Chapter 48
Jack
Once home, the crickets chirp as we walk up the driveway and enter the house.
Morgan insists on helping make dinner. I try like hell to get her to go relax. Watch TV. Lay down. Whatever. But she doesn’t. Her eyelids are heavy with exhaustion. The day ran over like it sometimes does. It’s late.
Yet, here she is, without her heels on in my house. Touching me every chance she gets. I even get to stare at her when she looks away. And I do.
A lot.
She isn’t the fantasy girl on my phone screen anymore. Fuck, this woman could be my future wife.
My chest warms, full and relaxed. That pesky sense of hope likes this a little too much.
As soon as we sit, she grabs my hand and Tommy’s. “Can we pray together?”
I tense.
Her eyes don’t meet mine. She’s probably afraid she’ll see the disgust on my face.
Faster than I can react, Noel grips my other hand.
I’m trapped.
She bows her head as though this is something we do every night. Like making believers is as simple — Just make them hold hands.
Honestly, I feel like an intruder in my own house.
She leads.
“Dear God. Thank you for this food, and for bringing us all under one roof.” She squeezes my hand tighter. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Noel echoes.
She beams. “See? Simple prayer.”
Forced prayer. But I don’t say anything, just bear it.
While we eat, Noel scrolls on his phone, his body rigid. Tommy makes a mess, as usual. I wipe his mouth. Morgan chews silently.
I might be the only one feeling it, but I break the tension.
“You are a great cook. Did you cook dinner for your parents?”
“Sometimes,” she answers. “We have a chef. He taught me a lot.”
“A chef?” Noel blurts.
She nods. “Leo. He’s great. Trained in Italy and France. Oh my gosh, his lasagna is the best I’ve ever had!”
“Must be nice. Does he do the dishes, too?” asks Noel.
“No, we have housekeepers that do that.”
“Bruh. Badass.”
She chuckles softly, shyly. “I can hire someone to help here.”
Noel’s eyes brighten. “No shit? Our own chef?”
“Yeah!” says Tommy.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I hold up my hands. “Morgan, no.”
“Why not? You work hard. Wouldn’t it be nice having people cook and clean for you after a hard day?”
My stomach knots. She says it like an offering, but my body takes it like an insult. People to clean. People to cook. Money to smooth the rough edges. She is trying to make things easier.
All I hear is that the way I live is something that needs fixing.
“I told you to relax. I’ll cook for everyone,” I say.
She sighs as though I am impossible. I am, but we don’t need a damn fancy chef like we live in a palace.
“Please,” begs Noel.
“No, I don’t want slave-labor.”
She scoffs. “Jack, it’s not like that. They aren’t slaves. It’s their job. They work like you work. They get paid well.”
“We can’t afford it,” I bite back.
“Actually, I can,” she quips, looking proud of herself.
The tension I felt earlier is very real and thickened. It’s permeated the air as everyone stays frozen. My heart isn’t just punching my ribs, it’s raging. Dinner isn’t going at all like I imagined.
When I don’t respond, she sets down her fork. “I understand. This is too much change. I’ll drop it.”
Noel shakes his head disapprovingly, then takes his and Tommy’s plate to the sink. I try to eat more, but my appetite is elsewhere.
Morgan attempts to help me clean up, but I guide her out of the kitchen this time. I won’t let her get overwhelmed. I can’t.
“Get ready for bed,” I say, firmer this time. “Please.”
Reluctantly, she obeys.
When I finish washing the dishes and wiping the counters, her slender arms wrap around my waist.
I turn around, finding her in pink pajamas and her hair in a ponytail.
She looks better. More at ease. That helps.
Not long after, I get Tommy settled, then enter my bedroom. Morgan hangs clothes in the closet.
Good sign.
“I need more hangers,” she says.
“I’ll get you some tomorrow,” I assure.
