“I have food.”
I nearly smile at his tone. He sounds like he’s going to lose his head over my stalling any minute. Yep, I’m packing a lot more. “Waste not, want not.”
Milk. Yogurt. A half-empty bottle of ketchup. It all got packed. I rummage through the pantry, packing rice, flour, and chocolate chips. He joins in, emptying my cupboard with fierce efficiency.
I can’t stand to work side by side with him, loading totes in harmony. “I’ll go pack my shoes.”
“You can have the same company getting the vanity to bring them, too.”
“Or I can do it now.”
He wanted to drive me, this is what he gets. I find another suitcase in the spare room and tackle my closet. I’m on my knees, carefully covering my Sophia Webster butterfly heels with a T-shirt when I glance over my shoulder.
Jacobi’s leaning against the vanity I insisted is a significant part of my life but is really a catch-all for Natural Glow samplers. He leisurely lifts his hot gaze from my ass. “Go ahead. Take your time.”
I suck in a breath, fighting off the lazy heat pooling in my belly. How does he always make my plans backfire? If I didn’t have Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos to pack, I would’ve tossed the rest of my collection on top of my dusty Asics.
Let him watch. Each time I select a new pair of shoes, I stretch much farther than needed and give my ass a wiggle, like it’s a terrible struggle grabbing a pair of shoes that don’t weigh more than a pound of ground beef.
He doesn’t move. I go slower, putting extra care into packing, and forgetting how uncomfortably hot I’m getting. My body enjoys being the center of Jacobi Dixon’s world.
But I’m going to have to tap out first before I have to strip down to cool off. There’ll be no undressing around my new husband.
I rise, fortifying myself to face him. “This should do it for now.”
My heart sinks. He’s staring out the window, his hands in his pockets so I couldn’t even tell if he was hard. His expression is as bored as if he’d been watching me watercolor paint in a thick smock. The earlier heat was fake, to mess with me.
I hate feeling foolish and it’s happening too much today.
I heft the bag, let out a little grunt, and muscle it toward the door. Its weight is lifted from my fingers.
“You can get the groceries.” He goes out the door, yanking a second suitcase with him expending no more energy than if it was loaded with cotton balls.
I take the third suitcase with a few bags of groceries. It’ll give me a reason to look hot and bothered.
Chapter 3
Jacobi
If an erection lasts more than four hours, seek medical attention.
The ads from my childhood drift through my mind as I adjust myself. Sitting in front of my computer screens should be a boner killer. News stations scroll soundlessly on the screens while I work. Sitting is painful, but standing isn’t any better. If I jack off any more, I’ll need to treat myself for blisters. I don’t use erectile medication, but my constant hard-on feels more like a medical problem with each day that goes by.
It’s been three days.
London has avoided me the entire time, but I’ve caught more than glimpses of her. Like when she soaks in the hot tub in that tiny hot pink bikini that I can see quite clearly from my office. Or when she cartwheels across the beach. I drop everything and watch her, but she never enters the water.
Does she know that I swim every morning? I know how many laps up and down my beach make a mile and I do two miles every morning. That’s after I hit the gym, but her bedroom door remains closed each time I pass by on my way to lift. It’s probably locked, too. When she goes near the water, it’s well after I’m done.
I can hear her voice ringing across the house as she gives directions to movers who are happy to do anything she tells them to. Who wouldn’t? Her black leggings don’t hide much, and add in the fact that they’re purposefully shredded from her shins all the way up her thighs, revealing tanned smooth skin—she might as well not be wearing anything.
Her hair’s gathered in a messy bun and she has on a fitted hot pink top that only makes me think of her bikini. I shouldn’t know what she’s wearing, but I’d been staring out the window at her more than I’d been working until she went inside to direct the movers. Having her here in real life instead of magnified on my screen is an adjustment, especially with my productivity.
Fuck it. I shut my programs down and go to the top of the stairs. Leaning against the railing, I watch as she signs documentation and probably leaves a tip that’s more than these guys make in a week.
The stocky man waiting for her to sign looks up at me. He gives me a respectful nod, but his dark gaze says “Dude, your wife is hot.”
I don’t care if other men pay attention to her, only if it’s unwanted. And I only care about that if she does something about that attention.
Once the movers leave, she pushes some loose strands off her face and plants her hands on her hips. Something about her stance troubles me. I’d give half my fortune to know what’s going on in that mind of hers.
She lifts her gaze up to me, knowing I’m here even though I haven’t made a sound. She takes in my blue board shorts and loose white T-shirt. “Dress for the job you want, huh?”
This is how I normally dress. The suit for our wedding is an oddity. Cabo is more like my norm. Exactly like it, actually. I haven’t shaved since the day we wed, either. I know how much she likes my stubble rubbing against her—
That damn erection is threatening to come back. “I already have the job I want.”
Her sigh is gusty enough to reach the second level. “I used to. I guess I have to find a new one.”
“I haven’t had time to get the sale ready.” I’ve had three days and I’ve touched nothing about Natural Glow.
