Naomi #4
“Enough.” Jaxon’s voice is a low command, cold and final. Everyone falls silent at the weight of it, and I realize he’s been quiet the whole time. His gaze snaps to Melody, and she recoils, her blood draining from her face.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Tiá. we’ll see you next time.” Jaxon pecks his aunt on the cheek, then practically drags me out the door, his grip on my hand way too tight.
“Okay, Mijo. I love y—” The heavy door thuds shut behind us, cutting off her words.
“That was rude,” I say once we’re outside, but he doesn’t respond, “I said, that was rude, Jaxon.” I yank my hand from his grasp, stopping in my tracks. “Don’t ignore me.”
“Naomi, not tonight.” He turns to face me, the cold mask gone, replaced by a look of exhaustion. “Can we please not fight anymore tonight?”
I search his face, lingering there for a moment. “Fine.”
I brush past him, heading across the street toward the car. He doesn’t unlock the doors, even as I tug on the handle. “I can’t understand why you are upset?” he sighs.
I snap back at him without thinking. “You were an asshole tonight.”
“No more than usual,” he says, so matter-of-fact, like it’s a well-known fact that doesn’t deserve a response.
I spin on my heel to face him, completely gobsmacked. And of course, there’s that grin. That goddamn grin that makes everything worse. “So, you know you’re an asshole? Like, ninety-five percent of the time?”
“And the other 5 percent?”
“You’re a dick.” I roll my eyes, turning to tug the handle one more time. “Open the door.”
“Why are you so mad at me?” The amusement in his voice only makes me more furious.
He’s cocky. He’s gorgeous. And I’m drunk, burning with heat, still tangled in the mess we made last night and all the while he’s keeping secrets from me. It’s a dangerous mix.
A one-way ticket to hate sex—so intense, we’d have to claw our way out of it. I want to kick and scream—I want to punch him.
Maybe if his nose was broken, he wouldn’t have this effect on me. Who am I kidding? It’d probably make him even sexier.
“I’m not mad. I’m just sleepy,” I mutter, my voice softer than I intended.
“Try again, Reina,” he replies, dismissing my feeble response. “I’ve got all night.”
I whirl around, glaring at him. This time, he’s so close. His lips are right there, just inches from mine. But I blink the thought of kissing away.
“Jesus Christ, Jaxon, Just fucking stop it already! Stop acting like you want me, stop treating me like this.”
His gaze trails over me, lingering, as he takes his sweet time. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his words like a caress that sends a shiver down my spine. His hand clasps mine, fingers caressing my hand, as the other twirls a stray curl around his middle finger.
“Jaxon, that’s enough.” My voice comes out weaker than I intended, the words lacking the firmness I was hoping for. I slap his hand away. “Why do you keep doing this, huh?” I breathe, a mix of frustration and desire tangled in my chest.
He’s too far inside my personal space—a concept that seems entirely lost on him.
“Why do you keep calling me Reina?” I mutter, not sure if I’m asking or accusing.
He shrugs. “Maybe I like pretending you’re mine.” His eyes meet mine again, letting them linger on my face for a moment longer, and then the car beeps twice, the heat in his eyes dimming.
I catch the flicker of something else beneath it. Something I can’t quite place. That should make me feel relieved, but it doesn’t—there is something he’s not saying. Some sick part of me is disappointed by it.
I want him to touch me, kiss me, look at me the way he does when he’s burning for me.
Fuck, what am I saying?
I’m getting married—I shouldn’t even be thinking about him.
We ride home in silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us. When we step into the house, still, nothing. I head straight for the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, praying it’ll help with the hangover that’s brewing. I sip it slowly, desperately trying to keep it down.
The sound of well made italian shoes shift across the floor, but I ignore it even as I feel his heat behind me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly—too quickly—willing him to leave me alone.
“Look at me, Naomi.”
I drag in a centering breath before turning to face him. “Do you remember when you said you didn’t want to fight tonight? Nothing we say right now will change anything, not for you, not for me…so let’s just quit while we’re ahead.”
His gaze shifts to my hand—the one holding my cup, the one bearing Christian’s ring. “You’re right, Naomi. You’re engaged.” His voice is low, unreadable. “I just needed a reminder."
He shoves his hands into his pockets and saunters out of the kitchen—calm, collected, and leaving my resolve in shambles.
In the darkened silence, I make my way up the grand staircase and head straight to my bathroom, kicking the door shut behind me. Placing my cup on the counter, I lean forward, palms on either side of the sink, letting the cool marble ground me.
Everything I’ve been doing lately is so unlike me, and even though I can’t say it out loud, I don't regret it.
At least not at the moment.
I glance down at my ring and sigh, yanking it off my finger, and I let it fall into the personalized “Mrs. Cavanaugh” ring dish Aisha gave me.
I don’t know which is heavier—the damn ring or the weight in my chest.
Christian would lose his shit if he knew everything that’s gone down in the last few days, especially with our engagement party coming up next week. I need to stay away from Jaxon. Or at least, I need to keep my distance, try not to be alone with him.
The way he makes me feel is obvious, and I can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for me.
He’s not good for me.
My grandmother always said, When people show you who they are, believe them.
Jaxon is prickly, callous, with a talent for dodging the truth—or more often, making me forget it altogether—Yeah, that’s probably more accurate.
I don’t think when I’m with him.
I let my emotions take over, and that should alarm me because I’ve always been more practical than that.
But the fact remains: Like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to him.