She bites her bottom lip for a moment. “All my stuff isn’t going to fit in this closet.” She gestures to three more suitcases that haven’t been unpacked.
Shit.
“What about more dressers?”
“Or a bigger house with a walk-in closet,” she counters playfully.
I don’t laugh.
She quickly adds, “Dressers will be fine. Um. This is cool, huh?” She grins.
“Ya think so?” I stand straighter, that feeling of hope sprouting.
“Yep. Living together is fun. I like your room. I’ll put some throw pillows in here. Maybe paint the walls. A woman’s touch would be nice. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” I whisper and force a smile.
It takes everything in me not to grimace. I wonder when my heart will slow the fuck down. I’m tired of this sick feeling. Her dad’s right. This place is squalor to Morgan. Paint won’t help. Not for a woman who lived in a mansion her entire life.
I sit on the bed as these doubts compound. The room shrinks.
She’s by my side in a second. “Talk to me.”
“Throw pillows won’t do shit.”
Her arms fly around me. “They will! And I can afford a lot of this stuff if you would let me pay.”
It’s old-fashioned, I know it is, but I hate that she makes more money than me. I hate that I can’t provide for her the way a man is supposed to. The way her dad and Blake can.
I’m being an insecure dick, but this is a lot to deal with in less than twenty-four hours.
She kisses my cheek. “I love you.”
She throws that phrase around like it’s candy, but I take it, letting myself eat up her words.
We lay down, both tired.
Morgan studies me for a second too long.
“What?” I ask, too sharp.
Her brow pinches. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”
My body stiffens. No, this is not good. She can’t know.
“I’m fine, babe.”
My eyes close, but I feel a pull on my arm.
“Then make love to me,” she whispers.
A memory, vivid and intense, slams back. The words, the meaning, hit hard as a sledgehammer. Her dad’s warning not to get her pregnant.
In the darkness of my mind, my first thought is, hell yes, do it. Lock her down. Tell her to get that IUD out. She’ll have to marry me. That’s what I want.
I think.
Except, it isn’t. It feels like I’m trapping her in a miserable life she doesn’t realize she’s already in. I guess money would fix all these problems. I just don’t know if I could live with myself being her peasant.
I snap from my thoughts, tired of worrying. This gorgeous woman wants to fuck, I’ll deliver. Because she’s the only thing that quiets my mind.
I grab her arm firmly and have her straddle my hips. Her naked body looms over me like a holy thing, glowing in the dark. I’m hard in seconds. She does that to me so well. She laces her delicate fingers around my shaft and leads it to her entrance.
Her warmth envelops my length, and I groan in pleasure.
Damn, she feels good.
She rides me at her own pace, figuring it out, looking both sexy and adorable.
She winces and shifts her weight as she adjusts to the new position.
My fingers clutch her thighs as I watch, but despite this dream unfolding — her in my bed — I suddenly become dazed out of my mind. I’m half present, half somewhere else.
Her hand touches my face.
“Jack. You okay?”
It is not breathless or needy. It’s questioning.
I can’t hide from her. She knows me too well. She always seems to know me too well. Shame hits. I am failing her in the one place we’ve been strongest. So I lie. For her.
“Just can’t believe you’re here, baby.”
She smiles wide and lowers her chest, her warm body resting against mine. Gently, she kisses my neck and sucks my earlobe, then purrs, “Good. I love you... say it back.”
Shit. I guess I haven’t been.
I say it, but it doesn’t sound like my voice.
I love her. I do. I don’t know what’s wrong, and that irritates me the most.
When the moment ends, she snuggles close, as if she still can’t get enough. I got her off. Somehow.
She falls asleep thinking we found each other again. I lie there beside her with my eyes open — angry.
After I can’t stand it anymore, I slip out of the bed and into the bathroom. I sink to the floor, and just stay there, begging my heart to stop beating this fast. For the anger to leave. I try to breathe. Try not to sweat.
And it lasts long into the night.