Chapter Eight
Estelle
T he walk to our apartment was surreal, like being escorted through my life by a fallen angel who'd gotten lost on his way to paradise. Jax Easton followed me through the dingy parking lot of our building and flickering lights that made everything look like a crime scene in progress.
This was my reality.
The thought burned through me with fresh shame as I became hyperaware of every crack in the concrete, every stain on the walls, every sign that screamed "poverty lives here." I'd seen pictures of his beach house online—our entire apartment could probably fit in his bathroom.
God, what must he think of me? Of us?
The shame was crawling under my skin, making my hands shake as I fumbled with keys that got stuck in the lock. Behind me, I could feel his huge presence like heat from fire, warm, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Leo bounced beside me, clutching that beautiful book like it contained the secrets of the universe, his excitement comforting in my spiral of mortification.
"It's not much," I mumbled as I finally got the door open, my voice small and defensive, "but it's home."
It was the saddest line I possibly could have come up with.
Jax stepped inside, and our tiny living room immediately shrank around his presence like a theater set designed for someone half his size.
His broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire space, making our secondhand furniture look even more pathetic by comparison. Those piercing blue eyes swept the room, taking in our patched curtains and the security cameras I'd installed myself.
I braced myself for the pity, for the careful distance wealthy people always put between themselves and poverty, for the polite condescension that would remind me exactly where I belonged in the social hierarchy.
But his expression remained neutral, almost... thoughtful? "It's a home," he said simply, his voice warm without a trace of judgment. “It’s lived in. It's real."
Real. The word hit differently coming from someone who could afford anything artificial, anything perfect. I wasn't sure if it was a compliment or just a polite way of saying "quaint," but something in his tone sent unexpected emotion through me.
The apartment felt too warm, too small, too intimate, with him standing here, all big and golden. The air seemed thicker, charged with a tension I tried to ignore. I directed Leo to get the first aid kit, grateful for the excuse to turn away from those blue eyes that saw too much.
My hands trembled slightly as I filled a plastic bag with ice from our ancient freezer, the cold against my fingers grounding me to reality.
This was Jax Easton. In my kitchen. The surreal nature of it all made me feel slightly dizzy.
"Here," I murmured, extending the makeshift ice pack toward him, careful not to let our fingers touch again. The brief contact earlier had sent electricity up my arm that I was still trying to process.
But he had other plans. His fingers brushed mine as he took the ice pack, the contact deliberate and lingering, sending sparks of awareness shooting straight to parts of my anatomy that had been dormant.
His skin was warm, calloused from boxing, and the simple touch made me hold my breath.
"Thanks, Estelle." The way he said my name was like a caress, low and intimate, like he'd been practicing it in private moments.
I had to stop it. Stop reading into everything. He was probably just being polite.
I turned away quickly, busying myself with filling a bowl with warm water while my pulse hammered against my throat. Leo returned with our first aid kit, a collection of Band-Aids and antiseptic that had seen us through every minor disaster of the past year.
"Let me see your hands," I instructed, trying to inject some professional authority into my voice, trying to pretend I was a nurse instead of a woman whose entire nervous system had gone haywire from proximity to pure male perfection.
He extended them toward me, palms up, and I had to fight back a small gasp. His hands were large and elegant, long tan fingers adorned with heavy gold rings that caught light.
But it was the scrapes that concerned me, red abrasions filled with grit from the pavement, the kind that would get infected if not properly cleaned.
Focus on the medical aspect. Focus on anything except how beautiful his hands were.
I dipped a clean cloth in the warm water, hyper-aware of how close we were, how his deep blue eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul.
"This might sting," I warned, though given his career, I doubted a little antiseptic would faze him.
"I've had worse." His voice was low, almost intimate in the close confines of our kitchen. "Occupational hazard. "
Even his voice was sexy.
I had to concentrate hard on removing every speck of dirt from his scraped palms and not melting into a puddle. His hands remained perfectly still under my ministrations, allowing me to tend to him.
Up close, I could see the intricate engravings on his rings, custom art that probably had something to do with the Easton legacy. I wondered what those hands would feel like touching more than just my fingertips.
