Molly

Seven months later . . .

Top Three Reasons Not to Sleep with Your Boss:

Reason 1: Because no matter how good he looks in his business suit, you will always—always—be thinking about how good he looked sprawled out in the middle of that massive bed in his fancy hotel, one strong leg tangled in the sheets, his hot eyes never leaving you as you unhooked your bra.

Reason 2: When he’s all serious about business and gets that intense look in his eyes, you’ll imagine he’s recounting that ill-advised night or brooding about how much he wants you. In reality, you killed that opportunity the minute you snuck out of his hotel room, and drove another nail into the coffin of your would-be affair when, in a desperate attempt to keep him at a distance, you accused him of only hiring you to get you in bed. Real smooth.

Reason 3 (as if there needs to be another): You’re around him a lot, and though you’re absolutely strong enough to resist the intense pull of sexual attraction, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to resist him. The way he values family above everything else. The way he rarely smiles, but when he does, it lights up his face first, then the whole damn room. The way he treats your little boy as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. The way he makes you want things you believed you were okay with never having.

“Are you even listening to me?” Brayden asks, but I’m so hung up on Reason 1 and memories of his tanned skin against white sheets that I’m really not listening. At all.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and nod, digging through my mind to recall what made him approach my table at the back of Jackson Brews. “You don’t like the shirts,” I say, but I’m still so sucked in by the memory of his mouth on my neck that the words come out like a purr.

Brayden frowns. “You’re not in trouble, Molly.”

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it and more than a little grateful that he mistook my turned-on voice for insecurity. Reluctantly, I pull my gaze off Brayden and to the new Jackson Brews shirts on display at the far end of the bar—or what’s left of them. They’ve been selling fast. “Levi approved them.”

“Why did I think it was a good idea to let him do the marketing?” He glances around the bar, his eyes landing on each of the half-dozen staff members in their brand-new T-shirts. The Jackson Brews logo is on the front, and on the back, the new tagline my friends and I came up with while drinking on our last girls’ night.

Jackson Brews

The bar. The beer. And . . . oh, Lord . . . the BROTHERS.

Levi thought it was hilarious. Jake just smirked and shrugged. Ethan rolled his eyes, and Carter grinned and gave me a little once-over that seemed to say, “You know it.” I didn’t think Brayden would love the design, but he tends to stay out of it when he disagrees with my executive decisions. Not this time.

“How do you think that shirt is going to make Nic and Ava feel?” he asks.

I snort. It’s almost adorable that he thinks his brothers’ significant others wouldn’t like the shirts. As if they aren’t proud as fuck of their hot Jackson men. “Who do you think helped me come up with the idea? They claimed the first shirts. Even Ellie got one.” Ellie, who’s currently not with Levi Jackson but is clearly in love with him. We all know they’ll be back together for good any day now.

Brayden scowls. “You’re kidding me.”

I laugh. “It’ll be okay.” Then I make a rookie mistake—I reach out and squeeze his arm.

Christ. His biceps bunch beneath my hand. My life would be so much easier if this man weren’t so dedicated to his morning workouts. It’s just not fair. He runs a brewery, for heaven’s sake.

When I worked for Brayden as his northeast territory sales manager, I put on ten pounds in the first two months. Everyone thinks it’s the coolest job in the world—working for a growing craft brewery—but the reality is driving around to bars, drinking beer, and subsisting on greasy bar food while you try to get buyers to put Jackson Brews beer on their tap lists.

Somehow the Jackson brothers defy all odds. I think they have a genetic mutation that transforms beer into muscle mass. It’s the only explanation.

Brayden should be soft and have a beer belly that hangs over the waistband of his pants. Instead, he’s all hard lines and corded muscle. The only soft thing about Brayden is the look in his eyes when he talks about his family. And his face, the night we slept together.

A shiver races down my spine at the memory of dark eyes fixed on mine, hands stroking my curves with reverence, and his body, hot and attentive as he moved over me.

I bite back a moan. This is why you don’t sleep with your boss.

“Is everything set for the Yuseki luncheon Thursday?”

I nod and pull my hand away. I should probably enforce a don’t touch the boss rule. “Yep. Everything’s good to go.”

“Staffing’s covered? The food’s ordered? The hiccup with the linens is all resolved, and you’ve confirmed the headcount?”

I fold my arms. “I’m trying not to be insulted.”

He rolls his shoulders back and exhales slowly. “Sorry. Old habits.”

“You hired me so I could do this. Not so you could have another pile of tasks on your plate.”

“I know. And I trust you.”

“Then act like it,” I say, my tone gentle. Giving up control doesn’t come naturally to him, and despite what I said, I don’t take it personally. His family’s always giving him a hard time about how much trouble he has letting go, and he’s nagged Levi as much about the taproom grand opening as he’s nagged me about the banquet center. Hell, Levi probably has it way worse as the little brother.

From the moment I interviewed to work for Jackson Brews last spring, I’ve noticed how Brayden’s siblings are always trying to get him to delegate more. His impulse to micromanage wasn’t all that noticeable when I was working as a sales manager eight hundred miles away, but up close and personal, it’s impossible to miss.

