Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
“I should wait for a while just in case he circles back,” Jax says.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask, knowing this is a dangerous move.
He stares down at me for a long time. Then he looks at the house, maybe remembering all the joy he experienced here when Dad was alive, before the mess with Mom, before he stopped visiting.
“I don’t mind waiting in my car.”
“Where do you want to wait?” I say, way too snappy. Even if I know he doesn’t see me the same way I see him, it stings when he says, I’ll be just as happy alone, in silence, as I would be in your company.
He might sense something in my mood. Stepping forward, he offers a quick smile, a passing glimpse of the man he could be if he was loved and had somebody to care for him and to care for.
Then his usual hard-to-read expression returns. “Inside,” he says.
I turn, imagining his gaze roaming over my body, liking what he sees as I walk toward the house. At the door, I pause, turning to him. He’s on the bottom step but still as tall as me, looking directly into my eyes. We’re perfect kissing height. As he ascends the stairs, I wonder what he will do. Then he pauses, staring down at me, his lip twitching in more of a smirk than a smile.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, stepping aside, realizing I’m in his way.
He walks into the house. When I close the door behind him, I pray for my body to calm down. There’s so much tension and tingles in inappropriate places, my sex throbbing hotly, my nipples grazing my bra, and my mind spiriting away to sweltering places.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask.
“Sure. Where’s Mallory?”
I cringe when he asks about Mom. His voice has a hitch, like either he wants to see her or dreads her being here. What if Jax was getting close to me to make Mom jealous? Or that was how his plan started, and then he felt guilty and backed out of it, but that was the beginning, a cruel plot to instill guilt. Is that possible?
When he nods, meeting my eye, I become convinced it can’t be. There’s too much humanity in his expression. He’s a good man, despite whatever happened between him and Mom. I have to believe that this man—the one I need, the one I’d happily spend my life with if the world was made differently—is a good person. My intuition would be beyond crappy if he ended up being a monster. I’d never be able to trust anybody again.
“My friend is still looking into Axel,” Jax says as we walk into the living room together.
I remember the last time we were here when Mom seemed ready to throw herself at Jax. It wouldn’t be like the old days when I was too young to realize what was happening. She’d throw herself in rage this time, not longing or lust. She’d throw herself at him, intending to tear him out of her life, a reminder of the betrayal they both engaged in the second they kissed.
I can’t think about Mom and Jax. It doesn’t fit into my head. It feels far more wrong than thoughts of Jax and me do, which doesn’t make sense, but it’s not like I can force my desire to adhere to logic.
We’ve been silent for too long, Jax looking down at me with those unreadable eyes, biting down like he wants to be anywhere but here.
“Do you think he will find something?” I ask, my eyes glued to his.
Newsflash. I’m in the middle of a conversation. It’s not the best time to gape like a freak.
“If there’s something to find, he will.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Sure,” he says.
I walk past him, expecting him to move out of the way, but he stays where he is. I have to come within inches of his body, his scent rising around me, washing through me. I’m not a sniffer dog. I’ve never thought much about people’s scents before. It’s weird, but I can’t deny it, not as I shimmy past him. There’s a piece of him talking to a part of me, a conversation made of pure pheromones.
My hunger grows when I walk into the kitchen, grab two sodas, and return to the living room. Jax has his back to me, standing at the window. His muscles press through his shirt, a clear outline of his power. He turns to me, shaking his head. Maybe it’s my imagination—there’s a high probability—but I’m almost convinced.
“Still nothing.”
“Maybe it was nothing all along,” I murmur, handing him his soda can.
“I don’t think—”
He suddenly cuts off when our fingers brush. Passion jolts up my arm. Hello, chemistry. Hello, spark. That’s the stuff I’ve heard other women talk about. Natasha has mentioned it before, but I’ve never experienced it.