JACKSON (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One)

by Paige North

  “Emily, no. I swear. It’s not like that at all. It never has been,” he says.

  “So you’ve never thought of being with me as a way to win the seat at the top of the company?”

  “No, not like that. Let me explain…it’s complicated.”

  “I was so blind. My first impression of you was that you were a complete asshole and somehow I let myself forget that.” That day in his office he was so cocky. He was toying with me even then. “So what happened? You learned that you had to get married so thought of me? Some fresh, pliable girl for you to mold to your liking?”

  “Emily, it wasn’t like that at all. My feelings for you are genuine. I truly care about you. Please.” He takes another step toward me.

  My voice quivers as I say, “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  I hustle out of the room and across the house, so unnecessarily big, just like his ego. Jackson chases after me.

  “I do care about you,” he says. “Please listen to me. I know how that email looks but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what my asshole father wanted. I only care about you.”

  “I may have been naïve once but my eyes are wide open now,” I say. “I don’t believe for one second that you don’t care about your business. It’s fine that you care about it—you should—but it’s the only thing you care about and that’s not okay. God, my family saw that within three minutes of meeting you. What took me so long?” I know what took me so long—I was swept up in those strong arms of his, those sensual kisses, those deft hands…

  “Emily, I do care,” Jackson says, his eyes pleading—probably because he sees his beloved company slipping away. “I’ve been falling for you. Please. Stay.”

  I want to slap him for saying that. His desperation to save himself is as pathetic as it is transparent.

  “You’ve just proven my point,” I say. I swing open the heavy oak door and practically run down Marlborough Street, away from Jackson and everything I let myself believe.

  I throw myself back into school and work with renewed force. I have to keep my mind occupied—it’s the only way I can survive. Natalie and I spend an evening studying our asses off for an upcoming exam. Afterward we hit up a pub in Brookline where I drink way too many beers. I don’t even mind the old guys flirting with me. I laugh loudly, toss peanut shells on the floor, and give two shits about what happens tomorrow and zero shits about what happened with Jackson. I go through the motions of being carefree.

  But when I’m in bed at night, just before sleep takes hold of me, I see Jackson’s face and I cry. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for missing him and feeling like I need him.

  Sitting through Brent’s class is a different kind of hell. At least Natalie is next to me, but even she can’t shield me from the looks I get from other classmates—the disgust of some of the women, the salacious interest from some of the guys. I’m repulsed by the whole thing.

  “Let’s think about examples due of process in public schools,” Brent says from the front of the class. It’s been a long week of trying to be okay, and I’m tired. It’s been raining and cold and everyone is coming down with colds. There’s a general miserableness to the room that’s felt by everyone, I think. Today it’s not just me. “What steps must be taken before any punishment is handed out when a student is suspected of wrongdoing?”

  No one speaks up, so I raise my hand just to get the discussion moved on so we can get out of here. I want to get to the café and warm up with a hot tea and bagel.

  “No one?” Brent says. “I’ll give you a hint—there are two things that must happen.” I keep my hand raised; he keeps ignoring me. “If these steps aren’t followed any conviction can be overturned so you better know this.” Someone yawns loudly. Brent sighs. “You must first—”

  “Hello,” I say, pretty much surprising myself and everyone in the class—including Brent. “I know the answer. I’ve been raising my hand.” And we never raise our hands—we normally just speak out.

  “The Fourth and Fifth Amendments, people,” Brent says. “Concerning—”

  “Privacy and fundamental fairness,” I interrupt. Even from four rows back I can see Brent tighten his jaw. “The Fourth Amendment concerns itself with privacy issues and the Fifth Amendment gives the accused the right to heard. Ironic, huh?

  “I don’t appreciate you speaking out of turn,” Brent says, and damn if he isn’t ballsy. Well, guess what? My balls are bigger.

  “You don’t get to ignore me and spread rumors about me. Rumors, everyone. All lies,” I say, looking around the class. People had been staring at me, but now a few look away—the guilty. “The only thing I did to Brent was turn him down when he tried to get physical with me. Which, by the way, was pretty scary. I hope you ladies never have to experience having a guy shove himself on you. I should report you to Professor Stanwick,” I say, looking back to Brent. He doesn’t look pissed anyone—he looks scared. He should be.

  I think about storming out of class. There’s only ten minutes left. But in that moment I decide staying will make Brent more uncomfortable. So I don’t move, and watch as he clumsily tries to get back on track with his boring-ass lecture. He dismisses us five minutes early. No one looks at him as they shuffle out the door. With a gut-full of confidence and Natalie by my side, I stop by him on my way out.

  “I mean it,” I say to him. His eyes flash at me before continuing to shuffle papers into his canvas bag. “I will report you for mistreatment if you don’t stop harassing me,” That word seems to catch his attention—harassing. As it should. “You’re lucky I haven’t done it yet but I’m not afraid to.”

  As I walk out the door I hear Natalie say, “Yeah, you spineless jackhole.”

  Once we’re down the hall I turn to her and laugh. “What is a spineless jackhole?”

  “I don’t know,” she laughs. “It was the first thing of.”

