I Wish You Were Mine
Page 22
Jackson’s hands moved just slightly, first upward toward her shoulders and then sliding down until his fingers rested at the small of her back, as though exploring her shape.
And suddenly Mollie wanted him to explore more. Wanted his hands to drift down farther, over her butt, and then around to the front.
Oh God!
Mollie’s hands found his broad shoulders as she pushed back abruptly.
Jackson blinked in surprise at the sudden movement before his arms dropped slowly to his sides. Their eyes held for a second too long, as though searching to see if the other had answers for what had just happened.
He shook his head slightly and cleared his throat before he reached for his beer once more.
“So what’s your big couch potato plan tonight? Chick flicks?” he asked.
Mollie grasped at the change of subject like it was a conversational lifeline. And actually, his question could not have been a more perfect segue into part two of her plan to get Jackson and Mollie back to normal.
“Actually, I was thinking that I’m overdue for a movie marathon.” She said it casually, picking up her wineglass as she watched him.
As she hoped, his eyes lit with excitement, reminding her for just a moment of the old Jackson, before her sister had tried to break him.
“Bourne?” he asked.
Mollie gave him a look. “Um, is there any other series worth marathoning for?”
“No,” he said with a slow grin that was maybe just a bit sexier than it should have been. “Care if I join you?”
I was counting on it. “Only if I get to pick the pizza toppings,” she teased.
He groaned. “No. No pineapple.”
“The fruit’s good for you,” she said, pulling out her phone.
“Please. You just like it because it’s sweet.”
“Like me,” she said, glancing up with a toothy smile.
He snorted, but Mollie’s heart warmed when she saw that he looked relaxed. Happy, even.
“Fine, order what you want,” he said, heading toward his bedroom. “I’m going to go change out of this damn suit.” Before he left the kitchen, he turned and gave her a thoughtful look. “You really think I’m hot?”
Mollie rolled her eyes and shooed him away. “Please. If you want an ego stroke, go look at the ‘sexiest man alive’ magazine covers you probably have stashed under the bed.”
He laughed as he walked away, the sound easy and familiar and wonderful.
Mollie hid her grin until he’d gone into his bedroom. Humming happily to herself, she ordered the pizza, extra pineapple.
Only after they’d plopped onto the couch, her bare feet propped up contentedly on his knee, his hand carelessly resting on her shin, did she realize that she hadn’t thought about what her sister would think of this cozy scenario.
Even more alarming, Mollie wasn’t sure she cared.
Chapter 9
On Monday morning, Jackson arrived in his office, like he always did.
About to close the door, like he always did.
Only to stop when he remembered his boss’s “pep talk” about him being an antisocial asshole.
Jackson glared at the door for a moment before reluctantly leaving it open. He highly doubted anyone would be dropping by, but maybe he’d get brownie points for trying.
He settled behind his desk and was unlocking his computer when the sound of laughter from the office next door distracted him.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. There was always laughter coming through the right wall of Jackson’s office. As far as he could tell, Lincoln Mathis ran a damn comedy club from his office.
It was annoying enough with the door closed, but now that Jackson had to have the fucking door open, it was like nails on a chalkboard. He felt like the Grinch.
It had been bad enough to have Cassidy call him a diva. But then Mollie and her big blue eyes had started looking at him like he was a grumpy old man whenever he snapped at her, like this whole mess was somehow his fault.
Let it go, man.
But he couldn’t.
One of the few people he’d thought he could count on had believed the motherfucking tabloids instead of him. He knew what most of the world thought of him, and he didn’t give a shit. But he’d always figured that the people who mattered—his parents, his friends, Mollie—had known. Had believed in him.
Damn it! Jackson’s hand swiped out and sent a pen cup hurling to the floor.
He’d thought he had put the rage from his accident and its aftermath behind him, but it was crawling all over him again, leaving him with the distinct urge to punch something. To punch someone.
Was he an asshole? Sure. He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d become one. It was right when a fucking Ford had T-boned him while he was giving his teammate’s wife a ride to practice, thus igniting a firestorm of speculation not only that Jackson’s career was over but also that Madison’s claims of his cheating were true.
Only one of the rumors was true—that his career was over. Jackson had never cheated. Had never once thought about it, even when he and Madison had gone days without speaking.
“To hell with this,” Jackson muttered to himself, plowing his fingers through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this.” He was sick of himself. Sick of the way his brain was on constant replay of everything that was wrong in his life. Sick of the way he woke up each morning hating the day to come and went to bed dreading the next one.
