by Lexi Ryan
“May I tell him who’s here?”
I’d rather you didn’t. But I smile like I’m not asking to see the guy I assaulted two nights ago. “Brayden Jackson.”
“I’ll let him know.” She waves to the leather couches in the waiting area. “Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
I nod and wander in that direction, but I don’t sit. I’m too restless to be still. I stand by the window and watch the street outside. Snow-covered cars roll by and bundled-up pedestrians rush to their Monday-morning destinations.
“You can follow me,” the receptionist says from behind me.
It’s a power move, I realize. Making me go to him on his turf instead of coming out here to greet me. I was hoping to have this conversation on neutral ground, like the coffee shop across the street, but my temper got me in this mess, so my pride is going to have to step aside while I clean it up.
She leads me into Jason’s office, where he’s waiting, seated behind his desk. The large space has rich wooden paneling, a dual-screen computer, and a couple of leather chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
With a nod, she backs out of the office, shutting the door behind her as she goes.
Jason doesn’t stand. He rocks back in his chair and studies me. I wince when I see the purple bruise under his left eye.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “I came to apologize.”
He arches a brow but doesn’t reply.
“I saw Molly scrambling out of your car, and it looked bad.”
“You made assumptions.”
“I did.”
“You realize how insulting that is? That you think I’d force Molly . . . or any woman?”
“You would have done the same thing in my position.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it shut and sighs. He drags a hand through his hair. “Hell. I probably would have.”
“I’m sorry about the black eye.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “And I’m sorry about the assumptions I made in that moment.”
Jason studies me and then nods slowly. “Okay. Forgiven.”
“But I don’t want you dating Molly.” That was unplanned, but the second the words are out, I’m glad for the change of direction.
He pushes his chair back and stands. “Excuse me?”
“She’s had a tough year and—”
“That’s Molly’s choice to make. Not yours.”
He’s right. I fucking know he’s right. But that doesn’t stop me from saying, “She deserves better than what you have to offer.”
“You don’t know shit about what I have to offer.”
“You have a reputation.”
He grunts. “So does she.”
Every cell in my body lurches forward at those words, but I force my feet to stay rooted in place. Punching this sonofabitch again isn’t going to put me in Molly’s good graces or do a damn thing to change what assholes assume about her. “You didn’t just say that.” My voice is deadly calm.
He slowly walks around his desk to stand in front of me. When he stops, he tucks his hands into his pockets and mirrors my posture. “You know the difference between you and me, Jackson?”
I hold his gaze but don’t answer.
“You want to pretend she doesn’t have a reputation—that the pretty blonde you’re chasing after isn’t the same girl who got on her knees for half the guys in her high school.”
Adrenaline spikes in my blood, and my hands curl into fists. “Don’t.”
“Whereas I,” he says, his voice low, “don’t give a shit about her past.”
“You don’t give a shit about anything but your dick.” This isn’t going well. I came here to apologize, but now I don’t feel sorry for that bruise beneath his eye. In fact, I’d really enjoy giving him a matching set.
His lips twist into a smirk. “We can’t all be perfect like you, Brayden. And if you try to make Molly into someone she’s not, I think you’ll find she can take herself out of your life as completely as my cousin did.”
I flinch at the mention of Sara, just as he intended me to.
“Is that really what you want?” Jason asks. “To make another woman feel like she has to disappear to escape you and your unreasonable standards?”
He’s trying to piss me off. Trying to pick a fight here, where Molly isn’t watching and he can swing back. But his words—and the mention of Sara—make the fight drain out of me.
I turn around and leave his office without another word.
Brayden
“Do you want to watch a movie with me?”
Molly has been sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop and a cup of tea since she put Noah to bed an hour and a half ago. I’ve found half a dozen excuses to come in here since then, and she’s managed to avoid looking at me every time. When I try to start a conversation, I get one-word answers. She’s been distant since the day of the Christmas party, but her silence tonight has been remarkable.
“No thanks,” she says without looking at me.
I roll my beer between both hands, searching for patience. “Are you going to tell me why you’re giving me the silent treatment, or am I supposed to guess?”
Molly’s mug drops to the table with a clatter. She closes her laptop and blinks up at me. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment.”
“Aren’t you? You’ve avoided saying more to me than absolutely necessary since moving in.” God, I’m being an immature ass. I should keep my mouth shut and let her ignore me, but I hate it. “Is this about Saturday? About me punching Jason?” Either that, or my comments regarding a certain pink toy collection pissed her off.
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she studies me—but at least she’s actually looking at me, unlike the masterful avoidance she’s managed the last two nights. “A little bit.” She swallows. “I wasn’t going to say anything until after Christmas, but I guess it’s only fair that you know I’m looking for another job.”
Dread twists my stomach. She’s leaving. I force myself to keep my face neutral. “Why?”
She’s silent for several pounding beats of my heart, and I can see the war on her face as she tries to decide how much she wants to tell me. “I heard you talking to Ethan in your office on Saturday.”
