Knowing the decision was already made.
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.