Chapter 7 #2
The victory in his eyes was immediate, warm, devastating.
“Knew you would,” he said.
And the worst part?
A tiny, traitorous part of me was already looking forward to it.
By the time the sun slipped beneath the horizon, I’d already changed my outfit six times and cursed myself for caring.
There’s no reason to be nervous, I thought as I bit my lip and stared at my reflection.
I was being ridiculous.
“Stop overthinking,” I mumbled to myself, turning in the mirror. “You hate him. This is just for show.”
And yet… I still found myself pausing in front of the mirror, adjusting the drape of my burgundy off-shoulder sweater, tucking a loose strand behind my ear, smoothing the dark gray denim over my hips.
My black, heeled boots were covered mostly by the loose ankles, and the gold around my neck and wrist shimmered under the ring light.
My boots clicked softly on the hardwood as I stepped back. Jaxon texted me that he was downstairs fifteen minutes ago, so I needed to move. I applied a shade of dark red to my lips before grabbing my phone and purse.
I made my way out the front door and down the stairs of the townhouse. The second I walked out, the cool air kissed my cheeks and my eyes landed on Jaxon.
And his bike.
“Oh no. We are not doing this again.”
I heard his chuckle from where I stood in the doorway.
Jaxon was leaning against his motorcycle like he’d been sculpted for the position.
He wore a black button-up that hugged his chest and arms with two buttons undone to give a little teaser of the tattoos underneath.
His look was finished with dark blue jeans, black boots, and his infamous leather jacket.
And of course he was parked directly under a street lamp, so it gave the perfect spotlight.
Anyone walking by would think he was doing a photoshoot for Venture Magazine.
“I'm not getting on that death machine in this,” I insisted, gesturing to my outfit.
Wrong move.
It caused him to trail his eyes down my body, slowly as if he was committing the image to memory. When his eyes met mine, they flickered dark for a second before he smirked.
He pushed off the bike, walking toward me with that slow prowl he probably practiced in the mirror. “You didn’t die last time. Odds are you won't die this time. Fifty-fifty at least.”
“That’s not comforting.”
His smirk widened as he lifted the spare helmet over my head. The protest barely got past my lips before he strapped it on, his fingers brushing the side of my jaw, sending a jolt straight down my spine.
“Relax, trouble. I’ve got you.”
I hated that his voice made warmth curl in my stomach.
He pulled on the straps, ensuring it was secure, before taking my hand and pulling me to the bike.
“Just like last time,” he started, mounting the bike first and putting his helmet on. Then his voice was echoing through my helmet, “Put your hands here and hop on.”
“What was wrong with Benji’s car?”
“Jesse needed it. Come on, I promise I'll go slow.”
I growled under my breath but conceded, straddling the bike with a lot more ease than the first time. He made a point to grab my arms and wrap them tight around his waist—and I made a point of ignoring the shocks that ran through me when his thumb brushed over mine.
“Hold on,” he murmured, and minutes later, we were on the road.
My hands were gripping his jacket, his back warm against me, the city lights streaking past like falling stars. Begrudgingly, the ride wasn't so bad. He kept his promise and drove carefully, only picking up speed on the highway toward the bridge.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into Cicero Landing, the little strip right off the Kingston Bridge. We weaved through the people crowding the bricked street until we came to a stop. String lights draped from tree to tree, glowing like suspended fireflies under the night sky.
Jaxon cut the engine and slid off before turning to help me off. “Been here before?”
I shook my head, taking it all in.
“In that case”—his voice softened—“welcome to Cicero Landing.”
The moment he pulled the helmet away, the lights seemed to flare brighter. The atmosphere was warm, festive, and inviting. Music spilled from open patios, laughter rose from clusters of strangers, and the air smelled like fried street food, cinnamon, and spiced beer.
It was… beautiful.
“Used to come here all the time with my sister.” There was a flash of something tender there, something rare, before he cleared his throat and tugged my hand. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
I expected him to drop my hand, but he laced our fingers together instead.
My pulse tripped, eyes dipping to our hands, then to him.
Jaxon didn't even seem phased; it was as if this was the most natural thing in the world for him. He didn’t look at me, just guided us through the crowd like he’d done it a hundred times.
Two shirtless men shimmied their way toward us trying to drag us into their dance; I laughed and shook my head as Jaxon shielded me effortlessly, steering me through the flow of people.
