Bad Wedding (Billionaire's Club Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  Molly laughed, leaning against his chest. “I love you, baby.”

  “I love you, too.” He touched her cheek. “But when I think what could have happened . . . Promise me, no more cliff climbing, no more playing at being a commando. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

  As if she was suddenly going to go to badass school. She had rolls to bake, muffins to perfect. “I promise,” she said. “Any more cliff climbing will be in a perfectly controlled environment. With ropes and a safety net and—”

  He kissed her. “No climbing.”

  She kissed him. “No more arguing.”

  “What’s the fun in that?”

  He had a point. Which was why she nipped his bottom lip and said, “I think I may take up target practice . . .”

  Jackson growled and tugged her close, tickling her lightly on the ribs, which turned into tickling a different body part that she very much enjoyed. Still, it was the middle of the day and they both had work they should be doing, so she kissed him lightly on the lips then straightened. “I know something that my heart can take.”

  He nuzzled her throat. “What’s that?”

  “You taking me on a first date—” She stopped, and shook her head. “Or another first date . . . a second first date?”

  Jackson grinned, brushed her hair out of her face. “What if I already said I had it planned?”

  “I’d ask if it includes chocolate and alcohol.”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “Mmm.” She nipped his jaw. “Well, then I’d say I accept.”

  “Friday,” he told her. “When you don’t have to be up so early and can sleep in the next day.”

  Molly’s heart swelled, because aside from the whole Jackson-nearly-dying and the her-being-kidnapped thing . . . these last few weeks had been something special. Because he had let the walls down, because he learned and paid attention to the little things—her schedule—and the big things—how she was in love with him but wanted to have the time to get to know him again, for them to learn each other. Because they deserved to take the time, they deserved the space and ability and even the lovely fluttering feeling that came from building a strong foundation between them.

  Even if it heavily featured a crumbling cliffside in the First Act.

  Or Second Act. Or maybe it had been during the finale?

  The point was . . . this was their chance, whether it be the start of the sequel, or just the lovely paved road that led to their happily ever after.

  And know what the awesome thing about sequels was?

  That sometimes they began with a plot twist.

  Which was why she tugged Jackson off the stool, took him by the hand and led him to her office. The cameras had been removed. The microphones were gone. The bakery was closed, her employees long gone as she’d gotten ahead on the following day’s baking while he caught up on his emails.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She closed the door, pushed him back against it. “Well, funny story. I did some research about gunshot wounds . . .” She let her hand drift down his chest, coasting over the waistband of his slacks, dipping under. “Turns out that while sex is still off the table”—she dropped to her knees—“blow jobs aren’t.”

  “Mol—”

  He groaned when she freed him. “Consider this you getting lucky before the first date.”

  Then before he could argue further, she closed her lips over his cock, sucked him deep, and Molly showed him how lucky he was about to get.

  And when she finished, coaxing him through to the other side, Jackson nudged her back onto the desk, dropped to his knees, and then he showed her exactly how lucky she already was.

  But then again, she already knew that.

  Epilogue

  Part One

  Jackson, One Year Later

  The white dress.

  The flower arrangements.

  The glittering diamond ring.

  They had absolutely none of that.

  Instead, they had croissants and apple turnovers. They had a minister standing in the front of bakery’s display case. They had Molly’s patrons as witnesses.

  The only thing that was frilly and white was the apron Molly wore courtesy of her friend, Shannon.

  But right now, he needed to pull the woman he loved away from the thing she loved most in the world . . . or perhaps, the second most. Well, frankly, he wasn’t sure where he fell on the scale some days, certainly not when she was talked so sweetly to her rolls as she shaped them or her dough as it rose.

  First or second, that was fine with him.

  Because Jackson knew that at the end of the day, Molly came home to him and the rolls, they stayed at the—okay, sometimes they came home, too.

  And that was fine.

  What was not fine, however, was the sight of his woman, the one he was waiting to marry in the other room, crying.

  He rushed over. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t do this,” she said. “I-I just can’t—”

  His heart sank. His stomach twisted itself into knots. His first instinct was to tell her that they didn’t have to go through with this, that they could give themselves more time, that he’d step back and let her get her head together.

  But . . . fuck that.

  He was done with that. Done with stepping back and not fighting for the things he wanted.

  Jackson had Molly back in his life and this last year had been, hands down, the best one of his life. So, no, he wasn’t going to step back or send his woman on her merry way. He loved her, wanted her as his wife, as his partner, as his best friend.

  “I’m going to marry you,” he said, and, yes, his tone was sharp. But when Molly’s eyes shot up to his, surprise lifting her brows, he kept talking. “No, we don’t have to get married today, if it feels too soon. No, we don’t have to get married next week or even next year. But I love you, Mol. You’re it for me.” He brushed a finger under each eye, wiping away the tears. “So, you are going to marry me, you are going to keep building our life together with me, and you are—”

  She kissed him.