“You’re as territorial with your business as Noah is with his Pokémon cards,” I say.

Brayden’s eyes warm at the mention of my son. “Where is the little rascal tonight?”

“Mom wanted to take him to the movies.” Which means I have a kid-free night off work—a once-rare occasion that has become more commonplace now that I live in the same town as my mother. I put in another ten-hour day at the banquet center today, so I have every intention of using my free evening to drink a very tall beer and gorge myself on Jake Jackson’s fried delicacies.

“How’s everything working out with Veronica?”

I grin at the mention of my son’s nanny, a woman with a newborn son of her own. “Noah loves her so much. And baby Jackson . . .” I shake my head. “Noah’s newest mission is to convince me he needs a little brother of his own.”

Brayden’s brows shoot up into his hairline.

I roll my eyes. “Relax. This uterus is closed for business.”

Of course, Brayden’s brother Jake chooses that exact moment to appear at my table with my beer and food. His gaze shifts back and forth between me and his brother. “Is there a reason the two of you are discussing Molly’s uterus?”

“Noah wants a baby brother.” I snag the plate of fried goat cheese from his hands, unwilling to wait another minute for those sinful bits of honey-coated heaven. “It’s not happening.” I pop a piece into my mouth and moan. “How do you make these so damn good? Did you sell your soul to the devil, or what?”

Jake sighs. “Do you really want to know my secret to good food?”

“Here we go.” Brayden groans, crossing his arms.

“No, seriously,” Jake says.

I tilt my head to the side, considering the cost of this information. “Why do I feel like Eve being offered an apple?”

Jake wags a finger at me. “I don’t try to make food low-fat or low-carb or low-sodium or low-anything. I just make food with fresh ingredients and let it be what it’ll be.”

“I’m proof of the consequences of that attitude.” I frown down at my black skirt. Half of my other skirts don’t fit, and this one has become my new favorite, since it’s stretchy enough to make room for the added pounds. “At this point, I either have to give up bar food or buy a new wardrobe. And since I have a pathetic bank balance and expensive tastes”—I pop another piece into my mouth and close my eyes—“my diet starts tomorrow.”

Jake gives me a hard look. “Listen, I know better than to tell a woman she doesn’t need to lose weight—losing battle. But do me a favor and don’t let Ava hear you talking about dieting, okay?”

I frown. Ava is Jake’s wife and my stepsister. She’s tiny and perfect and currently has the world’s most adorable baby bump. The last thing she needs to worry about is her weight. “Why not?”

Jake shakes his head. “She’s feeling frumpy. It doesn’t help that one of the teenagers at the theater told her she was carrying the baby ‘in her thighs.’”

I flinch. “Ouch.”

Brayden scowls at his brother. “You don’t actually let her believe that shit, do you?”

“Let her? As if I can control what she thinks?” Jake shakes his head. “Don’t give me that look, Brayden. I tell my wife how beautiful she is every day, but apparently my opinion doesn’t count.” His huff expresses just how disgusted he is by that.

I bite back a laugh, and a super-awkward snort slips out. “Boys are so cute and clueless.”

“Everything going okay with her otherwise, though? The baby’s good?” Brayden asks.

Jake beams. “Regardless of what Ava seems to think about the way her body is changing, everything is going beautifully.”

“Molly, there you are!”

Jake, Brayden, and I all turn to see the front door swing closed behind my landlord, Tom Eckles. He makes a beeline to my table, tracking snow in with every step.

“I was hoping I’d catch you here,” Tom says. He drags a hand through his snow-speckled dark hair.

“I’d better get back to the bar,” Jake says with a curt nod to Tom. I can tell by the change in his expression that he doesn’t like my landlord. Join the club.

My gaze locks on Brayden in hopes that he might hear my silent plea not to leave me alone. It must work, because Brayden takes a seat in the booth across from me. “Hey, Tom,” I say, wariness making my voice thin. “What’s going on?”

Tom seemed like a nice enough guy when he coached the girls’ volleyball team in high school. And he seemed like a nice enough guy when he agreed to rent me his late grandmother’s tiny two-bedroom cottage on the west side of town. I wish I could say he seemed like a nice guy last week when he made a pass at me and I declined, but nice guys don’t grab your ass and then call you an uppity bitch when you tell them to back off.

“Hey, Brayden,” Tom says. “I just needed to talk to Molly for a minute.”

Brayden lifts his chin, showing no sign of moving from his spot, thank God. “Hey, Tom. Talk away.”

Tom pulls off his leather jacket and slings it over his arm as he shifts his attention back to me. “Hey, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m gonna need you and Noah out by the end of the week.”

I blink at him, sure that I’ve heard him wrong. He didn’t just say—

“You’re evicting her with a week’s notice?” Brayden says.

Tom makes a face. “Not an eviction, exactly. I just need her to move. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. But my niece is moving back to town next Monday, and she needs a place to stay.”

“But you said . . .” He gave me a deal on renting his grandmother’s house and said Noah and I could stay there as long as we wanted. He even acted like he was doing me a big favor by not “locking me into a contract,” made me believe I wouldn’t need one anyway because “any day now” his siblings were going to come around to selling the house to me.

