his mouth away.

  Unceremoniously stood then deposited her in her desk chair.

  He stood, towering over her for several heartbeats, eyes blazing, chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

  Then he dropped his chin to his chest.

  Inhaled and exhaled one long, slow breath.

  His head came up, face placid, though his eyes still burned. “Finish your work so I can drive you home.” He strode for the door.

  Anger flared through her, hot and furious and overwhelming. She wanted to snap at him for coming back into her life. To scream and yell and throw things because he’d shattered the perceptions she’d held on to as an excuse to keep the world away. His fault. It was all his fault.

  Except . . . it wasn’t.

  She knew that. Logically.

  It was just easier to continue being mad, rather than acknowledging that he might have had legitimate reasons for leaving.

  Safer.

  If she were locked down, then she couldn’t get hurt.

  But there. That. The slight dip in his shoulders as he walked, the way he was holding himself.

  It was far too familiar.

  Because he was hurting, just as she was.

  And finally, she was able to look beyond the anger enough to realize that Jackson had been wounded, too.

  Perhaps even more.

  Because while she’d been able to burn him in proverbial effigy, he’d had to be the bad guy, the one who’d separated them, and not because he wanted to, because he’d been trying to keep her safe.

  Should he have talked to her? Should he have looped her in and not just broken things off without thinking it through?

  Yes.

  But could she understand wanting to keep the Jackson she’d loved safe, being willing to do anything to protect him, even if that meant breaking his heart?

  Also, yes.

  And was this anger too much, was it eating her up inside so she felt like she was constantly on edge, always just a hair trigger away from exploding? Was she done with holding on to the fury?

  Yes.

  No, she couldn’t just forget it all, pretend it hadn’t happened.

  But she could put it aside, help him figure out the situation that was putting them both at risk, and then move on from it.

  Healthier. More whole.

  “Jackson?” she called when he reached for the doorknob.

  He spun. “Yeah?”

  “I want to hate you,” she told him. “I want to hate you so you can never hurt me again.” Honest words, albeit harsh. Still, she knew that she owed it to both of them to also give him the truth.

  “I know, Mol.” He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor.

  “But—” His gaze flew back up. “I can’t,” she murmured. “I can’t hate you, Jackson.”

  His chest expanded, hope exploding across his face. “Honey—”

  Put it aside. Move on. Stop being angry.

  Yes to all of those things.

  But . . . saying yes to all of that didn’t also mean saying yes to opening herself back up to the potential world of hurt that was Jackson Davis.

  “I need to finish this,” she interrupted. “Then you can drive me home.”

  His expression dimmed slightly, the hope disappearing, and she told herself that she would not feel guilt. She. Would. Not. Feel. Guilt.

  She felt it anyway.

  But she didn’t stop him from reaching for the doorknob this time, nor from turning it and pulling the wooden panel open. Nor from disappearing back into the hall.

  Enough anger.

  But her walls were staying up.

  Twelve

  Jackson

  I can’t hate you, Jackson.

  I want to hate you.

  Fuck.

  His plan for winning Molly over wasn’t exactly going smoothly.

  But at least she didn’t hate him, or couldn’t hate him. That was something.

  He was waiting in the hall outside her office, thankful that she’d introduced him to her staff after the morning rush as an old friend who’d be hanging at the bakery working for the present. Because of that, no one was questioning his presence in the staff-only spaces.

  It had been twenty minutes since he’d retreated from Molly’s office, only leaving to grab his messenger bag with his work materials that he’d stowed behind the counter, and then running out to his car before returning to lean against the wall while answering the slew of late afternoon emails that always seemed to appear when everyone was preparing to leave for the day.

  The plus was he could do that from his cell.

  The minus was that it was hard to type with one hand, because the other was holding the bouquet of kitchen accessories.

  He’d met his assistant at lunchtime, stowed the case of wine in the trunk of his car, along with the “flowers” he’d just retrieved.

  Paired with Molly’s declaration of I can’t hate you, he hoped that he might be able to make up some ground here. They had the chemistry, that was for damn sure, and he knew it would stay there even if her anger faded, because they’d always been good together. He was tempted to use that chemistry to his advantage. To keep pushing at her until she exploded again and he was able to get his hands on her, his cock inside her.

  But that wouldn’t solve the mess between them.

  He needed her sweetness, the caring that filled the bakery. He needed her to trust him to not hurt her. He needed her to understand that he wasn’t going to take.

  He needed to prove that he could be the one to give.

