11. No More Pretending
Chapter eleven
No More Pretending
T he next morning, sunlight filters through my bedroom blinds, painting soft lines across Jaxon’s bare back as he lies beside me, arm slung possessively over my waist. His breathing is slow and steady, lips parted just slightly, like he’s finally found peace.
And somehow... so have I.
I don’t remember falling asleep, only the way he kissed me like he was afraid I’d disappear. The way he whispered my name like a vow against my skin. And the way I clung to him like a woman who’d finally stopped running.
This isn’t just lust or infatuation. It’s deeper. Calmer. Like finding home after years of pretending you didn’t need one.
I shift gently, brushing my fingers through his messy hair. His lashes flutter, and then he’s looking at me with those sleepy, devastating blue eyes.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back.
His hand glides over my hip. “Any regrets?”
“Only that I waited this long.”
He grins. “I told you we were more than a damn press strategy.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I lean in, brushing a kiss to his lips, slow and soft and lingering. He deepens it instantly, rolling us so he’s on top again, pinning me to the sheets with nothing but his weight and his mouth.
I arch into him with a moan, fingers tangling in his hair.
But before it turns into a full repeat of last night’s marathon, I push gently against his chest. “We have that press event today.”
He groans. “I’d rather stay here and make you scream my name again.”
“You’re impossible.”
He grins. “And you love it.”
Unfortunately... he’s right.
Later that afternoon, we arrive at the charity event arm in arm. Photographers swarm like bees the moment we step onto the rooftop patio. I paste on a smile, but this time, it’s not a mask.
Jaxon squeezes my hand, leaning in to whisper, “Remember when we used to fake this?”
I glance up at him. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Feels better now,” he says, pulling me in for a kiss—one that definitely doesn’t belong in the “for the cameras” category.
It’s real.
Undeniably real.
And I don’t care who sees.
The cameras flash like fireworks around us. Reporters shout questions, but I barely hear them. All I can think about is how far we’ve come from that first meeting in the conference room—him shirtless, smirking, cocky as hell.
I wanted nothing to do with him.
Now, I can’t imagine a day without him.
Later, when the crowd thins and the rooftop is bathed in golden twilight, he pulls me close against the railing, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“You know what I realized?” he says, voice low against my ear.
“What?”
“I don’t need image rehab. I just needed someone who saw the real me. Who didn’t buy into the headlines.”
I turn in his arms, resting my palms on his chest. “You’re still a cocky pain in the ass.”
“But I’m your cocky pain in the ass.”
“God help me,” I murmur before kissing him.
He grins into it. “Too late for prayers, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me now.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I’m done pretending. About everything.”
Jaxon brushes his thumb over my cheek, his voice soft. “Then let’s be real. You and me. No cameras. No scripts.”
“No bullshit,” I add.
He laughs. “Exactly.”
And just like that, we’re no longer a PR stunt or a strategy.
We’re just us.
Real. Messy. In love.
And maybe a little reckless.
But finally—finally—exactly where we’re supposed to be.