“Sonofabitch,” Brayden mutters. “Where are they supposed to go?”

Tom lifts his palms, but I see the way he instinctively backs away from Brayden. “My niece is pregnant, and my sister wants to see her settled before Christmas. The dad’s not around, and we’re just trying to help a young girl out.” He shifts his gaze to me. “You understand, I’m sure.”

I understand because I’m a single mom, or . . . ? “I need more than a week.”

There’s something cruel in his gaze as it tracks over me slowly before coming back up to meet mine. I see the residual anger in his eyes. Uppity bitch. “I wish things could have worked out differently.”

He wishes I would have let him grope me when he tried to turn an awkward hug I didn’t want into an investigation of my ass. He wishes I’d spread my legs for him. He felt so entitled to what I didn’t give that now he’s fucking me over to punish me for it.

“I hope I can count on you to leave the place as nice as it was when you moved in,” he says.

I wrap my fingers around my glass and take a long swallow of beer to keep myself from chucking the contents in his face. He knows how much I’ve done to that house in the three short months I’ve been there. He knows I’ve used my free time to tear down old wallpaper and paint, to pull up the ratty old carpet and reveal the original hardwood floors waiting beneath. He’d dropped hints that it would all be in my favor in the end, and that it was only a matter of time before his siblings felt emotionally ready to let go of their grandmother’s home. Any work I put into it would be well worth it when his brothers and sisters finally agreed to sell to me.

I’m such an idiot.

“You’re a real sonofabitch, Tom,” Brayden mutters.

Tom’s gaze slides between Brayden and me, and his expression slowly transforms into a smirk. “Oh, I get it.” He waggles a finger between us. “I see how you got your job, Molly. Typical.”

The blow strikes as hard as he intended it to, but I hide my flinch. “Jealous?”

“Get the fuck out of my bar,” Brayden growls, and I wonder if Tom notices the way Brayden’s hands have curled into fists.

He sneers at Brayden and shrugs back into his coat. “Word of warning? I’d be sure to wrap it if I were you.”

Tom turns toward the door, and Brayden lunges out of the booth, but I grab his arm and squeeze. “Don’t.”

His muscles bunch under my hand, but he doesn’t take another step, thank God. I don’t need Brayden fighting my battles. I knew what I was getting into when I moved back to Jackson Harbor—knew that a reputation like mine isn’t one you get to escape just because it’s been eight years.

Only when Tom is out the door does Brayden turn to me. He studies my face for a beat before sliding into the booth across from me. “What are you going to do?”

I shake my head. Three weeks to Christmas, and he’s kicking us out. Noah was so excited to be in a house for Christmas—one with a fireplace and chimney so Santa could come in the “right way.” And I foolishly fed that excitement by telling him all the cool things we were going to do. Now I’ll have to break it to him that we’ll be spending the holiday in a hotel.

“The only thing I can do.” I push my food away, my appetite vanishing right alongside my plans for a relaxing evening. “I’m going to start packing . . . and find somewhere else to live.”

“I can’t believe he’s doing this. What a jackass.”

“It is what it is.” I swallow back the emotion threatening to break free. Don’t freak out. “But thank you for sticking around while he was here. It was nice to have . . .” A friend. I don’t say it aloud. I don’t know if Brayden considers me that at all. I’m his employee. I’m the woman he slept with once. I’m his sister-in-law’s stepsister. But friend? Maybe it’s strange that I could jump into bed with him so easily in New York, but the idea of calling him my “friend” makes me feel too vulnerable.

Typical Molly.

Maybe I haven’t changed as much in the last eight years as I’d like to think. Tom obviously didn’t think so, or he never would have tried to make a move on me.

“Anytime,” Brayden says.

I don’t like the way he’s studying my face—like he can see my thoughts and all the broken pieces I keep hidden under this pretty-girl façade. I lift my beer to my lips, but my stomach churns, and I put it down before taking a drink. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow?” I ask, more to change the subject than anything because, truthfully, it’s a stupid question. Brayden isn’t the kind of guy not to show up. Ever.

He nods. “I’ll be there.”

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I head to the bar, where I wave at Jake to indicate that I want to settle my tab.

“Molly?”

I turn to Brayden, who frowns at me.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

I close my eyes at the offer couched inside those words. He’ll help. His whole family will step up and help. That’s what the Jacksons do. He doesn’t owe me that. He doesn’t owe me anything. And yet . . .

“She doesn’t have to do what alone?” Jake asks, handing me my bill.

Brayden turns to his brother. “Molly’s landlord evicted her. He wants her out by the end of the week.”

“What an asshole,” Jake mutters.

Brayden nods in agreement, but I’m barely aware of them, too focused on imagining Noah’s face when I have to tell him our Christmas plans have changed. If my mom hadn’t just sold her house and moved into a small apartment, I could go stay with her.

The idea of sleeping in my stepfather’s house has bile rising in my throat. Maybe it’s a blessing that moving in with her isn’t an option, because I know I’d do it. If it meant giving Noah the Christmas morning he’s been dreaming of, I’d do it. Even if it meant facing demons I’ve spent the better part of a decade running from.