I still, beer halfway to my mouth. Slowly, I lower it to the table. Shit. If she heard me talking to Ethan, she knows how I feel about her. She knows I want to try to pursue something personal, despite our professional relationship. But what the hell—I revealed as much when I opened her private little collection, didn’t I? “You did?”
“Yes, and I never would have taken the job if I’d known you didn’t want me.”
That’s . . . What? “What exactly do you think you heard me say, Molly?”
She scans my face and swallows. “I heard him say you never wanted to hire me. And you said you wish you hadn’t.”
“Jesus.” I rub my forehead. “Did you hear the rest of it?”
“Why would I want to?” Her blue eyes fill with tears. “I’m really proud of the work I’ve done for you—both as your sales manager and banquet center manager—but I’m not going to cling to a position where I’m not wanted. After Christmas, I’ll help to find and train my replacement, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You need this job.” I laugh, because this is so ridiculous. “More than that, the banquet center and your staff need you. I need you.”
She blinks at me, as if those words surprise her. I must be the shittiest boss ever if she doesn’t understand what an asset she is.
“I can’t stop you if you want to leave, but certainly don’t do it because you think it’s what I want or what’s best for the business.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t need your pity, Brayden. This is just like Saturday night when you assumed you needed to protect me and—”
“You were drunk, and I told him not to sta
rt anything with you. I told him you’d been drinking, but the sonofabitch took you to his car anyway.”
She slowly pushes back from the table and stands. “You did what?”
“Come on, Molly. You were downing tequila like it was your job. You wouldn’t have let him touch you if you weren’t trashed, and he knew it.”
She stalks toward me. “Are you so sure of that, Brayden?”
“Yeah. I am. You were in a mood, and—”
She slams her palms against my chest. “You don’t know shit about me, and you had no right to tell him he should or shouldn’t touch me. Jesus. I’m a grown woman. I chose to drink too much. I chose to get in that car with him, and when I changed my mind, I chose to get back out.”
You were crying. I swallow back the words and meet the anger in her eyes with my own stubborn stare. “Jason has a reputation for sweet-talking women into his bed and then dropping them. Do you want me to be sorry that I was looking out for you?”
“I want you to apologize for interfering in my life. You had no right. I don’t want you punching guys for me, and I don’t want you giving me jobs you don’t want to give me. Quit treating me like I’m some breakable doll who needs protecting.”
Her hands smack my chest again, and I ball my hands into fists at my sides to resist the urge to pull her into my arms. “I never said you were breakable.”
“You’re right. You didn’t say I was breakable. You said I was broken.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember exactly what I said and imagining how those words sounded to her. Less than two months ago, I found out the real reason she avoided Jackson Harbor for the last eight years. She wasn’t just trying to keep Noah a secret from everyone here. She was protecting her son from the man who abused her most of her childhood. The man who raped her when she came home from college. “You have had a brutal year, and half of that was on me for bringing you back here.” It’s true, if not the full truth. I’ve had a lot of time to regret my role in returning her to the hellish reminder of her past. “If you’d stayed in New York, the mess with your dad wouldn’t have happened.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she whispers. “Don’t you think I realize that my returning here set Colton off? But it was my decision, Brayden. Not yours. I hate that I brought such a mess to your family when I moved home, and I’m sorry that learning about my past made Colton turn to his addictions again, but it was my choice. That wasn’t your fault.”
“You had a horrendous childhood. If I had known about what you’d been through when we met in New York, I never would have—”
“I’m glad you didn’t know.” She throws her hand over her mouth, as if she’s trying to stop herself from saying more, but she whispers, “I wish you’d never known.”
I try not to care, but it stings. I want her to let me in, let me closer, and she wishes I didn’t know about her past. A reminder of those lines she drew, Jackson. Employee. Friend. Nothing more. “Please don’t find a new job—at least, not because of what I said to Ethan. You’re truly irreplaceable.”
“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t employing me out of pity?”
I don’t hesitate before meeting her eyes. “I’m not employing you out of pity. I gave you your first interview out of pity, sure, but I hired you because I believed you’d be an asset to the company. I asked you to take this position because I believed you’d be an even bigger asset here. And you are. You’re damn good at your job, and if I have my way, you’ll work for my company for a very, very long time.”
“So wishing you’d never hired me was about me, not about the company?”
About you. About me. About us. “I shouldn’t have said it like that when what I really meant was that I wished things had turned out differently—easier for you.”
She smacks my arm. “Damn it, Brayden. I’ve been sick with stress thinking you don’t want me.”
The problem has always been that I want you too much. How can she not know that? But I shrug. “I guess if you’re going to eavesdrop, you need to stick around and hear the whole conversation.” But if she had, she’d know how I feel. That would scare her away, and if having her anger directed at me the last two days has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t want to scare her away. I’ll take whatever Molly has to offer.
Molly
Brayden is always working.
I knew he put in a lot of hours, but I never would have guessed how much trouble he has turning off once he’s home for the night.
