Well, everywhere except where he sat.
The employee had come over to gather up Ronnie’s plate and mug earlier, but she hadn’t wiped down the pale white wood with him sitting there, and Molly had certainly given his table a wide berth before returning back behind the counter.
His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down, saw it was his assistant. Again. The office was probably freaking out. He didn’t take days off, let alone disappear without his computer. Frankly, he was scared to think of what his inbox would look like when he got back to his office, the minimal replies he’d done via his cell akin to trying to put out a forest fire with an eye dropper.
The final patrons got up from the last occupied table and left. They disappeared out the front door, the quiet tinkling of the bell cheerful. And that was the only bit of cheerful in the whole space because when Jackson glanced toward the register, the look Molly gave him was chilly.
Probably, wondering why he didn’t just sign the papers and follow them out.
He should.
He wasn’t going to.
He’d done a lot of things wrong when it came to Molly and if he was going to fix that, then he needed to level with her.
Well, first, it would be good if he were able to get her to listen to him.
At least long enough to level with her, because if she didn’t understand why he’d done what he’d done, if she didn’t forgive him then he . . .
Would leave?
Everything inside him had stilled.
He’d done that. He’d buried himself in work, he’d eschewed his family, women, friends. He’d left everything behind.
And what had that gotten him?
Absolutely fucking nothing.
Well, he was done with nothing.
The papers arriving on his desk were a timely reminder that this was his chance to make things right. If Molly didn’t want to listen to him, to forgive him, well, he wasn’t leaving. He’d make her understand, make her realize he’d had to do what he’d done.
Make her understand that he hadn’t wanted to, but that things had gotten complicated and . . .
He needed to make her see that things would be different now.
He would make her see that.
Decided, he stood, detouring to the table when the phone rang, picking up the plates and mugs, depositing them into the gray bin she’d carried around, grabbing the towel and spray she’d used to wipe the table, and giving everything a good clean.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so much as cleaned up after himself. His dirty dishes were efficiently swept away, his toilet and sink scrubbed, his clothes picked up from the floor and laundered, his food prepared and placed in front of him fresh and hot no matter the hour he stumbled in from his office.
Coddled.
Surrounded by people.
And yet, alone.
Molly had never made him feel alone. She’d seen him as a person, not a meal ticket, as someone to love rather than a commodity, as—
She’d loved him, and he’d had to shit on that love to make sure she stayed alive.
Now, he would do anything to have that love back.
He was going to do anything to get it back.
Five
Molly
She saw Jackson get up and took advantage of the phone ringing to turn her back on him, relief pouring through her when the bell tinkled, signaling his exit.
Thank God.
He was a stubborn man, but she’d gone toe-to-toe with him plenty. He knew he couldn’t out-stubborn her.
He’d sign the papers. Be done. Leave like he was so fucking good at.
Good riddance.
And no, that wasn’t a fucking slice of disappointment she felt as she hung up the phone and carefully made a few final notes on the large catering order.
She’d been done with Jackson four years ago. She was still finished with him—
“I can’t wait to get my tongue on your sweet treat.”
Velvet. Rasp. Honey down her spine. A heatwave between her thighs. Molly spun and saw that she was wrong. Jackson hadn’t left. He stood just feet away, leaning against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other and looking altogether too sexy for her own good. Tall and lean with narrow hips and defined arms, he was more swimmer than bodybuilder. But that was fine. That was her preference, her type.
Jackson Davis was her kryptonite.
But she wasn’t a weakling, wasn’t susceptible to a line that should have been sleazy and creepy, and instead threatened to melt her from the inside out. She had spine—spine that had become lined with steel over the last few years. Steel she took advantage of in that moment. “You’re a fucking pig,” she snapped.
He grinned.
Her stomach went a little more melty.
No, she wasn’t proud of it. But thus was the power of Jackson. Her pussy knew exactly what he could do for it and was critically aware that it had been four years since her last orgasm of the Davis variety.
And those orgasms were special. He didn’t need a road map to find her clit, his tongue was fucking magical, and . . . he knew her body almost better than she did.
Pathetic?
Probably.
Had she reaped the benefits during their time together?
Hell-fucking-yes, she had.
And there he stood, still grinning, not upset at her snapping, not pissed that she’d called him a pig. But then again, he’d always reacted that way. Provoking her then seeming to gobble up her anger, as though he craved her fury.
Her nipples perked up at the memory.
Pathetic round two.
She sighed. “Why are you here?” she asked, dropping her hands to the counter and letting her head fall forward as she rolled out her shoulders.
Silence.
Molly glanced up after a long moment, saw that he’d moved, but just as she processed that Jackson wasn’t in front of her, that he might have gone, she sensed him behind her. His spicy scent surrounded her, and she started to spin.
But he caught her shoulders, stopped her motion. “I got you, honey.”
Then those hands slid up slightly and began massaging the tight muscles there. She knew she should stop him, knew that with every brain cell she possessed, but the second he touched her, all common sense faded.
Because it felt good to have him touch her.
And seriously, how fucked up was she that it felt good to have this man touch her?
He knew exactly where her muscles ached, how the pain radiated into her neck, down her right arm. He remembered how hard to press so the knots went away, but not so hard as to hurt her.
He. Remembered.
Her spine softened, body instinctively arching to brush her ass against his pelvis, hearing his breath hiss out.
She got wet.
Just that easily.
But it was always like that with him. One touch and she was hot for him. One touch and she was hot enough to almost make her forget that she hated this man who had his hands on her.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” he murmured into her ear.
Cold washed over her, that heat gone in an instant. She spun, knocked his hands away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch—”
“Baby—”
“No,” she said, ice in her veins. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to put your hands on me. Not when you left like you did. Not when you—”