  “I’m using it from now on,” I say. “Thanks for hanging around.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m angry with the way things turned out with Jackson, or sad or surprised or what, but there’s something in me that says, No more messing around. If I want to get something done, I’m doing it. I can be professional, but I also don’t have the energy to deal with any nonsense.

  Later I’m sitting in a meeting at the office, listening as junior members of the development team talk about their frustration with not getting meetings with prospects.

  “They won’t respond,” says Amanda, who was recently promoted from administrative assistant. “I’ve sent two emails and gotten nothing back. I don’t want to be pushy about.”

  Amanda is smart but this is frustrating. I know I'm only part time but I do far more work than many of the full-time employees.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  “The senior VP over at Chase,” she says.

  “Sonja Atkins?” I ask.

  I feel the room’s eyes turn on me—yeah, I know who our prospects are. Everyone here should. Amanda says yes, it’s Sonja.

  I lean forward. “What’s her number? Let’s call her now.”

  I look to Jules for approval. “No time like the present. Want me to talk, Emily, or do you want to take this?”

  “I’ll take it,” I say. I look to Amanda, who looks like she might vomit. “All she can say is no,” I tell her, repeating the old phrase from my dad.

  We get through to Sonja and I swear the call lasts three minutes. All Amanda had to do was agree to a meeting with her and Jules about possible partnerships. That’s the first step. Sonja quickly agrees, and it’s done. Just like that.

  “Well done, Emily,” Jules says. She looks to Amanda and the other junior staff and says, “Don’t be afraid of the phone, guys.”

  As the meeting breaks up, Jules says, “Way to show some leadership. I knew you had it with that first big donation, and I'm glad to see you haven’t lost it.”

  That first big donation is, of course, Jackson but
she doesn’t say. Otherwise it’s a nice reminder that I’ve got this inside me, if I just let it out. I can be assertive. I took down that weasel Brent, after all.

  On my way out to my parent’s place for brunch one weekend, I start to realize that good enough doesn’t work anymore. I can always be better. Like at work. Amanda’s emails weren’t good enough. They were fine, and fine doesn't get the job done. No one ever made a difference by being fine. I realize it’s probably how Jackson feels every day at work. It’s why he works so hard—something inside him, whether he was born with it or his father instilled it in him—because he can’t let himself be satisfied with anything but greatness. Jackson works his ass off to get it. Despite everything else, I have to admire that. Maybe I picked up a little of it from him.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Dad says when I’m forced to tell them I’m not seeing Jackson anymore. “That was not exactly a match made in heaven.”

  “Hardly,” Mom says.

  “At least he was hot,” Sabrina adds. I kick her under the table. “I was being nice!”

  “I see guys like him all the time,” Dax says. “They think giving money makes them charitable but it’s just a tax write-off. They actually save money come tax season if they’ve donated a little throughout the year. It’s a scam.”

  “It’s ridiculous you all made him seem like a bad guy for giving money away,” I say. “Even if it is for tax purposes. Who cares? Money from people like that is what helps us do what we love. And Jackson works really hard for his money. I don’t see what’s wrong with working hard. Didn’t you guys teach us that, along with doing good?”

  Mom looks at Dad a bit guiltily.

  Maybe they’re right about some things—even Sabrina—but I feel like they’ve missed something important in Jackson.

  “You guys were jerks to him. It was like giving money to a charity is as bad as slapping a baby. And you tried to slam him with that patriarchal crap,” I remind Dax. “He’s not a bad guy. So can we just lay off?”

  “Sweetie, we’re sorry,” Dad says. “We just want what’s best for you.”

  I know they all mean well, but they don’t have to try to destroy something before I even know what it is. Or was. And what was it?

  As I go back to the city, I think about that. What were Jackson and I? Stripped away, we were a guy and a girl who shouldn’t have liked each other but turned out to be crazy about each other. He was sweet to me. He seemed to take joy in spoiling me, not to show off his wealth but to make me happy. So why is that such a bad thing?

  I start to feel hopeful until I realize that, oh yeah, he was using me. I curse him for being an asshole and a good actor. Jackson may have liked me well enough to consider using me to get control of his company but that doesn’t mean he cared for me. That’s what matters. That’s what hurts the most.

  Jackson

  “And so as we head into the final stretch, this makes it our most successful quarter ever.”

  There’s clapping and few cheers around the boardroom table. Rachel Sullivan, one of several VPs, just delivered the news that should make me want to celebrate with a nice bottle of scotch. Instead I feel nothing.

  “Congratulations, Jackson,” several people say after the meeting. My shoulders are clapped, handshakes are offered, drinks are suggested. Everyone is quite pleased with how the company is progressing. I feel empty.

  I stay in the boardroom after everyone has left and look out the large window. I don’t see the other buildings or the people scurrying along below. All I see is Emily. She hasn’t left my mind for more than a moment since she left my house. I’ve tried texting and calling her but she rejects or ignores my every attempt. I can’t say that I blame her.

  I have to see her. I can’t keep moving along like this, desperate for her. She has to understand what happened, and in order for her to understand, I have to tell her everything about my family—including the details of my father’s will.