I poke my head into his home office and find him exactly where I expected: in front of his computer, a notepad to his side. “Do you want to join us for dinner?” I ask. He’s been tiptoeing around me since our talk last night, and I want to smooth things over. Make things easy between us again. “Nothing fancy. Just oven fries, chicken, and maybe a simple salad.”
“Oh, hey. Sorry, I guess I forgot I have company.”
I smile. “I don’t expect you to entertain us, but I thought you might want to take a break to eat something.”
“That sounds great. Let me shut this down, and I’ll come out and help you.”
“No need. You’re giving us a place to stay. The least I can do is make you dinner.”
He clicks his mouse a few times then stands, frowning as he takes in my Jackson Brews shirt—the new design he hates. “Oh, Lord, the brothers,” he mutters. “What does that even mean?”
I laugh. “Fishing for compliments tonight, are you?”
His lips twitch. I catch myself holding my breath as I wait for one of those rare smiles, but it doesn’t come, so I have to settle for the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Only if you want to give them.”
“Go ahead and pretend that the women in this town aren’t all crazy about the Jackson brothers. Y’all are smoking. Everyone thinks so.”
“Everyone? And what do you think?”
I shrug. “Objectively speaking, I’m surprised women don’t combust when you’re all in the same room. Especially at the gym.” Because at the gym, they get sweaty and shirtless and . . . Holy shit, I could lose hours of my day just appreciating the view of a sweaty, shirtless Brayden. The promise of that view was the only thing that made me turn toward that special hell on earth this morning instead of coming back home for another cup of coffee.
“All of us? Not one of us in particular?”
I snort. “You’re really shameless, aren’t you?”
He studies me. “Maybe I noticed you checking out Carter at the gym this morning.”
I roll my eyes. “I was not checking him out. I was glowering. Jesus. That man tried to kill me. Again.” Today was my third day and the worst yet. We started with heavy back squats—which were killer on my sore quads and glutes—and then did a workout with kettlebell swings, jump rope, and walking lunges. I thought it was going to be easy, since the weights were light. I was so wrong. “These workouts had better make me hot fast, or I’m going back to being a sloth.”
“Now who’s fishing for compliments?”
“Oh, shut it. The scale isn’t lying about those sales rep pounds.”
He drags his gaze over me slowly, over my breasts and down to the fitted yoga pants I pulled on when I got home from work, all the way to my toes and just as slowly back up. My skin tingles beneath my clothes, as if every cell is raising its hand and asking to be inspected next. When he finally meets my eyes, he opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Noah barges into his office.
“Rayden, look what I drawed!” He shoves a piece of paper into Brayden’s hand.
Brayden stoops to his haunches and studies the drawing. “Oh, wow. Tell me about it, buddy. Who are these people?”
“It’s you and me.” He points to the paper. “And that’s Santa.”
“This is so good. You’re a very talented artist.”
“You can keep it,” Noah says, his little chest puffing with pride.
“Are you sure?”
Noah nods eagerly, and Brayden takes the
drawing to the bulletin board between his big office windows. The board is filled with work schedules, marketing plans, and other official-looking documents, but Brayden tacks my son’s picture in the center.
I place my hand over the funny feeling in my chest. Like something in there is surging and growing and freezing all at once. Hope and gratitude and terror.
“I’ll put it here so I remember Christmas is coming every time I get stressed with work.” He bends down and scoops my son up into his arms. “What do you say you and I cook the chicken on the grill and let your mom relax until dinner?”
“Can I help you?” Noah asks eagerly.
“Yeah, bud. You have to be careful around the grill, but you can make sure I don’t burn anything.”
Noah wraps his arms around Brayden, and they head out of the office toward the kitchen. My heart swells even as my protective instincts wash over me. Brayden would never intentionally hurt Noah—I know it in my bones—but eventually Noah and I will move out, and Brayden will move on with a life that doesn’t include my son. I want to protect my boy from heartache, but I can’t keep him from connecting with Brayden while we’re here. He’s been drawn to the man since we moved to Jackson Harbor and Noah met him for the first time. I know Noah is better off with more people in his life. He needs more than his mom and nana.
I follow the boys to the kitchen. Brayden has already positioned Noah on a stool in front of the sink and is helping him wash potatoes.
I open the fridge to pull out the salad fixings.
“What are you doing?” Brayden asks when I put the tomatoes on the counter.
“Helping?”
He shakes his head. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit. Noah and I’ve got this, don’t we, bud?”
“We got this!” Noah says.
Brayden
Molly is always gorgeous, but I think the lounging, pre-bedtime Molly might be the hardest to resist.
She’s sitting on my couch with a book. She’s still wearing that ridiculous Jackson Brews brothers T-shirt and those black yoga pants that hug the curve of her ass, and her blond hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head. After four days here, she’s finally getting comfortable. The first three nights, she asked for permission before turning on the TV or sitting in the living room with a book—always so worried she was going to disturb me. But tonight, after she put Noah down, she grabbed her book and sprawled out on the leather sofa in the family room, her legs stretched out before her, her feet bare.