“Oh, good. So the company’s skating by, hearing rumors of an impending sale, and people are off-loading their product before they’re stuck with a closet full of eyeliner and moisturizer. Keep it up, CEO.” She spins on her glittery blue flip-flops and goes back outside.
I don’t go after her. What would I say? That the company I’ve been planning to get under the control of a Dixon, where it should’ve been in the first place, suddenly lost its appeal? That Diana’s showing up to work every day and limping it along without London, and that’s good enough for me for now? Selling Natural Glow is nothing more than an annoying entry on my list of shit to-do list.
Back in my office, London’s job hunting announcement won’t leave my mind. What will she apply for? How will she explain why she’s unemployed when the company is still going but hasn’t been sold?
Does she realize that she doesn’t have to work at all? Her dad left her enough, and that doesn’t include the net worth of Natural Glow.
She might be my wife, but it’s none of my business. I unlock my screen. I have a new message from Mr. Turlowitz. I haven’t received the documentation regarding the change in ownership of Natural Glow.
I type back I still have it. There’s no need to elaborate. Yes, I could’ve faxed it by now, or told him to come and pick it up, or snail mailed it. I have more important stuff to do, and shockingly, it has nothing to do with London or what should’ve been my parents’ company.
Like the person behind sending my mother’s pictures and where he’s hiding. His identity and why he sent them consumes every moment that London doesn’t dominate.
I send Cannon a message to check in. While I was tied up with London and the wedding since I returned from Cabo, he took point on the investigation. I wouldn’t trust anyone less than my two closest, and my only, friends. Not only are they competent, but they’ll cross the line if they need to, and often when they don’t need to. But they’ll get answers.
His reply is immediate. He has nothing. The photographs were sent from a burner phone that he can’t learn more about beyond that it was purchased at Walmart. Further interference would flirt with law enforcement attent
ion—another reason why I trust him. He’ll dance past legal, but only when he’s sure he won’t get caught.
I could probably get to the camera footage and not risk Cannon’s name getting back to the police. He has a dubious reputation, since his investigation license isn’t current, or valid. He has a fake one he flashes around that isn’t questioned too often. And when it is questioned, there are no answers because he goes by a different name to nearly everyone but his few friends.
I have to go back to the beginning and see where my mom’s old pimp can hide and with whom. It’s been years since I’d destroyed his credit, took all his money, and maneuvered a one-way trip to jail. But that was years ago. Plenty of time to make connections with all the wrong people. He’s a career criminal, and getting paroled doesn’t mean he won’t revert back to his old ways.
I work for a few more hours, testing a logistics company’s security system in Arizona. I work all over the world from this room. Making notes of needed improvements and security holes I find, I mentally compile the report I’ll send. They haven’t used my special cybersecurity program and are regretting it, but they have too much invested to do another overhaul. Just so happens, I consulted and fixed the problems everyone else’s programs cause.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, an impending headache banging at my temples.
Using that massage oil would only remind me of London, which hasn’t stopped me. I’ve used it almost every day. Not using it immediately along with lying down in a dark room guarantees a migraine.
The pounding’s growing stronger. I rub my temples and shut everything down.
My phone dings. Blinking my eyes, I squint at the screen. This migraine’s going to be a real headbanger.
The unknown number scatters ice crystals through my veins. It could be a spam call, or it could be a message to fuck with my head. I open it up.
I wonder how much I could get for her.
A picture’s attached. London going into a building. The one her penthouse is in.
With a roar, I throw the phone against the wall. The protective case is useless against my rage. The screen shatters and pieces fly, clattering against the floor.
How does that fucker know about London? And how did he get close enough to get a clear picture? It was from yesterday when she arranged to meet the movers to pack her things. She’s wearing the same white shorts she had on in the courtyard where I couldn’t keep from spinning around and watching her prance across the sand.
My gaze strokes over the photo. Sunglasses are perched on her head and she’s smiling at the doorman, oblivious that she’s being watched. The mover guy is behind her, his gaze probably plastered on her ass. The image sears into my brain. He wasn’t looking around for a camera and he was half-blocking her from view. I doubt he’s in on it.
Who the fuck knows about her?
Cannon and Kase. My lawyer. Diana. Me. London.
Sully isn’t that good. He doesn’t have the stealth to spy on me without me knowing.
But he used a burner phone that couldn’t be traced.
Fuck.
Unlike the first time I received these messages and they set off a migraine, I was already in the early stage of one when the latest text hit, and it acts like a backstage pass to the worst of the pain. The headache has my skull in its vise-like grip.
I need that damn massage oil, a quiet, dark room, and a full day of sleep. Worst fucking time for a migraine. I storm out of my office, weaving slightly down the hallway. I have to find London.
“London!” Going down the hall, I continue to call her name regardless of how it amplifies the pain in my head. “London!”
Her bedroom door opens. “What? Why are you yelling?”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
She rears back. “‘Scuse me?”
“You’re not allowed to go anywhere.” I realize I’m being belligerent and demanding and giving her no reason to listen to me. I’m also aware that telling her not to leave might prompt her to do just that, but my pulsing head isn’t making it easy to change my tone.
“Why?” She’s not slamming her door on me and ignoring me. It bolsters my hopes.