  “Sandra, could you send the car around?” I ask as I head back into my office. “And cancel the rest of my appointments.”

  I rip off my tie and toss it on my desk. I grab my jacket and head for the elevators.

  In the back of the car, we drive around areas of the city I think she might be. We go to the Children’s Education Fund offices and I run inside and ask if she’s working today.

  “She usually comes in after lunch,” the girl at reception says. “She always comes in carrying a coffee cup from Bonatelli’s Café. Maybe she’s there?”

  So we head through the streets for Bonatelli’s. I walk inside the café, my eyes scanning every face, most of which are staring down into laptops or cell phones. And then I land on Emily. Her sweet face that I want to hold in my hands again and cover in kisses, if only she’ll let me.

  “Emily,” I say. Her head jerks up, her face full of surprise at seeing me. I kneel next to her so that we can be close.

  “What are you doing here?” she says slowly. Her hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun and her skin is glowing and natural. She’s reading a book, a scarf wrapped tight around her neck and all I can think is how perfect she looks. And, I realize with some relief, she isn’t running away from me. Not yet.

  “Please hear me out,” I say. I want to take her hand but I don’t want to scare her off. She’s listening, though, so that’s a start. “Emily, I’ve been going crazy since you left. I can’t think straight. I’m completely obsessed with you. You’re just…crowding my every thought. I don’t want to lose you.”

  People around us are watching—I can see them out of the corner of my eye—but I don’t pay them any attention and neither does Emily. She’s thankfully focused on me.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you either. But I won’t be used.” Her eyes well with tears. Her chin quivers when she says, “You crushed me, Jackson. I was falling in love with you and you killed that. How could you use me like that? I thought…I thought you actually felt the same way about me. Maybe not love but something close.”

  “Emily,” I say, and this time I do reach for her hand. Her soft delicate little hand—I covered it with both my hands, wanting to hold her tight. “I do feel the same way about you. I’ve told you some of the ugly parts of my family and that email—or my father’s will, which is what the email was about—is the worst part of it all. It’s the ugly ending to a lifetime of forced competition. He raised my brothers and I to be the gladiators to his emperor, fighting to the death for his entertainment. And I shamefully admit that, for a moment I did think you could solve the issue of taking over the company by marrying me. But what I realize now—what I just realized today, sitting in a boardroom, is that I don’t care. If I don’t have you, nothing matters. Certainly not the company.” I almost laugh. “The company is the least of my concerns right now. I left work today. I don’t even know if I’ll go back.” I don’t realize it’s true until I say the words. Work means nothing to me anymore. There’s no joy in it.

  Emily is listening, letting me hold her hand. Tears spill down her cheeks and I wipe them away, running my thumb across her cheek.

  “I don’t want you to ever cry again because of me,” I say.

  “So, you do feel the same way about me?”

  I almost laugh. “After all I just said that’s what you heard?”

  “I heard it all,” she says, sniffling. “I’ve always known your family was a mess. I didn’t realize how bad it was until I saw that email. But if you’ve felt the same way about me as I feel about you, then that would mean you weren’t using me. Right?”

  “Logical as always,” I say. My heart races with love and anticipation and hope for this woman. “Emily, I love you. I’m walking away from the company.”

  “Really? You’re leaving Croft International?”

  “I don’t care about it. The only thing that matters is being together. Forever. Emily, will you marry me?”

  It takes her a moment to realize what I’ve said. Maybe it’s because no truer words h
ave ever come out of my mouth. I watch as the slow realization crosses her face.

  “Seriously?” she asks.

  “Seriously,” I say. I kiss her hand. “I don’t have a ring but—”

  “Yes,” she says, and now the tears are really streaming down her face. “I’ll marry you, Jackson.”

  Finally, I take her sweet face in my hands and kiss her lips as more tears—happy tears—stream down her face.

  I don’t want anyone to find me. I don’t want to talk to or see anyone, so we head straight for Emily’s little apartment.

  When we kiss, it’s as if we’ve been apart for a year. We need to make up for the time apart. I need to make up to her for the pain I caused her.

  We crash into each other, Emily kicking the door shut with her foot, and begin tearing the clothes off each other. I kiss her more deeply than ever, taking as much of her in as I can. I never would have guessed that my need for her would grow but now that my heart is fully in Emily’s hands, I feel like I could die if she left me again.

  Her fingers deftly work the buttons on my shirt as I pull the T-shirt up over her head. She pulls the band out of her hair and lets it fall around her shoulders. My lips cover her skin, lick and taste her all across her face, her neck, her shoulders, her chest. Soon we’ve kicked off our shoes and she’s got my pants shoved down around my ankles.

  We make it to the bed and I help her out of her jeans, so tight to her skin. Her panties don’t get to stay on—off they come, as do my boxer briefs. When I cover her body with mine, she wraps her legs around my waist, every inch of our bodies touching. I run my hands over her thighs, tight around my waist, her hips pushing into my raised dick. Her pussy touches me, her wetness making me want to shove myself deep inside her. But I want to go slower, show Emily how precious she is to me.