  So flowers, of the kitchen variety, anyway. Along with moving slowly and carefully, so that Molly would be able to trust him.

  And make sure she was safe.

  But Molly had been right about more than one thing as they’d gone toe-to-toe that day. He hadn’t suddenly turned into a superhero. He didn’t have the skills to keep her safe.

  All he had was Dan and the security at the office.

  He didn’t have a bodyguard anymore, and he only knew that supposedly Dan’s team had eyes on both him and Molly. Obviously, they would be easier to watch if they were together, and hopefully Dan was right about Jackson’s presence being a deterrent since Molly was already on the mafia’s radar. But he needed to figure out what else he could do, what other precautions he could take to ensure Molly was safe.

  He’d been focused on the security of her heart, when he needed to be equally attentive to her physical well-being.

  There was movement inside Molly’s office, and Jackson quickly sent a text to Dan, asking him for some resources an
d recommendations he could use to protect her, money not being any object, then he pocketed his phone.

  Molly tugged the door open, expression distracted, ponytail askew, eyes tired.

  She stopped short when she saw him standing there.

  “Oh,” she said. “Um—”

  He thrust the kitchen implements under her nose.

  Not the smoothest transition in the least, but at least he didn’t accidentally gouge her eye out with one of the wooden spoons.

  “Oh,” she said again.

  “I figured you’d had enough with flowers today.”

  She glanced down at the cellophane-covered utensils, wrapped in a pink ribbon. Then her mouth twitched. “Llamas are a favorite I picked up only recently. How did you know I was into them?”

  “I didn’t.” He shrugged when she looked up. “They just seemed bright and cheerful like you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You think I’m bright and cheerful? I’ve yelled at you for a good portion of the two days I’ve seen you in the last four years.” Her hand closed around the bouquet, one finger trailing over the pink patterned silicone.

  He grinned. “Okay, maybe not around me,” he agreed. “But you’ve created this incredible space, Mol. People love coming here because the food is good, but they hang around because you fill the space with warmth, because you give them a place they can gather and feel happy. I’m so proud of you.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

  “That’s because it’s true.” He slid a finger under her chin, lifting gently when her eyes would have gone to the floor. “You’re impressive, honey, and you’ve done a hell of a lot more than create a program that is equal parts useful and dangerous.”

  She canted her head to the side. “Last I heard, you’d gathered investments totaling over five hundred million dollars.”

  “Last I heard, the military threatened to pull out of our contract because I wouldn’t give them a backdoor access into the program.”

  “What’s backdoor access?” Her cheeks went a little pink. “I mean . . . in this sense. Not the”—she coughed—“why would they threaten to pull out—?” More pink.

  Jackson’s cock twitched, and he bit back a smile.

  His Molly wasn’t shy in bed. His Molly knew what she liked, and sometimes that did involve a bit of backdoor play. But his Molly outside of the bedroom blushed. God, he loved seeing that pink on her cheeks.

  Especially when it reminded him of the pink spreading down her throat, across her breasts, over—

  She smacked him lightly. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said, echoing his words back to him.

  He lost the battle with his grin. “Hard to ignore, isn’t it?” He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Backdoor access, in this sense, is a way into the program if they’re locked out or someone has their security or privacy settings battened down. It would give them a key into anyone’s data, at any time.

  Molly frowned, opened her mouth, but at the same time, Jackson clued into the dark circles under her eyes, the fatigue dragging down the smooth planes of her shoulders, and knew she was so much more important than the latest crisis that had jammed his inbox full of emails and his calendar with conference calls.

  “Let’s get you home,” he told her. “If you still want to know more about the program and can stay awake through the explanation, I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Let me just check in on the staff and we can go.”

  He wanted to argue, to batten her down and rush her home, to force her to rest until she didn’t look tired.

  But this was her business.

  She’d worked incredibly hard for her success.

  And so, he wouldn’t piss her off by hefting her over his shoulder and carrying her out to his car. He wouldn’t discount her hard work by presuming to tell her what to do.

  No.

  He’d save that for when he told her that she was coming back to his apartment, and that she was staying there until Dan told them it was safe for her to leave.

  And . . . then Jackson was going to tell her she still had to stay.

  Because he’d gone four years without Molly Miller.

  He wasn’t going without any longer.

  Predictably, his telling Molly about her change in living situation didn’t go well.

  Thus, there wasn’t any further talk of back doors.

  However, there was plenty of talk of her threatening to disembowel him with the new spoons he’d bought her.

  Thank God he’d stuck with blunt instruments.

