Chapter 15 Jax
JAX
The past week has been hell. I’ve thrown myself into work, taking every shift, every call, every opportunity to not think about her.
I’ve worked on the farm until my body ached.
I’ve avoided my phone, my family’s questions, anything that might remind me of dark eyes, a vanilla scent, and the feeling of being completely, utterly seen.
It hasn’t worked.
She’s everywhere. In the Christmas movie my grandmother tried to get me to watch. In the Monopoly game gathering dust on my shelf. In every sandwich I make, remembering her teasing me about condiment placement.
“You’re being pathetic,” Wilder, the second youngest brother, who’s a firefighter too, announces, slamming a beer down in front of me. “It’s been a week. Either call her or move on.”
“I don’t have her number,” I mutter.
“Then find it,” my oldest brother and cop, Ford, says. “You’re Search and Rescue. You’re literally trained to find people.”
“She doesn’t want to be found.” I moan.
“Did she say that?” the youngest brother, Colt, who is also a cop, asks. “Or are you assuming?”
I don’t say anything.
“That’s code for ‘I’m an idiot,’” my brother, Everett, the second oldest and the helicopter pilot corrects. “You found the girl of your dreams, and you let her walk away because her ex showed up and caused a scene?”
“It was more complicated than that.” I roll my eyes at them. These idiots wouldn’t know the first thing about love.
“It always is,” my other brother, Mason, who is just below me and is also a firefighter, adds. “But the question is … do you regret it?”
Do I regret it? Being with her, hell no. Letting her go … I regret it every second of every day. I regret not giving her my number, for not fighting harder. I regret the look on her face when I walked away.
“I miss her.”
“Then do something about it,” Ford says firmly.
“Like what? Show up at her cabin? That’s what her stalker ex did.”
“Call her. Oh, wait, you don’t have her number because you’re an idiot,” Everett teases unhelpfully.
“Not helping,” I growl.
“I’m just saying, if you really cared about her, you’d figure it out. Find her on social media. Ask around. Show up at her work …” Mason states.
“That’s literally stalking.”
“It’s romantic!” Ford says.
“It’s a felony. And you should know that.” I glare at him. He should know this shit.
Ford rolls his eyes at me. The dingle of the bell at the front door rings, and I glance up out of habit.
No way. It’s like I’ve made her materialize out of thin air. There she is.
Sloane.
My heart stops. She’s wearing jeans that hug her curves and a sweater that makes her look soft and touchable, and her hair is down around her shoulders. She’s beautiful. She’s here. She’s … freezing.
Our eyes lock across the crowded bar, and everything else disappears.
The noise. My brothers. The entire world.
It’s just her and me and a week’s worth of regret and longing and words I should have said.
She looks tired. Like she hasn’t been sleeping either.
And there’s something in her eyes, surprise, yes, but also pain. Raw, aching pain that mirrors my own.
I stand up without thinking, and that’s when my brothers notice.
“Holy shit,” Wilder breathes. “Is that her?”
“She’s hot,” Colt adds, and I remind myself to kick him in the balls later.
I can’t answer. Can’t speak. Can only stare at her like a drowning man seeing shore.
“That’s her,” Ford says, and there’s amusement in his voice. “That’s definitely her.”
Sloane’s friend and sister, the ones who showed up at the cabin, flank her on either side. The loud one with wild energy and the quieter, elegant one. They’re both staring at me, too, but their expressions are harder to read.
“They’re cute. Invite them over,” Mason says quietly.
“What? No. I can’t …”
“You’re going to let her walk out of here without talking to her?” Ford challenges.
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Then why is she still standing there staring at you?” Wilder points out.
He’s right. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked away. And neither have I.
“Go get them,” Everett says, physically pushing me toward her.
I stumble forward a few steps, and suddenly I’m walking toward her. Toward the woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
“Sloane,” I say when I reach her, and my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Jax.” She swallows hard.
“Hi.”
We stand there, awkward and painful, and all I want to do is pull her into my arms. To kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
I want to apologize to her for walking away.
But there are people watching. Her friends.
My brothers. Half the damn bar. Before I can get up the courage to say anything, Ford appears at my shoulder.
“Why don’t you ladies join us? We’ve got plenty of room at our table. ”
“We don’t want to intrude,” Maggie says politely.
“You’re not intruding,” Everett says, appearing on my other side with that charming smile he uses on everyone. “We insist. Any friends of Jax’s are friends of ours.”
“We’re not …” Sloane starts, but Riley cuts her off.
“We’d love to,” she says, eyeing Everett with interest. “Lead the way.”
I want to protest. Want to say this is a terrible idea. But Sloane’s already following her friends, carefully not looking at me, and I have no choice but to follow.
Dinner is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
We’re all crammed around a table meant for six, and somehow, I ended up sitting directly across from Sloane.
Which means I can’t not look at her. Can’t not notice every time she shifts in her seat.
Can’t not hear every word she says to her friends.
My brothers, of course, are having the time of their lives.
“So, Riley,” Everett says, leaning forward with that smile. “What do you do?”
“I’m a graphic designer,” she says. “You?”
“Helicopter pilot. Best damn pilot in the area, too.” He flexes.
Riley laughs. “Modest.”
“Modesty is overrated when you’re the best,” he answers cockily.
Ford is talking to Maggie, asking about her job as a lawyer, and she’s responding with that cool professionalism that seems to be her default.
But I can see the hint of a smile when Ford makes a joke about lawyer stereotypes.
Mason and Colt are asking about Denver, about the drive up here, about their plans for the rest of the trip.
Normal, polite conversation that fills the awkward silence.
