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

  She glanced up into his chocolate eyes. “Do they really think something is going to happen?”

  Because if federal agents thought she might be at risk . . .

  Well, then this entire thing was much more serious than she’d been giving it credit for, and shit, now she wasn’t just embarrassed, she was a little terrified.

  It’s the Russian mafia, idiot, her mind said snarkily. You’d be a moron to not be scared.

  Well, moron or not, she hadn’t exactly been firing on all cylinders since Jackson had reentered her life. Everything was mixed up—her emotions, her job, her memories, her future . . . none of it was simple or made sense, and now her bakery was full of microphones and cameras.

  “I need to talk to the agent,” she said again.

  Molly needed to understand everything.

  She needed to stop freaking out about a broken heart and a canceled wedding and start worrying about the fact that the Russian mafia was interested in her enough that federal agents had put cameras in her bakery to keep an eye on her.

  Now you’re getting it.

  Jackson nodded. “I’m sure I can arrange that.” A beat. “Are you going to keep the cameras?”

  “Or what?” she asked. “I mean, seriously,” she added when his face clouded. “What’s my alternative? I take them out and risk some scary mafia guy sneaking up on me? At least if the feds are watching and listening then I’ll be safe.”

  She hoped.

  Jackson’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry I came back,” he said. “If I’d just signed those papers. If I hadn’t gone to the bakery—”

  Molly squeezed his arm. “I’m guessing you didn’t know it would bring me back into this.”

  He shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I thought they were done with me. They’d gone quiet for two years. Dan said it was all but done, and . . . it’s stupid, but I just figured that with everything turned over to the feds, with my security team in place, that there wouldn’t be any risk.” A sigh. “But then Dan showed up at my office last night, and he doesn’t show up anywhere unless shit is serious.”

  That sounded ominous, and she couldn’t help wondering how many times Jackson had seen Dan, and thus, how many times shit had gotten serious over the last few years.

  But she didn’t get a chance to ask because Jackson kept talking. “If I— Fuck. I should have just—”

  “Had the benefit of hindsight?” she interrupted.

  “I knew better.”

  “The universal human condition.”

  His brows drew together.

  “You’re experiencing the universal human condition of wanting to change the past even while knowing that it’s impossible. Reliving and analyzing and thinking back through every single thing we did, in order to try to make sense of how things turned out. I’m well-versed in that. I swear, I could have gotten my PhD in the process after you broke things off.” His face clouded and she brushed her fingers across his jaw. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, especially not when you’ve perfected the process. What I am trying to tell you is that I’m not mad you came back.”

  He snorted.

  “Okay, not all mad. I’m so incredibly furious that you didn’t talk to me about this years ago. But I’m also . . . I don’t know . . . understanding? Or, at least, I finally have some clarity as to why.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, turning his eyes back to the road.

  “I’m also going to try to not hold it against you quite so much.”

  She saw the corner of his mouth closest to her turn up. “I think I’ve earned your anger.”

  “Well, I think you’ve played the martyr for long enough,” she countered.

  He’d just flicked on the signal, started to check for traffic, but at her words he turned back to face her, jaw dropping open. “That’s what you think I’ve been doing? Getting some sick pleasure out of sacrificing myself for you?”

  Molly shrugged. “I don’t know what else to think, Jackson. Your reasons for breaking things off might have been noble in the past, same as your reasons for parking your butt in my shop now, for ordering me to stay at your apartment. An order I happen to agree with,” she added when it seemed like he’d argue with her. “I don’t want anything to happen to either of us, and if me staying with you for a little bit makes that more of a certainty then fine, I can stand sleeping on your couch for a while.”

  “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he growled.

  A roll of her eyes. “I’m not arguing with you about that. My point is, the reason you ended things wasn’t because you were crazy in love with me and were desperate to protect me, it was because you felt like you needed to punish yourself.”

  “That’s—”

  “And you continue to want to punish yourself. I don’t know why. I could never love you enough to convince you to let me in that deep.” Her gaze flicked to her hands, to the faded burns, the scars, the callouses. She’d earned the hardened skin, had dealt with the stitches, pushed through the pain to keep growing. Her eyes lifted, found his. “I wasn’t strong enough then to chisel my way through the barriers. I was dealing with my own insecurities, was too scared that if I did push then I might lose you.”

  She sucked in a breath, lifted her chin.

  “The difference is that I did lose you, and I went through some really dark times—no matter that it was ultimately for my own good or to keep me safe . . . I get that. But, I’m also different now. And I don’t want a man in my life who’s only here because of a misguided duty.” She took another breath. “I want a man who loves me as much as I love him.”

  “I—”

  “Feel like you have a duty to protect me because you brought this down on my head.”

  “Yes, but—” He broke off, shook his head.

  She waited for him to say something, part of her terrified that he might suddenly declare his love for her and that she might be weak enough to forget everything and jump right back into how she’d been in the past. The rest of her knew she was too strong to do that.