  They’d had a few minutes of peace, the time between him showing her the case of wine in the trunk and then until the point during the drive home that she realized he wasn’t heading to her place—read: ten whole minutes.

  Then she’d clued in. Then he’d told her she was staying with him and that was just the way things were going to be.

  She’d responded to that appropriately: “Fuck off, Jackson!”

  To which he’d replied, “I will, if it means you’ll see some goddamned reason and stay in a place that’s safe!”

  Her lips had parted, eyes furious, and then she’d softened and shaken her head. “You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.” Another shake. “You know that, right?”

  He’d pulled to a stop at a signal, opened his mouth to say, who the hell knew what, but he didn’t get a chance.

  Molly leaned over the console and pressed her lips to his.

  He was pissed and frustrated and worried . . . and hard as a fucking rock, but that didn’t mean he was going to pass up a chance to kiss this woman, to show her every one of the conflicted and confused and intense emotions she made him feel at any given time.

  Her tongue was fierce. Her mouth was hot. Her lips were demanding.

  Her hands pressed to his chest, moved down—

  A horn blared behind them.

  They both jumped, and Jackson’s eyes flew up just in time to see the light change from green to yellow. He hit the gas, slid through the intersection a heartbeat before the signal turned red.

  Whoops.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly was grinning.

  Well, hell. He didn’t think he would ever understand this woman.

  But if she kept grinning like that, then Jackson didn’t think he cared.

  Thirteen

  Molly

  Okay, so she’d lost her head for a second.

  Kissing Jackson wasn’t exactly keeping her distance.

  But also, kissing Jackson wasn’t exactly not keeping her distance.

  Which didn’t even make sense.

  Mentally shaking her head, she knew that a lot of the last day, the last month, the last year, didn’t make sense. She didn’t make sense when she was with Jackson.

  Always a push-pull. Always trying to align her heart and body with her mind.

  Yet, all she knew was that when he’d yelled at her, when he’d finally lost some of the cool veneer in telling her all of the reasonable, logical reasons to stay at his place—better security, easier for the federal agents to keep tabs on them, not surrounded by woods that she normally loved, but with the threat of the Russian mafia potentially coming down on her that could be dangerous (also something she was willing to go without for a bit in the name of her safety)—and yelled, she’d finally clued in.

  This wasn’t about just keeping her safe.

  This was more.

  And perhaps that shouldn’t have made her heart leap with joy, shouldn’t have made her frustration at the order fade.

  But it had.

  Paired with the wine and the cute llama spatulas, and her irritation had fled.

  Perhaps, that said terrible things about her. That she could be bought, that a few nice words and kitchen utensils meant she would lose all the fight she’d gained over the years. Or perhaps . . . it meant that she could finally be a grown up instead of a spurned, heartsick ex-fiancé, and understand his concerns, kn
ow that they were valid.

  And so, she’d kissed him.

  It had seemed like the most expedient way to end the argument, especially since they’d slid to a stop at one of the city’s interminable red lights. Though that had backfired as they’d kissed through the green signal and probably left a trail of furious drivers behind them.

  Her bad.

  Though, the kiss had been very, very good.

  But back to more pressing matters. She turned to Jackson and said, “I want to meet this federal agent you’re working with.”

  At the same time, he kept his eyes on the road and said, “If you’re already pissed at me, you might as well know that the bakery had cameras and microphones installed.”

  She hadn’t been pissed.

  The news circled her back around.

  “Um, what?” she exclaimed. “Cameras? Did they—? Oh my God, is there some video out there of us having sex?”

  “What? No!”

  “You said there are cameras and microphones. Oh, fuck, who’s watching them? Did they hear—?”

  One second Jackson was driving, the next he’d pulled the car into an impossibly small spot on the street, thrown the transmission into park, and then turned to her. “Mol. Stop. Everything was only installed last night. There isn’t a tape or a recording of us.”

  Horror filled her as she remembered what she’d said, how she’d acted. Fuck. To think someone had watched her freak out, seen her rage at Jackson as she’d aired the dirty laundry of their relationship. “Where are the cameras? Are they in my office? Did they see—?” She saw his face change, knew someone had been on the other end of the feed, witnessing her throwing herself at him, casually viewing her losing her mind and all semblance control when he’d kissed her.

  Embarrassment was a hot poker through her mind, and she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she groaned.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said, carefully peeling her fingers back. “Nothing is saved. Everything is deleted after forty-eight hours. They just want to make sure they have eyes and ears on you, just in case something happens.”