Chapter 45 Jackson
Jackson
Now she was in front of him and they were alone, he had no idea what he planned to say.
Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he’d been strong enough to resist the urge to follow her.
He ran greedy eyes over her denim-covered legs, the crimson tank top hugging her curves, and the wild ebony curls tumbling loose over her shoulders. A savage jealousy snarled inside him.
“Does Matt know about your double date?” He hated the ugly undertones in his own voice.
“It’s not a date. They’re just some guys Florence knows.” Leah’s fingers twisted the ring on her thumb.
“They look like trouble.”
That made her laugh but there was no humor in it. “They’re police officers, Jax.”
He growled and stared at the door. “Police officers are the worst.”
Now she did raise her eyes to his face. The resigned disappointment in them made him feel even more like crap than he did already. “You don’t get to be snide or judgmental. You decided for both of us we were over.”
Jackson wanted to argue. He wanted to bring up Matthew and explain how seeing her with her ex-boyfriend had felt like lemon juice on already shredded skin.
But his insecurities held his tongue. Leah was smart, well read, and funny.
As bright and colorful as a handful of sea glass, as mind-blowingly sexy as—well, there was no comparison.
He was gray, like Matt had said. Not as clever as Dominic had been, not as popular.
All he had to interest her was the house.
When he sold Amity Court, he’d lose her anyway.
And, in the meantime, the ominous reach of Landon Peake threatened to drag Leah into their professional nightmare.
He was screwed all ways around. But, God, these weeks without her had been agony. He was floundering in the dark.
On top of all of that, he’d hurt her. Just like he’d warned Matt not to. He’d been trying to protect himself when he’d told her not to come to the silent auction, but he’d torn her down to do it. He’d made her feel inferior. And that was unforgivable.
Leah rubbed her arms. Was she cold? He couldn’t stand the thought that she might be cold.
Jackson stepped forward and placed his hands over Leah’s; hers instantly fell away.
She stifled an objection and lifted her chin, wariness fighting the flash of resistance in her eyes.
He ached to soothe them both. Close enough to reacquaint himself with that blessed freckle that tortured him with its presence, he drank her in like a groupie, her familiar pear-scented perfume calming and inflaming his senses at the same time.
The long silence spread between them, heavy and raw.
Resolution and hurt trickled away, replaced by a need so explosive it could have powered the National Grid.
A rasp tore from Jackson’s throat, widening Leah’s eyes.
She tried to take a step away from him but he couldn’t let her go.
Hating himself for it, he gripped her tighter and suddenly she was moving in the opposite direction.
Into him, against him. He hesitated for a split second—was he forcing her?
Had he pulled her? But Leah’s body hit his chest and she grabbed him, her hands tugging him closer.
Her fingers reached for the back of his head and dragged it down so she could press her mouth to his.
Jackson lifted her, wrapping her legs around him.
Leah’s thighs in his grasp, the velvet sweep of her lips, drove every other thought from his mind.
He’d been so fucking jealous all night. So envious of the people who had her attention, her smiles, her time.
It was beyond rational how much he craved being near her.
For these moments, before sense prevailed, he wanted to forget all the reasons why there should be distance between them.
Why he could not have Leah clamped to his body night and day like this.
He invaded her mouth, stroking tongue against tongue.
He clutched her with possessive fingers; she bit his lip and pulled at his hair.
A muffled groan escaped his chest from the sheer thrill of her touch.
He’d been numb for the past few weeks. Feeling anything, let alone this cyclone of sensation, was such a fucking novelty.
Everything was brighter, everything bolder.
The summer night’s vibrant blanket of blues and purples drowned out the rumble of traffic from the nearby street.
Even stars glittered in the periphery of his vision.
Leah had a way of turning the dial up on the everyday.
They only broke apart to snatch a breath here and there. But the feverish rush gradually eased until their kisses were steadier, deeper. Jackson could feel the clock ticking down to when he would have to release her and he couldn’t bear it. Didn’t know if he was strong enough to do it again.
Leah drew back a fraction to look into his eyes, her nose almost touching his own.
Their breath mingled, still coming fast and heavy.
She searched his face, looking for something.
When she pushed back against his chest, he knew she hadn’t found it.
Jackson loosened his grip and placed her carefully on her tiptoes.
It cost him half of his soul to take a step away from her.
A semi rattled by, their surroundings coming sharply back into focus.
“Why, Jax?”
Such a simple question. So complicated to answer. He struggled for the words and, as always, fucked it up.
Because I need to keep you safe.
Because you want Matt.
Because I’m not smart enough for you.
I don’t know why.
“Because I’m a Hale.”
All these feelings. They stuck in his throat like too many people in one wing of a revolving door.
Leah’s face closed in. “I see. And that makes you so much better than me—the ex-foster kid who can’t find her place in the world. Well, screw you, Jax.”
He opened his mouth to protest but she was already turning away.
There was so much dignity in the rigid line of her backbone it almost killed him.
And she was wrong in every single way. Jackson wanted to shout that her place was with him.
Instead, he clamped his jaw shut and dragged a shaky hand through his hair.
He watched her disappear through the doorway, back into the bar.
The stars dulled, veiled by smoky whispers of darkness, and three tepid raindrops fell on his shirt.
He only crossed paths with Leah once the following day. She must have spent most of the morning in her room and the majority of the afternoon at the carriage house with Hazel because Amity Court remained devoid of life for hour after long drawn-out hour.
Jackson trawled the house, immersing himself in any small snagging task he could find and trying to turn a blind eye to the larger jobs he was itching to start on.
There was no point in tackling any further renovations.
The new owners would want to put their own stamp on the place. He hated how that made him feel.
His condo sold inside of forty-eight hours, without even going on the market.
The local realtor assured him the sale would be a quick one; he hoped it would be quick enough.
They could only hold Landon Peake off for so long without a big cash injection from somewhere.
He’d made plans to trade in his car in, to cover the repairs to the crane, but none of it mattered against the weight of the outstanding loan.
Surprisingly, he felt less attachment to his condo or the Aston than he did to his grandmother’s house.
His father was still dragging his heels over selling anything and constantly pushing for updates on the sale of Amity Court.
This situation had brought them no closer together.
Jackson, hollowed out with worry, buckled under the pressure of trying to firefight a blaze he hadn’t started.
He was one more snide comment away from going to the police despite his dad’s vehemence, but they had nothing in writing.
Jackson had no way of knowing if Landon Peake’s “people in Detroit” would come after them even if they managed to get him locked up.
Peake had played the game perfectly; he had them over a barrel.
If Jackson hadn’t been so immersed in his thoughts as he climbed the stairs with a pathetic-looking grilled cheese at the end of the day, he’d have heard Leah before he saw her.
Fresh out of the shower, she was towel-drying her hair as she descended, or maybe she would have heard him, too.
They met at the bend of the staircase, one step away from crashing into each other.
Jackson drew in a sharp breath, which was all grapefruit bodywash and cleanliness. Leah muffled a squeak.
Their apologies meshed together—his robotic, emotionless, and hers carefully bland.
He willed her to look up but she didn’t lift her eyes from the second button down on his polo shirt.
There was an awkward dance as they tried to edge by each other.
In the end, he stood against the wall and let Leah pass him.
It took all his restraint not to close his fingers around her damp curls as they brushed his chest.
Inside his room, Jackson ate the sandwich as quickly as his raw throat would let him, threw some clothes haphazardly into a bag, and left the house.
Whether he wanted to or not, he needed to put some distance between them.
He’d sleep in the office. Another silent night under the same roof as Leah would ruin him.