  “I’m not here just because I feel obligated,” he finally said. “I care for you.”

  I care for you.

  Probably the only words she’d accept at face value in that moment.

  But also, words that hurt.

  He cared. People everywhere cared—a person cared for a puppy, or a stranger who fell in the street, or a woman who’d once held a piece of his heart, even as he’d kept the rest of the pieces safely locked away.

  “I care for you, too,” she said and left it at that, not giving voice to the way those words sliced deep, so tired of being angry, of being hurt. “I won’t fight you on our safety. Granted that you do arrange that meeting with Dan,” she added then paused as she considered her options. “I want to know everything that relates to me. I deserve to know that much.”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  Molly nodded. “Thank you.”

  Jackson’s eyes moved forward again, his hand for the turn signal, but then he paused. “I broke something inside of you when I called things off,” he murmured. “I didn’t realize it before. I thought that I could just piece it back together and make everything all right again.” A beat. “But that’s not how this works, is it?”

  She shook her head, another wave of sadness washing over her. “No, honey, it’s not.”

  He swallowed. “And even if I manage to piece it back together, it’ll never be the same.”

  Molly hesitated for a few moments before eventually saying, “Sometimes staying the same is overrated. Sometimes the pieces have to be broken in order to become something better.”

  “Fuck.” A quiet curse, under his breath, almost not reaching her ears.

  “I’m okay,” she continued. “Everything worked out.”

  “Except, I broke something I should have known was precious,” he muttered, “and you can’t go back to what you were before.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  His ja
w clenched, the muscle twitching just in front of his ear the only sign of how agitated he was.

  “Jackson?” she whispered.

  His gaze flicked to hers, frustration in his eyes.

  “I think we were both broken. Back then, I mean.”

  He stiffened, and she braced herself, instinctively knowing that she’d touched a nerve. But then he sighed, and the tension left him. “Yeah, I think we were, too.” A nod, pain flashing across his face before he turned, started to check his mirrors.

  “I guess what we need to ask ourselves is . . . if we’re both still broken now?” She nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “And if we are, then can we find a way to be whole again? Or will that brokenness continue to chase us for the rest of our lives?”

  His hands convulsed on the steering wheel, knuckles standing out in sharp relief against his skin. Then they relaxed, and he flicked on his turn signal, maneuvering out of the tiny spot and back into San Francisco traffic.

  “There’s one broken person in this car,” he said, the words almost icy they were so devoid of emotion. “And I think we both know it’s not you.”

  She inhaled sharply, opened her mouth to say . . . what?

  But she never got the chance to find the words.

  Because Jackson’s cell rang.

  “Answer it,” she said when he glanced at her.

  Relief and disappointment slid through her when he did as she said, when he answered the call over the Bluetooth in the car and began advising his assistant on rearranging his meetings for the following day.

  Relieved because the conversation had been another heavy, exhausting, mind-melting one, and they’d had enough of those for one day.

  Disappointed because she finally felt like they were getting somewhere . . . and because she might finally have the courage to keep pushing until she made it through his walls.

  Until he told her the secrets he was holding on to so tightly.

  The ones that made the shadows cross behind his sad chocolate eyes.

  The ones she knew were the key to understanding both where they’d been and what they could be moving forward.

  It took some effort, but Molly convinced Jackson to make a detour to her condo.

  She needed to pack up her things, to get a change of clothes and her toiletries, and despite his promises that he’d have his assistant pick up what she needed, Molly liked the idea of a strange man going through her underwear drawer almost as much as she liked the fact that the mafia had somehow entered her life.

  That was, not at all.

  So, he’d made a quick call to the mysterious federal agent, Dan, letting him know what their plan was, gotten the okay, and they’d made the detour.

  In. Out. Just the essentials.

  It had all gone to plan without any hiccups until she’d asked Jackson to grab her Kindle from inside the bedside table.

  She’d forgotten what was inside.

  Something she’d gotten so used to that she barely saw it anymore.

  But . . . there was a reason she’d never thrown it away. Because this was another photograph that had changed her life, albeit of one showing her and Jackson, him down on one knee, ring in one hand, love written over his face. Her expression had been shocked and partially obscured, her hands coming up to cover her face.

  Jackson hadn’t hired a photographer to take pictures.

  Rather, a stranger had snapped it and then later had come up to congratulate and pass the photo along. A kindness for no other reason than to be kind. And Molly had cherished that picture for a long time, but then it had become a painful reminder, tucked into a drawer.

  Eventually, though, it had become a distant memory.

  A pang, and yet, not the agony it once was.

  Although, it wasn’t so distant with the man pictured, standing in front of her of her with a tortured expression on his face didn’t slice across her heart.

  Because she got it now.

  “I remember being so fucking scared,” he said, voice rasping as his eyes came up to meet hers, small smile on his lips. “That you would say no. I knew even then that I didn’t deserve you . . . and yet, I couldn’t let you go.” His expression darkened.