  Long and wet and hot, and when she finally pulled back, his lungs burned, desperate for oxygen.

  But before he could suck in enough air to regain his voice, Molly spoke. Thus, further proving how much more of a badass she was than him. Cliff-climbing, minimal need for oxygen, crafting deliciousness from flour, sugar, and butter that had taken the whole city by storm, no big deal.

  “You silly man,” she murmured, lips close enough that they brushed his when he spoke. “I wasn’t talking about marrying you.”

  He frowned. “Then what?”

  She backed up, shifting to the side, and Jackson noticed what was on the table. “This.”

  “What is it?” he asked, staring at the blackened circles sitting on the counter.

  Molly’s cheeks went red. “Our wedding cake.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to bother with a cake,” he said, cautiously poking a finger into the pan, into what once had resembled cake, and now resembled a brick.

  “I didn’t,” she said, flush spreading fuller. “But you did.”

  That was true.

  He might not have given a shit about the dress or the church or even writing their sentimental vows.

  But he cared about the cake.

  Stupid.

  And still, he’d always imagined his wedding punctuated with a cake, cutting it with their hands laced together over the knife, then messily feeding Molly a morsel, kissing off a dollop of buttercream frosting from her nose. It was the one thing he’d been able to picture with crystal clarity from the beginning.

  Chocolate cake. White frosting.

  That was it.

  A small thing in the grand scheme of things, but he had also wanted Molly to have something sweet that she didn’t have to make herself. So he’d offered to order one from a different bakery.

  She’d flipped. He’d let it drop.


  And she’d made him a cake anyway.

  His lips began curving up.

  Well, burned it.

  “Honey.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I blame it on the bullet holes in the oven.”

  “I thought the oven was replaced.”

  “Shh.” A shake of her head. “We’re ignoring that detail. It was the bullets. Most definitely. They must have made the timer malfunction.”

  Jackson tugged her against his chest. “Nice try, baby.” He bent and nipped at her lips. “What was it really?”

  Her expression softened, but she didn’t argue or defer further. “I got distracted.”

  “You?” He lifted a brow. “When baking?”

  A shrug. “It happens to the best of us.”

  “But not to you.” Shifting, he brushed his lips over her cheek, dragged them down her throat, nipping at the spot just above her collarbone that never failed to make her shiver.

  “Not to me,” she murmured. “Or not usually anyway.” She laced her hand through his. “It’s just . . .”

  His stomach clenched, but he’d grown a lot over the last year, had gone to therapy, had committed to tearing down the walls and forcing the little boy inside of him to grow up. Because of that, he was able to ask without being too terrified of the answer, “Just what?”

  “Just thinking about . . . this,” she said, and took their joint hands, placed them on her apron covered stomach. “Because it turns out this is actually going to be a shotgun wedding.”

  Jackson felt his mouth drop open, but inside his heart soared.

  “Really?”

  She grinned, nodded. “Really really.”

  His eyes burned, but just as he’d done over the last year, he embraced the burn, the feelings, the intense emotions instead of boxing them up or keeping them out or running scared. Still, he wasn’t exactly eloquent. “Mol,” he murmured. “Baby, that’s . . .”

  Amazing. Wonderful. Unexpected. Frightening. The best fucking news of his life.

  But she knew.

  Knew that all of those thoughts were running through his head even though the words might not be flowing through his lips. She knew. Knew him and his heart. Knew how much building a family and future together meant for both of them.

  Which was why she simply lifted up on tiptoe, pressed her lips against his briefly, and then took his hand, saying, “I know, Jackson. I know.”

  He stared into those gorgeous green eyes for a long moment.

  Then he straightened and tugged her toward the front of the bakery. “Forget the cake. It’s time to get married.”

  She didn’t argue.

  They said their I Do’s, they kissed in front of a cheering group of customers, and then . . . Jackson kissed a dollop of apple turnover filling from Molly’s nose.

  For the record, it was every bit as tasty as buttercream frosting.

  Epilogue

  Part Two

  Kate

  Disgusted, she walked out of the bakery.

  Mostly with herself for being jealous over the clearly happy couple.

  Although, partly because they were so ridiculously happy. Come on. Who looked into each other’s eyes with such devotion and joy while getting married in a freaking bakery with mostly strangers looking on?

  No dress or cake—counterintuitive as that sounded, considering they were getting married in a freaking bakery.

  No flowers, which would be Kate’s weakness because she loved gardening and arranging flowers, having spent most of her extra money on sprucing up her backyard.

  The inside might be a disaster.

  But the backyard was a lush, gorgeous retreat.

  Not that it mattered because she didn’t have anyone to share it with. Least of which a gorgeous hunk of a man who stared at her with love in his eyes and tenderness in his smile.

  Yes, she was bitter.

  So, it was the perfect time for her cell to ring, her mother on the line.

  Deal with the torture now? Or wait until it frothed to full power later?

