I Wish You Were Mine
Page 62
Mollie had been thirteen. Thirteen, and motherless—save for Madison, who’d moved back home to take care of her. Who’d somehow managed to play mother and college student.
By the time Madison and Jackson had gotten serious, Mollie’s father had finally stepped up to the plate and reluctantly tried to bring Mollie into the fold of his new family. But it had still been Madison whom Mollie called when she had boy problems or homework trouble.
And Madison had always come—had always been there. Even when she was looking at her watch because she was late for a date, or annoyed because Mollie couldn’t get into the R-rated movie she’d wanted to see, she’d still been her sister.
“You want to call Madison?” he asked.
“I tried. She didn’t answer.”
“Ah.”
There was a wealth of meaning in that single syllable, but he said nothing else. Instead he let Mollie talk. Let her ramble about the good times, when her parents had taken them to Disneyland and Madison had thrown up on the teacups ride. And the rare times their mom would be sober enough to take them out for ice cream.
He let her talk about that day and how she hadn’t cried. Not until weeks after the funeral had it occurred to her to cry.
He let her talk about Madison. And how she was so damn sorry about everything, but a little mad too.
Finally she ran out of words and he just held her for long minutes until her tears had dried.
Until her butt was completely frozen.
Mollie shifted awkwardly and tilted her head up. “I think I need to move.”
He breathed in relief. “Thank God. I think my balls are frozen to my leg.”
Mollie laughed, and it wasn’t until she heard the sound that she realized how much she’d needed it.
They both stood, him putting the strap of his bag over his shoulder before he gamely picked up her Bloomingdale’s bag to carry that too.
He offered an arm. “Shall we? I believe we have a party to prep for.”
Mollie started to take his arm, but at the last minute she lifted both of her cold hands to his cold cheeks, cupping his strong, rugged face with her palms. Her fingertips drifted over his eyebrows, his cheeks, his lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered quietly.
His eyes softened. “You never have to thank me. Not for that.”
“I know,” she said quietly as they began walking toward home. “But I wanted to.”
What she didn’t tell him was that she had to. She’d had to say something to stop herself from saying what she really wanted to.
I love you. I’ve always loved you.
Chapter 25
By the time the party he hadn’t even wanted was winding down, Jackson was struck with a revelation that was as startling as it was uncomfortable: he’d had a good time. More than a good time—he’d had the sort of evening that a man wanted to repeat a thousand times over. Laughter and cocktails and good food, friends…and Mollie.
During a quiet moment, Jackson found himself alone for the first time all evening, and when he glanced over to where she stood laughing with what everyone called the “Stiletto crowd,” his heart swelled with…something.
A dark-haired man with sharp blue eyes and glasses appeared beside Jackson, offering up a fresh whisky.
“Thanks,” Jackson said in surprise as he took the drink, “uh…” His brain scrambled for a name. The man was the husband of Julie Greene, a high-energy blonde who seemed to attract laughter like a magnet, but he’d never been good with names.
“Mitchell. Mitchell Forbes.”
“Right.” Jackson lifted his glass. “Thanks.”
Both men stood quietly for several moments, and Jackson racked his brain for a topic of conversation that wasn’t completely lame.
Just as he opened his mouth, Mitchell gave a quick shake of his head. “You don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, thank God,” Jackson muttered.
Mitchell gave a quick grin. “I know the feeling. This is a chatty bunch. Me and Sam have been known to retreat to many a rooftop for a quiet moment.”
“Sam?”
Mitchell pointed to a good-looking blond guy in a black sweater and jeans.
“Ah,” Jackson said. “Whisky guy. Married to the black-haired bombshell in the hot-pink dress?”
Mitchell laughed. “Whisky guy. He’d like that. And Riley would like the bombshell descriptor. And speaking of bombshells, can I just say, from behind the safety of my wedding ring and happy marriage…wow. Mollie is…that dress is something.”
Jackson felt a rush of masculine possession as his eyes skimmed over Mollie. The dress managed to be both sinful and classy at the same time. When she’d emerged from her bedroom, he’d told her she looked beautiful, and he’d meant it. But then he’d seen the back of the dress and had dragged her back into the bedroom to do some exploring under the dress.
“You want to talk about it?”
Jackson looked at the other man more carefully. Most people didn’t ask if he wanted to talk; they just started talking.
But there was a quiet shrewdness about Mitchell that made Jackson wonder if the other man hadn’t sought him out for exactly this purpose—if he’d had the sense that Jackson wanted the option to talk, but not be cajoled into it the way he often was with the other guys.
