He knew she’d probably placed them with tweezers.
Because if there was one thing Molly was good at, it was caring about the details.
He’d once been one of those details.
Molly pushed through the door, another tray in her hands, her formerly askew ponytail carefully straightened and secured. She set the tray on the stainless-steel counter behind the case and smiled.
Not at him.
At the man who’d just walked through the door.
Fuck, Jackson didn’t like that at all—her smiling at other men, even men who were well over seventy, had barely enough hair to cover an inch above each ear, and hobbled slowly in with a cane.
But he’d fucked up.
So, he didn’t have a right to feel anything about her smiles.
“Ronnie,” she said, still smiling, her eyes sliding deliberately past him, as though Jackson were nothing more than a piece of furniture, and an ugly one at that. “You want the usual?”
“Mornin’, beautiful,” Ronnie said then pointed at Jackson. “This young man was here first.”
Molly smiled, though this time it was tinged with ice. “Oh, I’ve already helped him plenty.” She tilted her head toward the windows. “Go sit at your table. I’ll bring out your muffin and coffee.”
“Black,” Ronnie said.
“With only a half a pound of sugar,” Molly added with wink. “I know, honey. I’ll warm you up a lemon poppy seed to go with it.”
“You always know how to treat a guy.” Ronnie put a five on the counter. “I wish I was forty years younger so I could marry you. Any man would be lucky to call you his wife.” Then he grinned and made his halting way over to what was apparently his table, a small round top tucked into one corner.
It did not escape Jackson’s notice that there was already a newspaper carefully laid there. One that Ronnie apparently expected, because he sat down and immediately got to reading.
It also did not escape Jackson’s notice that Molly had stopped breathing.
That her face had paled, and pain had crawled across her eyes.
Because he’d once been the man who’d been lucky enough to marry Molly.
Fuck.
“Sweet—”
Her eyes flashed to his, hurt disappearing behind a mask of anger. “I think I made it clear when I sent you the paperwork. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.” She bent, sliding open the back of the case and pulling out a muffin. Her movements were efficient, practiced, but wooden, and he knew she’d done the same thing a thousand times before.
She’d done the same dance many times over while hurting.
Because he’d hurt her.
Jackson didn’t speak until she came back behind the counter. “Molly—”
Her head whipped up, but this time there wasn’t hurt or anger on her face. Instead, it was determination and, fuck, he liked that expression even more than sparking furious eyes. “If you want more money,” she said. “I’ll find it. But I want you out of this business, Jackson.”
Yeah, he was reading that loud and clear.
He’d gotten the papers the day before, couriered to his office, placed unceremoniously on his desk by his assistant, and they’d fucking pissed him off. An emotion he didn’t have one right to feel about the situation, since it was entirely of his making, and yet, one he was furious about anyway.
What right did Molly have to cut this last tie between them?
What fucking right?
Every right. She had every right. He knew that. He got that. He—
Couldn’t bear to actually let her go.
A fucking joke considering he was the one who’d pulled the plug on their wedding, but also the truth.
Which is why he said, “I’m not going to let you buy me out,” when he probably should have told her that he would sign whatever papers she wanted if she would only give him another chance.
But that wasn’t his style.
Jackson wasn’t altruistic. He wasn’t good. He was selfish.
And he wanted Molly.
Green eyes sparked fire at his words, lush lips that fit perfectly against his flattened out, a muscle in her jaw ticked. She sucked in a breath, opened her mouth, and—
The bell jingled.
They both turned and watched a trio of men in suits walk through the door. Then the bell sounded again as another customer slipped inside. And then another. And another. They approached the counter, anticipation on their faces.
To talk to Molly. To eat her delicious food. To just soak in the warmth of her presence.
Jackson knew the feeling. He’d been stifling that urge for years.
Only he’d gotten really good at pretending he wasn’t ruled by those urges, that he didn’t need the woman standing on the other side of the counter, her unruly hair escaping her ponytail, her curves unhidden even beneath the shapeless pastel pink apron she wore, the scent of all the delicious things she conjured up in the magical kitchen of hers surrounding him.
But he did need her.
He just didn’t know how in the hell he was going to make amends for what he’d done.
Three
Molly
She leaned carefully to the side, peering through the round window at the top of the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the front of house, searching to see if it was safe.
It wasn’t.
Jackson was still there.
When the morning rush had begun, he’d stepped away from the counter and she’d thought he would leave.
Thanked the baking gods that he wouldn’t continue to darken her doorstep.
But instead of leaving, he’d picked up the plate with the lemon and poppy seed muffin she’d heated, snagged the coffee she’d poured and then dumped about a gallon of sugar into, and carried both over to Ronnie’s table.
Now they were talking.
It had been nearly two hours. Jeanine, her morning shift cashier had come in, facilitating Molly’s escape back into the kitchen. Ronnie had gone, the newspaper she left for him every morning folded carefully and tucked under one arm.
And Jackson remained.
Suit jacket off and draped over the back of his chair. Phone out, alternating between typing on it and placing it up to his ear and speaking into it. Yes, she could imagine the velvet rasp of his voice, practically feel it caressing her skin.
So many good times.
So much love.
And then . . . nothing.
He’d ghosted her to an insane degree, disappearing the morning of the wedding. His parents hadn’t known where he’d gone, and neither had his groomsmen. She’d spent the day calling hospitals, organizing search parties, and driving the road between the hotel and the venue, looking for him or any sign of an accident. Eventually, she’d gone to the police department and filed a missing person report.
Then had received a phone call an hour later, asking her to come down to the station. She’d been panicked, on the verge of a nervous breakdown the whole way, thinking something horrible had happened to him. But then she’d been led into a room at the department, and Jackson had been standing there, whole and safe and . . . she’d run to him, thrown herself into his arms. God. She’d never forgot the humiliation of what had come next. The brusque way he’d set her away from him, his normally warm chocolate eyes having turned frozen and fierce.