He wasn’t depressed, or at least he didn’t think so. He was just…half alive. He had no fucking clue how to get back to the land of the living, but he did know one step he could take now in the right direction.
And suddenly Mollie wanted him to explore more. Wanted his hands to drift down farther, over her butt, and then around to the front.
Oh God!
Mollie’s hands found his broad shoulders as she pushed back abruptly.
Jackson blinked in surprise at the sudden movement before his arms dropped slowly to his sides. Their eyes held for a second too long, as though searching to see if the other had answers for what had just happened.
He shook his head slightly and cleared his throat before he reached for his beer once more.
“So what’s your big couch potato plan tonight? Chick flicks?” he asked.
Mollie grasped at the change of subject like it was a conversational lifeline. And actually, his question could not have been a more perfect segue into part two of her plan to get Jackson and Mollie back to normal.
“Actually, I was thinking that I’m overdue for a movie marathon.” She said it casually, picking up her wineglass as she watched him.
As she hoped, his eyes lit with excitement, reminding her for just a moment of the old Jackson, before her sister had tried to break him.
“Bourne?” he asked.
Mollie gave him a look. “Um, is there any other series worth marathoning for?”
“No,” he said with a slow grin that was maybe just a bit sexier than it should have been. “Care if I join you?”
I was counting on it. “Only if I get to pick the pizza toppings,” she teased.
He groaned. “No. No pineapple.”
“The fruit’s good for you,” she said, pulling out her phone.
“Please. You just like it because it’s sweet.”
“Like me,” she said, glancing up with a toothy smile.
He snorted, but Mollie’s heart warmed when she saw that he looked relaxed. Happy, even.
“Fine, order what you want,” he said, heading toward his bedroom. “I’m going to go change out of this damn suit.” Before he left the kitchen, he turned and gave her a thoughtful look. “You really think I’m hot?”
Mollie rolled her eyes and shooed him away. “Please. If you want an ego stroke, go look at the ‘sexiest man alive’ magazine covers you probably have stashed under the bed.”
He laughed as he walked away, the sound easy and familiar and wonderful.
Mollie hid her grin until he’d gone into his bedroom. Humming happily to herself, she ordered the pizza, extra pineapple.
Only after they’d plopped onto the couch, her bare feet propped up contentedly on his knee, his hand carelessly resting on her shin, did she realize that she hadn’t thought about what her sister would think of this cozy scenario.
Even more alarming, Mollie wasn’t sure she cared.
Chapter 9
On Monday morning, Jackson arrived in his office, like he always did.
About to close the door, like he always did.
Only to stop when he remembered his boss’s “pep talk” about him being an antisocial asshole.
Jackson glared at the door for a moment before reluctantly leaving it open. He highly doubted anyone would be dropping by, but maybe he’d get brownie points for trying.
He settled behind his desk and was unlocking his computer when the sound of laughter from the office next door distracted him.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. There was always laughter coming through the right wall of Jackson’s office. As far as he could tell, Lincoln Mathis ran a damn comedy club from his office.
It was annoying enough with the door closed, but now that Jackson had to have the fucking door open, it was like nails on a chalkboard. He felt like the Grinch.
It had been bad enough to have Cassidy call him a diva. But then Mollie and her big blue eyes had started looking at him like he was a grumpy old man whenever he snapped at her, like this whole mess was somehow his fault.
Let it go, man.
But he couldn’t.
One of the few people he’d thought he could count on had believed the motherfucking tabloids instead of him. He knew what most of the world thought of him, and he didn’t give a shit. But he’d always figured that the people who mattered—his parents, his friends, Mollie—had known. Had believed in him.
Damn it! Jackson’s hand swiped out and sent a pen cup hurling to the floor.
He’d thought he had put the rage from his accident and its aftermath behind him, but it was crawling all over him again, leaving him with the distinct urge to punch something. To punch someone.
Was he an asshole? Sure. He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d become one. It was right when a fucking Ford had T-boned him while he was giving his teammate’s wife a ride to practice, thus igniting a firestorm of speculation not only that Jackson’s career was over but also that Madison’s claims of his cheating were true.
Only one of the rumors was true—that his career was over. Jackson had never cheated. Had never once thought about it, even when he and Madison had gone days without speaking.
“To hell with this,” Jackson muttered to himself, plowing his fingers through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this.” He was sick of himself. Sick of the way his brain was on constant replay of everything that was wrong in his life. Sick of the way he woke up each morning hating the day to come and went to bed dreading the next one.
He wasn’t depressed, or at least he didn’t think so. He was just…half alive. He had no fucking clue how to get back to the land of the living, but he did know one step he could take now in the right direction.