Just what he didn’t need: another man who could become a friend. A friend who would make it that much harder to leave New York when the time came.
By the time Madison and Jackson had gotten serious, Mollie’s father had finally stepped up to the plate and reluctantly tried to bring Mollie into the fold of his new family. But it had still been Madison whom Mollie called when she had boy problems or homework trouble.
And Madison had always come—had always been there. Even when she was looking at her watch because she was late for a date, or annoyed because Mollie couldn’t get into the R-rated movie she’d wanted to see, she’d still been her sister.
“You want to call Madison?” he asked.
“I tried. She didn’t answer.”
“Ah.”
There was a wealth of meaning in that single syllable, but he said nothing else. Instead he let Mollie talk. Let her ramble about the good times, when her parents had taken them to Disneyland and Madison had thrown up on the teacups ride. And the rare times their mom would be sober enough to take them out for ice cream.
He let her talk about that day and how she hadn’t cried. Not until weeks after the funeral had it occurred to her to cry.
He let her talk about Madison. And how she was so damn sorry about everything, but a little mad too.
Finally she ran out of words and he just held her for long minutes until her tears had dried.
Until her butt was completely frozen.
Mollie shifted awkwardly and tilted her head up. “I think I need to move.”
He breathed in relief. “Thank God. I think my balls are frozen to my leg.”
Mollie laughed, and it wasn’t until she heard the sound that she realized how much she’d needed it.
They both stood, him putting the strap of his bag over his shoulder before he gamely picked up her Bloomingdale’s bag to carry that too.
He offered an arm. “Shall we? I believe we have a party to prep for.”
Mollie started to take his arm, but at the last minute she lifted both of her cold hands to his cold cheeks, cupping his strong, rugged face with her palms. Her fingertips drifted over his eyebrows, his cheeks, his lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered quietly.
His eyes softened. “You never have to thank me. Not for that.”
“I know,” she said quietly as they began walking toward home. “But I wanted to.”
What she didn’t tell him was that she had to. She’d had to say something to stop herself from saying what she really wanted to.
I love you. I’ve always loved you.
Chapter 25
By the time the party he hadn’t even wanted was winding down, Jackson was struck with a revelation that was as startling as it was uncomfortable: he’d had a good time. More than a good time—he’d had the sort of evening that a man wanted to repeat a thousand times over. Laughter and cocktails and good food, friends…and Mollie.
During a quiet moment, Jackson found himself alone for the first time all evening, and when he glanced over to where she stood laughing with what everyone called the “Stiletto crowd,” his heart swelled with…something.
A dark-haired man with sharp blue eyes and glasses appeared beside Jackson, offering up a fresh whisky.
“Thanks,” Jackson said in surprise as he took the drink, “uh…” His brain scrambled for a name. The man was the husband of Julie Greene, a high-energy blonde who seemed to attract laughter like a magnet, but he’d never been good with names.
“Mitchell. Mitchell Forbes.”
“Right.” Jackson lifted his glass. “Thanks.”
Both men stood quietly for several moments, and Jackson racked his brain for a topic of conversation that wasn’t completely lame.
Just as he opened his mouth, Mitchell gave a quick shake of his head. “You don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, thank God,” Jackson muttered.
Mitchell gave a quick grin. “I know the feeling. This is a chatty bunch. Me and Sam have been known to retreat to many a rooftop for a quiet moment.”
“Sam?”
Mitchell pointed to a good-looking blond guy in a black sweater and jeans.
“Ah,” Jackson said. “Whisky guy. Married to the black-haired bombshell in the hot-pink dress?”
Mitchell laughed. “Whisky guy. He’d like that. And Riley would like the bombshell descriptor. And speaking of bombshells, can I just say, from behind the safety of my wedding ring and happy marriage…wow. Mollie is…that dress is something.”
Jackson felt a rush of masculine possession as his eyes skimmed over Mollie. The dress managed to be both sinful and classy at the same time. When she’d emerged from her bedroom, he’d told her she looked beautiful, and he’d meant it. But then he’d seen the back of the dress and had dragged her back into the bedroom to do some exploring under the dress.
“You want to talk about it?”
Jackson looked at the other man more carefully. Most people didn’t ask if he wanted to talk; they just started talking.
But there was a quiet shrewdness about Mitchell that made Jackson wonder if the other man hadn’t sought him out for exactly this purpose—if he’d had the sense that Jackson wanted the option to talk, but not be cajoled into it the way he often was with the other guys.
Just what he didn’t need: another man who could become a friend. A friend who would make it that much harder to leave New York when the time came.