  “Jackson,” she began, stepping toward him.

  His eyes came to hers, freezing her in place. “Like now. I don’t deserve you now.”

  “That’s not—”

  He dropped the picture back into the drawer, picked up her Kindle. “Anything else?”

  She wanted to argue, to push, to demand her talk to her . . . but walls.

  Hers, that was. The need to strengthen and keep them up.

  But also, his. The impenetrable ones she’d never been able to find her way over or through or around. One look at his face told her all she needed to know on that front. His walls were still in place, and they were stronger than ever.

  Maybe it was better this way.

  No. It was most definitely better this way. Stay smart, keep her head down, continue moving forward. Right.

  But maybe it wasn’t better? Maybe they could—

  A shake of her head, a stifled sigh, then Molly zipped up her bag, and said, “That’s enough for now.”

  She meant the clothes.

  But also maybe . . . she meant the two of them.

  But also maybe . . . she didn’t.

  Fourteen

  Jackson

  He grabbed the case of wine from the trunk of his car, shouldered his bag and Molly’s, despite her protests, then closed and locked everything up before leading the way over to the elevators.

  She held the kitchen bouquet and trailed him silently.

  Silence.

  He’d thought he’d been used to it after the last few years spent working late in the office after everyone else had gone home then returning to a silent, empty apartment.

  But he wasn’t used to Molly being quiet.

  Their relationship wasn’t filled with long moments of comfortable silence, of two people sitting in quiet reflection or mutely observing the world around them. Molly was a chatterer—talking about her day, about her business, about a new recipe, about a news article she read, about a podcast he just had to listen to—and he’d loved it.

  As an only child of two working parents, he’d had a lot of quiet.

  His mother worked eighty-plus hours a week at the doctor’s office she’d founded, and his father had traveled, so much so that he’d once received an award from his preferred airline for the most miles flown in a year.

  Jackson had been used to doing things himself, had run feral and roamed his house and neighborhood, living off an obscene amount of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while getting himself to school on time, making his own lunch, and oftentimes, his own dinner.

  Oh, there’d always been food available, plenty of jars of peanut butter and strawberry jelly, multiple loaves of bread, apples, bananas, graham crackers. Plenty of snacks for a kid.

  There just hadn’t been dinner around a worn wooden table, discussing his homework over vegetables he’d been forced to choke down, someone to check that he’d brushed his teeth at night, or hell, even someone to make sure he went to bed at a reasonable hour.

  He’d fended for himself.

  Which was probably why he’d been so drawn to Molly in the first place.

  She had been caring personified, thinking of him and his needs, filling the space around him with laughter and conversation, and meals were never in short supply. He’d fallen hard, latched on, and . . .

  Sucked her dry.

  The elevator opened with a ding, making him blink and blindly step forward, following Molly onto the car then pushing the button for the eighth floor. After a few seconds, the doors slid closed, and she sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Had she gone back to being mad about his high-handedness? Or was this something else?

  “Nothing,” she said. “Or nothing new anyway.” The last was a quiet addendum, barely reaching his ears.


  He turned, locked eyes with her, thought about pushing her for an explanation.

  But fuck, hadn’t he put her through enough? Hadn’t this day been long enough for her? He didn’t need to add his bullshit to her—

  “It’s that,” she said.

  His brows drew down. “What?”

  “The wall.” He didn’t understand what she meant, and luckily, she seemed to read that loud and clear. “Your wall, Jackson. The one I could never get through when we were together, the one I told myself I would be able to eventually one day find my way around, or even if I didn’t, then the one I was okay with being between us because I was too scared to push, if that meant I might lose you.” She cleared her throat. “It’s also . . . if I’m being truly honest with myself, even though I’m twisted into knots, even though I keep alternating between being terrified and wanting to push forward, it’s also the wall I don’t want between us now.”

  He clenched his hands into fists, considered what had been running through his brain, the promise he’d made to himself to tell her everything from this point forward. He’d already told her he was broken, so he might as well confess the rest. “I—”

  The elevator doors opened, and, instinctively, he put his free hand out to prevent them from shutting, holding the metal panel so Molly could get off.

  She took one step, stopped. “Um.”

  Jackson’s eyes flew up from the box of wine he’d been concentrating on not dropping and he skidded to a stop, elevator doors closing behind him, his chest only millimeters from Molly’s back.

  Then he quickly moved in front of her.

  The man who stood so casually, leaning back against the wall opposite, one ankle crossed over the other, smirk on his lips, outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and while Jackson was on the tall side of average, this man had a good six inches on him. His black suit was expensive and tailored to his body like a second skin.

  Which revealed a body well-honed and riddled with muscle.

  Fuck.

  Molly slipped her fingers into the waistband of his slacks, holding steady, even as her breath came in rapid exhalations he could feel on the back of his neck.