My treacherous thoughts made everything worse.
My hands shook slightly as I dabbed antiseptic over his scraped knuckles, and I was mortifyingly aware of how my pulse quickened every time our skin made contact.
His hands were warm and rough from boxing, masculine in a way that made me too aware of my own femininity.
He caught me staring at the intricate snake tattoos that wound up his wrists around his forearms. "You keep fussing over me like this, Estelle," he murmured, his voice pitched low and intimate, "I might start thinking you care."
That devastating smirk curved his mouth, one I'd seen in magazine spreads and interview clips, was now directed at me. Heat flooded my cheeks like someone had set my face on fire.
"You're lucky I don't charge by the hour," I replied, trying to inject some confidence into my voice to cover the fact that my heart was possibly dying .
He laughed, low and rich, the sound washing over me like warm honey. Then, almost casually, he took his hand back, reached down, and tugged his hoodie off over his head.
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
Time slowed to a crawl as fabric slid over golden skin, revealing a body that belonged only in sculptures. His white tank top clung to a chest that was clearly the result of dedicated hours in the gym, the sleeves straining over strong, sexy, tanned shoulders.
Intricate snake tattoos coiled around his biceps and up his neck like living art, and a few gold chains rested against his throat, highlighting his seemingly hairless sun-kissed skin.
This was not fair. This was not remotely fair.
My mouth went desert-dry as I tried not to stare, tried not to catalog every detail of skin stretched tight over muscle that flexed with each small movement. He looked like every bad decision I ever wanted to make.
Heat spiraled through me, settling low in my belly, dangerous and unwelcome. I knew better than this. I'd built my entire life around knowing better than this.
But Jax "Lion" Easton, in all his arrogant, old-money glory, was sitting in my kitchen looking like he'd just stepped off a photoshoot and into my most elaborate fantasies.
My heart stuttered, my breathing became shallow, and suddenly I understood exactly why every woman in the world fell to their knees for this man.
He wasn't even human. He was carved from dreams and destructive desires.
He caught me staring, again, and this time his smirk was evil. "Like what you see?"
The question was pitched low, meant for my ears alone, and it sent shocks down my spine. The confidence in his voice suggested he already knew the answer, that he was used to having this effect on women, that I was just another admirer in a long line of conquests.
The thought was both humbling and irritating, snapping me back to reality with uncomfortable force.
"You're not my type," I lied, forcing myself to look away even though the image of him, broad shoulders, perfect jaw, those cocky blue eyes, was now permanently burned behind my eyelids. "Too pretty."
His grin widened, and he leaned back in the chair like he owned the place, like he owned the entire building, like he owned me.
"That's a first. Usually, pretty is a good thing."
Usually.
Because, of course, women fell at his feet. They melted into puddles of hormones and poor decision-making the moment he looked at them with those sapphire eyes.
I snorted, trying to inject disdain into the sound, but the tension between us was electric and dangerous, humming under my skin and making it hard to think straight.
I returned my attention to the deepest scrape on his palm, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. His breath hitched slightly, and the sound went straight to my core like he'd just whispered something indecent in my ear.
"Careful," he murmured, those blue eyes locking onto mine with predatory intensity. "I bite."
The warning shot through me like liquid fire, pooling between my thighs, making me grateful I was sitting down.
“Do you warn every woman? Or do they figure it out the hard way?” My ears were burning. He was just flirting, but I wasn’t used to… him .
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "Most of them beg for it."
“Not me,” I mumbled, pressing the gauze just a little harder. His biceps flexed, tattoos shifting, and I had to tear my eyes away, just to notice his blood soaking through much of the gauze.
“Try not to bleed on my floor.”
He chuckled, low and smooth, and somehow it made my insides flutter. "You’re cute when you’re bossy, princess."
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks were hot. “Don’t flirt with me while you’re bleeding into my towel.”
He grinned, all teeth and trouble. "You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you like me."
I scoffed, my cheeks only growing hotter as I pressed his wound more aggressively. “Again, you’re not my type. I prefer men who don’t try to get run over.”