The further in we went, the more inviting it felt. Colorful accent lighting paved the way for us, illuminating the foliage on the right along with the bricked pathway. I could see the water from here, and the people walking along the waterfront.
We wandered beneath a canopy of crisscrossing lights until the path opened into a small food bar made from repurposed shipping containers. Dark turquoise stacked over burnt-orange metal steel, both washed in waves of neon—magenta spilling down one side, cyan tracing the seams like soft electricity.
It was loud and alive: laughter spilling from benches, people leaning over rails, passing bites from flimsy paper trays, music humming from a speaker tucked in a corner.
Jaxon stepped up beside me, palm settling at my lower back with easy familiarity—as if he'd been doing that for years. My body followed his lead, though, and I felt myself slowly relaxing to his touch. He angled me toward the chalkboard menu overhead.
“What are you feeling for?”
I scanned the colorful scribbles, squinting at the pun-heavy names while the couple before us finished their order.
“The Feck and Deck?” I muttered.
He huffed a laugh. “Their take on fish and chips. They get creative. Last week they had ‘Cluck Off’ chicken bites.”
The couple walked away with their trays. The server leaned forward, pen poised.
“What can I get ya?”
Jaxon looked down expectantly at me.
“Um—” I peered past her shoulder at the hotdogs on the roller. “I’ll take one of those. No mayo.”
“Make that two,” Jaxon added, pulling out his wallet and handing over a twenty dollar bill. “Mine with the works. And the Donny fries. Two sodas.”
I folded my arms. “I can pay for my own food.”
“I know you can.” He shot me a sideways look, half challenge, half heat. “Just not when you're with me. Boyfriend 101, sweetheart.”
My heart did a very unreasonable flip, and I tried to hide it by staring intensely at the roller.
“You’re letting that title go to your head,” I said as the trays slid across from us.
“I take my role very seriously, baby,” he replied with teeth in his smile. “It's all about selling the story, you know. If anyone asks, you can say this is where we went for our first date. Then back to my place.”
“That never happened.”
“Okay, different venue then—”
“Not that.” I shot him a glare. “The ‘back to your place’ part. Sleeping with you on a first date—fake or real—is not happening. You’re not that great.”
“Oh?” he asked, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Feel like you can resist my charms, trouble?”
I scoffed and picked up the tray. “No doubt in my mind about that.”
His chuckle brought a scowl to my face, but I kept walking until we found a break in the crowd. Jaxon leaned one shoulder against the railing, biting into his hotdog like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“So,” I said, picking up my hotdog then glancing sideways at him, “why tattoo art and not hockey? Last I checked, you were on your way to going pro. Ashburn High's star player and all that.”
He barked out a laugh. “The glory days.”
“You were half-decent.”
“That almost sounded like a compliment there, trouble.”
“Emphasis on half-decent.”
“Uh-huh.” He sobered a little, gaze drifting to the waters. “Remember when I told you a lot has changed? Hockey was one of them. I don't know, I guess after high school it didn't feel important anymore.” His jaw flexed as if remembering something sharp-edged and old.
“I grew up around this biker crowd. Rough guys to a princess like you,” he teased.
“Solid, though. They used to hang at a tattoo shop, and one of them—the boss—saw me sketching one day. He was impressed and told me to ink it; practically put a machine in my hand and taught me the ropes.” A small smile tugged his mouth. “Never looked back since.”
I studied him quietly—not the swaggering, smirking version of him, but this one. Grounded. Real. A little scarred.
It made something in me… soften.
Dangerously.
He caught me staring.
“Your turn,” he said, cutting into his hotdog. “Why law? Lemme guess—liked arguing from an early age?”
I rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
“No.” I sighed and leaned on the rail. “When I was younger, my grandma went up against a corporate development lawyer. They wanted her house for some high-rise skyscraper plan. She fought tooth and nail… and she won, but it cost everything. All her savings. We had to move to a really rundown neighborhood afterward.”
My fingers traced the metal railing.
“I told myself I’d never let anyone bulldoze my family like that again. I wanted to fight those types of people. I wanted access to the power she never had.”
He didn’t say anything at first.
Just watched me—really watched me—with that quiet, heavy-eyed focus that felt like gravity.
“Sorry that happened to you.”
I shrugged. “We're fine now. My grandma lives in a better neighborhood, and I'm almost done with law school.”