  She was already cranky and jaded and in a bad mood, so she might as well deal with her loving, but very nosy and interfering mother now. No sense in wasting a good mood later.

  Because there would be a later.

  Her mother loved her, that was never in doubt. What could possibly be questioned was the amount of attention she gave to her children’s lives.

  Attention that was now squarely focused on Kate.

  On the fact that she was single when her two younger siblings were happily married, and her younger sister had recently popped out a kid.

  Impressive. Beautiful—which she knew because she’d been in the delivery room.

  But also . . . not her.

  Hence, the increase in motherly calling.

  Sighing, Kate swiped a finger to the screen and put her phone to the screen. “Hey, Mom.”

  “I’ve got the perfect man for you to bring to the Christmas party. He’s a doctor and . . .”

  Her mother continued talking, expounding on all of the wonderfulness that was this doctor. The trouble was that Kate was done with being set up. Her family were great at finding their own soulmates, their own happily ever afters . . . unfortunately that same ability didn’t extend to her.

  Either by her or for her.

  It never failed to end in disaster. Both for her and for her date.

  So, as much as she longed to have a man who she could call her own, one who’d call her his in return . . . she was taking a break from dating, from men, and most definitely from being set up.

  “Mom,” she began. “I’m not actually—”

  “He’s a doctor, isn’t bald, and can have a conversation about something other than himself, Katie,” her mother said. “He is a catch.”

  Who would turn into the world’s worst asshole when he was around her.

  Because that was her superpower.

  Transforming seemingly wonderful men in lying, cheating, arrogant, self-centered, mansplaining, assholes.

  And being that lightning didn’t tend to strike the same place multiple times, Kate had decided on a hiatus from the opposite sex. Some time to sort out what was happening inside of her to make everyone she dated turn into a jerk.

  This wasn’t about all men on the planet being the bad guys, or her always picking wrong, or even about her family trying to set her up with a bunch of douche canoes. There was something wrong inside of her, something intrinsically wrong with the way she interacted with the men in her life.

  So, a break.

  Time to figure her shit out.

  It was just . . . Christmas.

  All of her family in one place. The huge party with the whole neighborhood. Everyone paired off and happy and gathering under the mistletoe her mother hung in each and every doorway.

  And her.

  Alone.

  The pitying gazes plentiful.

  Or worse . . . the copious conversations where all the happy people constantly threw every single male with half a brain cell in Kate’s direction.

  My cousin is in town and fresh out of a relationship . . .

  I have a coworker who’s new to the area. He’s looking for someone . . .

  My ex-husband would be perfect for you—he’s actually a great guy . . .

  And more.

  Kate just couldn’t take it, couldn’t stand the idea of another Christmas party at her parents’ house matched with someone who didn’t fit her, or worse spending the entire extravaganza alone and in the corner, playing wallflower.

  She wanted excitement.

  She wanted someone who could be unequivocally hers.

  She wanted someone who saw inside her and didn’t run off in a panic.

  “. . . and Katie, love, he’s going to be at dinner this Friday so that you two can get to know each other better—”

  Fucking hell.

  Family dinner and the Christmas Extravaganza?

  Please. God. No.

  “Um, Mom—�
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  “Remember he’s got all his hair—”

  “Actually, Mom. I’m kind of seeing—”

  “And his stomach doesn’t hang over his belt—”

  “That’s not—I don’t really care about that—”

  “And he’s got the loveliest blue—”

  “I’m engaged!” she screamed, cutting off her mother’s soliloquy of all things doctor, and successfully drawing the attention of random strangers on the sidewalk. Which was a hard thing to do in San Francisco—because it was San Francisco and these streets had seen a lot of shit—but also could only further confirm that she’d screamed it like a complete and total lunatic.

  Shrieking I’m engaged on street corners.

  What every man wanted.

  “Katie?” her mom asked. “Did you say you’re engaged?”

  No. No, she wasn’t. Not even close. She was on a break from anyone with a Y chromosome, mostly to save them from herself.

  But also . . . there was joy in her mom’s tone.

  Absolute joy that she had never heard directed at her. To her brother, when he’d announced he was proposing to Chelsea, then again at his wedding this last summer (during which Kate had fended off the worst setup of all setups, The Can’t Take No For An Answer Setup). Her mother had expressed that joy when her sister had announced she was pregnant, and again after her adorable niece had been born.

  But she’d never given it to Kate.

  Which was probably the reason she let the crazy keep rolling along.

  Why instead of saying, “No, Mom. You heard wrong,” she said, “Yes, I am, and you’ll get to meet him Friday at dinner.”

  Horror flowed through her as intensely as her mother’s excitement poured through the airwaves, expressing her joy at meeting him, her joy at Kate having finally found a slice of her own happy.

  “What’s his name, honey?”

  Oh fuck.

  “What’s that?” Kate asked, panic swarming to overtake horror. “You’re breaking up.”

  Oh shit. Oh shit. She hadn’t thought this through. She needed—

  “I asked his name—”