Chapter Twenty-Two
? Jackson ?
I didn’t see it coming. One second she was fire and fury, telling me she didn’t belong to me, and the next she was kissing me like I was the only man alive.
It wrecked me. Because Holly McCarthy wasn’t mine—not really—but the taste of her said otherwise. And I knew if I screwed this up again, she’d walk, and I wouldn’t get a second chance.
So, I stopped talking and started showing.
No big announcements, no declarations in the middle of the clubhouse.
Just…staying close. A palm at the small of her back when she squeezed past me at the bar.
Fingers brushing hers when I passed the drink she wanted before she even reached for it.
My knuckles grazing her thigh when I sat beside her, the room loud enough to hide the way her breath stuttered.
I quit pretending I wasn’t looking. She’d catch me sometimes, eyes snapping up like she could feel it burning. I never looked away. Just held it, slow and lazy, like we were in on some joke no one else knew.
Couple of idiots tried their luck when my back was turned.
Probies, mostly. Too-wide grins, lines so bad even Hallmark would’ve told them to quit.
They didn’t get far. Holly didn’t do “polite.” She cut them down where they stood, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.
One poor bastard tried to call her “sweetheart,” and she filleted him so clean the whole room winced.
I swear I saw the guy shrink two inches before he slunk off.
She didn’t need my help. Hell, half the time I wanted to sit back with popcorn and watch the massacre.
Still, I saw red.
So when she walked away, I made sure to have a quiet word.
No yelling, no theatrics. Just leaned in close enough for them to feel it in their bones.
A look. A hum. My jaw flexing like I was two seconds from breaking theirs.
Whatever I said—or didn’t say—worked. Because later, when Holly came back in, that same probie damn near tripped over himself scrambling for the door.
She frowned after him. Looked at me.
I shrugged.
She narrowed her eyes.
I smirked. Wolfish. Unapologetic.
She shook her head, fighting a smile like she couldn’t help herself. Then she walked away.
And yeah, I watched. Damn right I did.
Dalton, of course, had to make it worse. “Game night,” he announced, hauling a goddamn fire extinguisher onto the table with a thunk. “Never know when these two might combust.”
I couldn’t help but grin. That slow, gloating kind of grin. Then I hooked an arm around Holly’s waist and yanked her straight into my lap.
“Jackson!” she barked, squirming. “Put me down.”
My arm just tightened around her, loving the sound of my name on her lips. “Then sit.”
“You’re an ass,” she muttered, cheeks hot, fists batting at me and even elbowing me in the stomach. But she didn’t get up. Didn’t really want to. I could feel it in the way her body went from stiff to settled, like she hated herself for it.
Dalton rolled his eyes. “Christ, get a room. Some of us are here to win.”
I forced myself not to wince. My own damn voice came back at me, sharp and ugly—you two need a room? I’d thrown it at them like a grenade, jealous and stupid, and all it bought me was Holly’s fire.
I’d fucked up. No way around it.
And yet, if I hadn’t? If she hadn’t snapped back, if I hadn’t chased her out to that porch, if she hadn’t kissed me first—
I tightened my arm around her without thinking, like I was afraid she’d slip away if I let her breathe. Maybe I should be grateful my mouth had run off that night. Cost me some pride, sure. But it got me this.
Spades turned into war quick. Ten minutes in, Holly and I were snapping at each other about whether she should’ve thrown a Queen. Which is why neither of us noticed Dalton quietly stacking up tricks like he was running a casino.
She got up to grab a drink. Dalton slipped something out of his sleeve. I lunged, catching his wrist. Out slid an Ace.
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled, waving it like Exhibit A.
Dalton jerked free, scandalized and shouting protests.
Mac dragged a hand down his face. “We should’ve played Monopoly. At least then the cheating’s honest.”
I lunged across the table, grabbing Dalton in a headlock, both of us wrestling across the floor while the fire extinguisher rolled off the table like a referee calling time-out.
Holly leaned on the counter with her drink, smirking at us like we were a couple of idiots, which we were. But she was smiling. At me. And I’d take that any damn day.
Idiots, her eyes said.
Mine, my chest answered.
The days blurred into each other after that.
Loud, messy, full of touches that probably looked casual to everyone else but weren’t casual at all.