I blink against the light attacking from all angles. These are the only moments I hate the walls of windows that give me the ocean view that calms my anxiety. “Just don’t.”
She scoffs. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“Just don’t fucking leave.” I stumble toward my room. Nausea’s setting in and I hate throwing up when my head hurts so bad.
She trails me, not giving up on the argument, and not willing just to do as I demand. “One, no. And two, are you okay?”
“No,” I mumble, spinning around. “Just promise me. Don’t leave, okay? Not without me.”
“Tell me why first.”
I sag against my door. “I have enemies.” She lifts her brows like no kidding. “They know about you.”
She draws back, her eyes flaring wide. “What—really?” She shakes her head and peers at me. “You’re gray. What’s wrong with you? Are you getting another headache?”
“Migraine.” I open the door and spill inside, managing to close it behind me. Shutting her out. Shutting everything out. But I’m fairly confident she might not leave until I’m coherent again.
* * *
London
I hover outside his door for the eighth time today. I should just go for a run on the beach or something. It’s a beautiful morning. He’s fine.
Hell, I could take his keys and use his car to go wherever I wanted.
But he didn’t look fine yesterday, so I’ve been glued to the house. Has he been sleeping the whole time? There isn’t much else to do in his bedroom. It lacks as much personality as the rest of the house. Unlike his office, there isn’t even a TV in his bedroom. Nothing but a large dresser with a mirror and shelves on the side that are mostly empty and a chest of drawers. I tried hard not to stare at his king-size bed, but I managed to clock every detail about the space. Including seeing enough of his bathroom to know that I could spend hours soaking in that tub, or getting jettisoned by the six showerheads.
Maybe he’s awake and using his hot tub. In that case, I shouldn’t enter.
I shouldn’t want to enter. He’s a bad man.
Including the whole, demanding I don’t leave for my own safety part. Yeah, so bad, London. Except I wouldn’t be wondering what kind of enemies he has and what sort of danger I’m in if not for him.
I’ve heard a few friends mention migraines over the years, but I never paid attention to what they did. I wish I didn’t spend last night researching what helps migraine sufferers, but I used the excuse that there was nothing else to do.
Just like I shouldn’t be standing outside this door, I shouldn’t want to help, but I can’t seem to leave his door.
What does he do when he gets like this?
I recall the way he reacted when he first smelled my massage oil. He said his mom used to use it on him. Then his face when he saw the prototype tote with the image of one of the original recipe cards Dad used for our line of products.
It’s a woman’s writing, and not Diana’s. Dad said it was one of his first employees. Could he have lied? Could it be… I can’t believe I’m giving Jacobi any credibility. Could it have been his mom’s writing?
My heart cracks, letting him in just a little. Not him, but that little boy who should’ve grown up a caring and well-adjusted man. Not the rage monster with ashen skin demanding I don’t leave the house.
He hasn’t avoided me the last four days, I doubt he’s doing it now. If he’s sleeping, that’s the best thing for him.
With a sigh, I abandon his door and do my morning exercise. He said not to leave, but I assume that doesn’t extend to the courtyard and beach. Even if it does, going for my beach run makes me feel less like a prisoner.
I start trotting right out the door and break into a jog once my feet hit the sand at the edge of the pavers that make up th
e courtyard. Running on the beach every day is something I could get used to. His property wings out quite a distance to the right and the left of his house before it reaches his neighbors’ property, and I know where the boundaries are from watching him swim every morning since I’ve been here.
‘There’s nothing else to do’ has run through my mind way too much this week.
No wonder he has the body he does. I wait breathlessly for the moment when he emerges out of the water and hasn’t pulled up his swim trunks yet. They hang low on his waist, water dripping down his chest and abs, the ridges over his hips showing. Just a little farther down and I can see the only part of him I don’t actively hate.
I quit my run after a few laps. The fun’s been sucked out by worry. Inside, I don’t hear any movement from upstairs. I shower and put on neon yellow shorts and a light blue tank top. Twisting my damp hair into a bun, I go down to the kitchen. My food is intermingled with his. I stand with the fridge hanging open in the way that used to drive Dad crazy. What would Jacobi say? And why all the Coke?
He didn’t drink it in Cabo, but there’s a case in his fridge and two more in the pantry. He has both bottles and cans. I select a yogurt and let the door fall shut. I eat that and a banana while thinking about my research last night.
Fuck it. I grab a bottle of Coke and go back up the stairs. Back at his door, I tap lightly and listen close.
Nothing.
I try the handle. To my surprise, it turns. I lock him out, but he has no such qualms about me. Creeping inside, I blink at the change and try to remember the layout of the dark room. His shades are drawn and for all his windows, that’s a lot of shades. Did he have to do all that when he was hurting?
“Jacobi,” I whisper.
There’s nothing but a lump on the bed. The covers are over his head that’s burrowed into the pillows.
I sneak closer. “Hey. Are you awake?”
“I am now.” His mumble is barely audible.
“Do you keep all the Coke for the migraines? I brought you one.” My eyes adjust to the dark more with each step.
Redeemed: Ruined and Redeemed Duet - Book 2 Page 3