Because Sloane and I, we’re not talking.
She’s picking at her food, barely eating, her eyes fixed on her plate. Every so often, she’ll glance up, and our eyes will meet, and it’s like being hit by lightning. Painful and electric and impossible to ignore.
“So, Jax,” Riley says suddenly, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Sloane tells us you’re quite the Monopoly player.”
I swallow hard. “She told you that?”
“She’s told us a lot about you,” Riley says, and there’s something pointed in her tone. “About your farm. Your sandwich-making techniques. Your love of Christmas movies.”
Sloane’s face goes red. “Riley …”
“What? I’m just making conversation.” Riley takes a sip of her beer. “She’s been talking about you nonstop for a week. Hasn’t shut up about you, really.”
“Riley!” Sloane looks mortified.
“Same with him. Hasn’t shut up about Sloane. Sloane this, Sloane that,” Everett adds teasing.
“Fuck you,” I say, punching my brother in the stomach, which makes him roar laughing.
Sloane won’t meet my eyes. “I ... we should go.”
“We just got here,” Maggie protests gently.
“I need air.” Sloane stands abruptly, nearly knocking over her water glass. “Excuse me.” She heads for the door, moving fast, and I’m on my feet before I can think.
“Sloane, wait …” She ignores me as I run after her. I find her outside, leaning against the wall of the bar, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She’s not crying, but her eyes are red, like she’s fighting it.
“Sloane,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t look at me. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Neither should you. It’s freezing.”
“I just needed a minute,” she tells me.
“Me too. Do you mind if I stand here with you?” I ask. She shrugs as a long bout of silence filters between us.
“Riley was right.” She finally looks at me, and the pain in her eyes guts me. “I have been talking about you. Constantly. Like some pathetic idiot who can’t let go of a guy she knew for a couple of days.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Then what am I?” She laughs bitterly. “What do you call someone who falls for a stranger and can’t move on?”
“Sloane …”
“It was never going to work. We live in different worlds. I have too much baggage. You have your life here, I have mine in Denver, and it was stupid to think …”
I cross the distance between us and kiss her.
It’s desperate and hungry and painful in the best way.
She makes a small sound of surprise, then melts into me, her hands fisting in my jacket, pulling me closer.
I kiss her like I’ve been dying without her.
Like she’s air and I’ve been drowning. Like this might be the last time I ever get to touch her.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I’ve missed you,” I breathe against her lips. “God, Sloane, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Then why did you leave?” The question comes out broken, and it kills me.
“Because I thought it was what you needed. I saw how complicated your life was, and how you were struggling. I didn’t want to make it worse. I was scared that if I stayed, you’d feel obligated to choose, and I wanted you to be sure.”
“Sure, of what?”
“Of me. Of us. Of this.” I cup her face gently. “I didn’t want to be a rebound. Didn’t want to be the guy you ran to because you were running from someone else. I wanted you to choose me because you wanted me, not because I was convenient.”
Tears spill down her cheeks. “You idiot. I did choose you. I chose you every day this week when I thought about you constantly and missed you so much, I couldn’t breathe.”
“Sloane …”
“But it doesn’t matter.” She pulls away, wiping at her tears. “Because you’re right. It is complicated. I live in Denver. You live here. I have a life to rebuild, a job to figure out, and family drama to navigate. And you have your work, your farm, your family. How is this supposed to work?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“How?” Her voice breaks. “How do we figure it out when we can’t even be in the same room without it hurting?”
I don’t have an answer. Because she’s right. This is painful. Being this close to her and not being able to have her. Knowing she feels the same way, and still being separated by logistics, timing, and fear.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know I don’t want to give up. I know that this past week has been the worst week of my life. I know that seeing you walk into that bar felt like I could finally breathe again. And I know that if we walk away from this now, we’ll both regret it.”
She stares at me, tears streaming down her face, and I can see her trying to decide. Trying to figure out if this is worth fighting for.
“I need time,” she whispers finally. “I need to figure out my life. Figure out who I am without Chett. Without anyone. I need to be okay on my own before I can be okay with someone else.”
It feels like she’s ripping my heart out, but I understand. I do.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Take all the time you need.”
“You mean that?”
“Kills me to say it, but yes.” I brush a tear from her cheek. “But, Sloane? When you figure it out, when you know what you want … call me. Please. Don’t let this be the end.”
“I don’t have your number,” she says, and there’s something almost funny about it.
I pull out my phone, open a new contact, and hand it to her. “Now you do.”
She takes it with shaking hands, types in her number, sends herself a text, making her phone vibrate, and hands it back. For a long moment, we just stand there, looking at each other. Then she leans up and kisses me one more time. Soft and sweet and goodbye.
“I’ll call,” she whispers against my lips.
“Promise?” I ask hopefully.
“Promise.” And then she’s walking back into the bar, back to her friends, back to her life. And I’m standing in the cold, watching her go, praying that this time, goodbye doesn’t mean forever.
When I walk back inside, the girls have gone, and my brothers are all watching me with varying expressions of concern.
“Well?” Ford asks.
“She needs time,” I say simply, sitting back down.
“And you’re giving it to her?” Wilder asks.
“Yeah.”
“Even though it’s killing you?” Mason adds quietly.
“Yep.” I take a long drink of my beer. “Because she’s worth it. She’s worth waiting for.”
“You really have feelings for her?” Everett observes.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I really do.”
“Then she’ll come back,” Ford says firmly. “Give her time to figure out what she wants. If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back.”
I want to believe him. Want to believe that love is enough. That timing will work out. That she’ll call. But all I can do is wait. And hope.