Jaxon #2
This headache is riding me like a damn Mack truck, and I know it won’t let up anytime soon. Hell, even that doesn’t compare to the shitstorm I’ve walked into today. The Blaine brothers forgot to mention they’d be gone for a week. So now, I’ve gone from babysitter to fucking camp counselor.
I toss back an ibuprofen, chasing it with a healthy swig of Bourbon. Probably cancels out the pain relief, but screw it. I rub at my temples, trying to knead away the tension.
Minutes stretch before I hear soft footsteps as she enters, and when I lift my gaze, I go still.
Fucking hell.
The moment at the café flashes in my mind—the brush of her body against mine, the way her scent sank into my skin and hasn’t left since.
I’m wrecked, and she hasn’t even said a word yet. But then neither have I. Slowly, I let my eyes drag over her, soaking in every curve. I memorize every detail like I have a hundred times already.
I haven’t been able to get her out of my goddamn head for years. Every word I’ve practiced—every word, every gentle line, every confession—it all dies in my throat the second we’re alone.
And somehow, that makes me grin like a lunatic.
I’ve tried being gruff with her, sharp enough to keep her at arm’s length. Maybe if she despised me, I could bury this thing inside me, pretend it didn’t exist. So, every time I speak, I say the things that will make her push me away more.
Anything else would ruin us. I’d ruin us. And still, I can’t stop myself from wanting her in spite of it all.
When those chocolate eyes lock onto mine, cautious but curious, I think—maybe it’d be worth it. Maybe she’d be worth the risk of everything unraveling.
As she comes closer her hips sway in a rhythm that steals the air from my lungs, her body moves like poetry in motion.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her soft voice wrapping around me, and all I can do is stare like a goddamn fool. The tension that started in my head tightens, spreading like wildfire through my chest, down to places I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
Her raven curls are piled high, though a few strands escape to frame her heart-shaped face. She’s utterly breathtaking, and my cock throbs against my zipper as I bite back a groan clawing at my throat.
She stops directly in front of me, her plush, full lips tugging down into a frown.
Every word she speaks is like rain after a drought, soothing and intoxicating all at once.
It’s the kind of voice that’d put angels to shame.
I want to hear it every day, want her to whisper my name until it’s the only thing I know.
“I have a headache,” I manage, my dry throat constricting.
At barely 5’5”, she’s a solid foot shorter than I am, but that doesn’t stop her from commanding my attention like no one else can.
For once, there’s no distaste painting her expression, no sharp edges in her tone. Instead, there’s a softness I don’t know what to do with as she pouts and takes my hand. The warmth of her palm against mine shoots straight to my gut.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing toward the linen loveseat. Her tone leaves no room for argument, so I lower myself onto it, my eyes never leaving her.
She moves around the couch, and when her hands come to rest on my temples, my body damn near shudders. Her fingers press firmly, working small circles, and the pain in my head begins to fade like smoke dissipating into the air.
“Holy fuck,” I groan, my shoulders melting into the cushions as I close my eyes.
“When I was a kid,” she whispers, her voice low and soothing, “Daddy used to come home with these killer headaches when his company was first expanding. Momma would spend hours massaging him. When I asked why, she told me, ‘We take care of the ones we care about.’”
I snort, the corner of my mouth twitching up. “You don’t care about me.”
She doesn’t even pause. “Well, even if you are an ass most days…I hate that you are in pain,” she says, her fingers never missing a beat. “And for the record. I do.”
“You do what?”
“Care about you.” My pulse quickens and something in my chest tightens, remembering everything we used to be.
I catch her hand mid-motion, stopping her movement, and she lets her other hand drop from my head.
For a second, I don’t let go. The urge to kiss the center of her palm is damn near suffocating.
It’s what my father used to do when he thanked my mother—kissing her palms, sometimes even her feet.
That small gesture of reverence was the only thing he ever did that I respected.
In every other way, he was a fucking monster, and I swore I’d never let my wife live the way my mother did.
But the thought of kissing her hand twists into something darker, something more desperate. I want to press my lips to every inch of her skin, to claim her in ways that go beyond words. My grip tightens for half a heartbeat before I force myself to release her hand.
She moves around the couch and sits, adjusting her robe—tying it tighter, as if that flimsy knot could save her from my wandering thoughts. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes things worse.
