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.