Every morning shaved another sliver off the time we had, and every night I found some excuse to put my hands on her.
A brush of my fingers. A hand at her hip.
One more second burned into memory, like if I touched her enough, I could map her into me and never lose it.
Didn’t matter. Time was still running out.
She didn’t see it yet, or she pretended not to.
The calendar bleeding down to nothing. But I felt it every damn night, lying awake and listening to the clubhouse go quiet around us.
Every laugh, every spark in her eyes, every soft sound she made when she leaned against me… it was all getting carved into me.
Because when it ended, and it would end, I knew I wasn’t walking away the same man. If anything was going to bring me home, it was the memory of her.
? Holly ?
When I kissed Jackson, I hadn’t realized I was signing up to be his.
For him to be mine. Or maybe I had and just didn’t want to admit it.
He didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it in the small things.
The way his hand always seemed to find the small of my back, guiding without pushing.
The way his eyes tracked a room, not just watching me, but watching for me.
Sometimes it was more than I could handle. His hand would land on my knee under the table, warm and steady, and before I even realized it my body jolted—reflex, fear wired into my bones.
He noticed. Every time. His hand would start to retreat, slow and careful, like he was giving me space. Like he’d rather cut off his own arm than scare me.
And every damn time, I caught him, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, dragging his hand right back where it was. My pulse screaming, my throat tight, but needing that contact anyway.
It scared me. Not because I didn’t want it—I wanted it too much. But because the last time someone forced their way into my world, they hadn’t protected anything. Least of all me.
So I kept my guard up, even as part of me leaned into the warmth of him.
The voice in my head warned he could break me.
The louder voice whispered he already was.
Most days, it felt like I was walking a tightrope—balancing between fear and wanting, between the ghosts that still clawed at me and the man who made me feel almost safe.
I didn’t always trust myself to stay steady.
Which was why I kept busy. Kept moving. If I let myself stop, let myself feel too much, I was afraid I’d fall.
I was constantly working with Hannah and my parents on the business.
We’d agreed not to wait until I graduated—people like Maria, people like me, didn’t have time for that.
They needed help now. When exams or life knocked me flat, Hannah picked up the slack.
She wasn’t about to let this dream stall out.
And ever since Hannah begrudgingly served up that burnt pound cake, Mom had inserted herself into every step, insisting she’d have a say. And honestly? I didn’t mind.
Some nights, when the clubhouse quieted down to the clink of bottles and the murmur of voices on the back porch, I’d pass by the window and see Hannah and my mother sitting together at the table with my legal pad between them.
At first they circled each other like boxers—tap, tap, test the guard—but slowly the footwork changed.
My mother started showing up with folders and tabs.
Hannah started teasing her less and trusting her more.
My dad just did his best to keep them from burning the whole county down.
He and Mr. Mills were getting good at tag-teaming the dynamic duo that their wives made up.
One night I turned the corner and caught the tail end of a private conversation.
“—waiting for her to come to you won’t fix what you broke,” Hannah was saying, not unkindly. “Show up. Do the work. Don’t talk about loving her; prove it.”
“I am trying,” my mother answered, and I heard the crack in her voice before she smoothed it away. “She’s…stubborn.”
“So are you.” Hannah’s mouth twitched. “She gets it honest.”
They saw me a second later. The pad lay open on the table: cost projections, staffing notes, a messy list of grant targets my dad’s office had spit out for her. For us.
“You’re late honey,” Mom said, brushing a crumb from her dress like she hadn’t been caught caring. “Sit. We’re arguing about names.”
“We’re not arguing,” Hannah said. “We’re just trying to figure out how to tell you your ideas are terrible.”
“My names are not terrible,” I said, instantly defensive. “They’re heartfelt.”
“‘Haven House’ is a bank,” Hannah said. “Or a timeshare. Or a cult.”
“‘Second Dawn’ sounds like a skincare line,” my mom added, crisp.
“It’s my business,” I said, heat rising. “I’ll name it what I want.”
They shared a look—one of those quick, zipper-sealed expressions women had when they agreed on something without a word.
Hannah leaned back. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeated, thrown.
Mom nodded once. “If you can’t claim the name, you won’t be able to claim the rest.” I don’t think she realized how much she just sounded like Hannah. She slid a pen toward me. “So claim it.”