Every curve of her body is outlined, the fabric teasing at what lies beneath. I’ve never been more acutely aware of how easy it would be to unravel her, literally. Just one tug on that thin little string, and—
“So, you wanted to see me about something?” she says, snapping me out of my declining thoughts.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her robe like public enemy number one. Clearing my throat, I force my eyes up to hers.
“Yes,” I say, trying to focus. “Your brothers called earlier. They’re traveling for a wedding.”
“Okay...” she says, but it comes out more like a question. She pulls a pillow from behind her, hugging it tightly to her chest, as if creating a barrier between us.
“Your brothers asked me to make sure you’re not alone,” I say. “So, I’m staying in the guest house.”
She doesn’t respond right away, her expression contemplative. I hope to hell she doesn’t fight me on this.
I. Am. Drained.
“Okay,” she finally says after what feels like a full minute, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“But you won’t be staying in the guest house,” she adds, smiling sweetly. Too sweetly. It’s the kind of smile she wears when she’s holding back irritation.
My brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll stay in the guest bedroom on the second floor.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Thought you might want some space.”
She tilts her head, giving me a look like I’ve just missed something obvious. “Being in the guest house kind of defeats the purpose of guarding me if you’re so far away, doesn’t it? What if something happens?”
Damn it. She’s right. I shrug, trying to play it off. “Makes sense.”
It does. But sleeping just down the hall from her? Not ideal. I can barely keep my thoughts straight when she’s miles away. Now, she’ll only be a few steps away. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
“Great,” she says with a satisfied grin. “I’ll go make up the room for you. But first—are you hungry?”
“I can eat.” I rub the spot between my eyes, trying to massage away the tension.
Too bad all it does is ignite fresh flames in my head—flames fueled by images of her, naked, pressed against me—like a passing memory, though, it doesn’t come as a shock.
It’s been happening more and more since I’ve been seeing her again.
So, I let them in, but only when I’m alone.
“Come on then.” She rises and leads the way through the house. I know the layout like the back of my hand, but I let her guide me anyway, my eyes shamelessly glued to the sway of her hips. Her robe molds to her body in all the right places, the curve of her ass practically hypnotic.
I don’t even realize we’ve reached the kitchen until she stops abruptly, and I nearly crash into her. Recovering, I lean casually against the island while she heads to the fridge.
“Any food allergies?” she asks, quirking a brow at me.
“None that I know of.”
“Good.” She starts pulling out ingredients from the fridge, and I shake my head.
“Wait, this is too much.” I move to take some of the items out of her hands, shoving them back where they came from.
“Boy, if you don’t stop.” She swats at me. “Just stand there and look pretty.”
I smirk but step back when she glares, daring me to try it again. She sets the remaining items on the counter and retrieves what I’d just put away, muttering under her breath.
And I can’t stop watching her.
The way she rolls up her sleeves, her delicate hands moving deftly as she chops, dices, and sautés—it’s mesmerizing. She fills the silence with small talk, her voice soft and casual, but I’m barely listening.
It’s an art form, the way she moves. She makes it look effortless, like cooking for me is second nature. And maybe it is. But the more I watch her, the harder it becomes to ignore how much I want her—and how utterly fucked I am for letting her get under my skin like this.
In about twenty minutes, she sprinkles chives over three steaming lobster rolls, plates them with fries, and hands it to me.
“Sit. I’ll grab you something to drink,” she says, flashing a smile that makes my chest tighten.
“Thank you.” My voice is low, my smile softer than I intend, but damn if she doesn’t deserve it.
I take a seat on the opposite side of the island, lifting the first roll to my lips. One bite, and I’m gone.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” The words tumble out as I take another bite.
Her smile widens, and she bites her bottom lip, her eyes sparkling. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I mutter around another mouthful, barely pausing to savor it before diving in again.
She pops the top on a bottle of sparkling water, pouring it into a glass before adding some sugar free strawberry syrup. I raise a brow, watching her with suspicion.
“Trust me,” she says, sliding the glass to me with a smirk. “It’s better for you than soda. Tastes better too.”
I catch the glass in my palm, take a sip, and my eyes flick to hers. “Damn. That’s actually good.”