chapter 13
Jaxon
I LICK MY LIPS, WHICH are suddenly dry, and shift in my seat. It’s hot in here, so I open my window a little, letting some fresh air in. The car is filled with tension, the air so thick that the open window isn’t even helping. She’s quiet, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I want to look over at her but force myself to concentrate on the road as I try and sort my thoughts out.
It’s too soon.
Scarlett and I shouldn’t be anything other than friends. I shouldn’t be thinking about her the way I am—she needs more time; we need more time before we become anything more.
I want to touch her, but I can’t.
I won’t.
I don’t know how everything changed the second we won the case, but it’s like a switch flipped. The excuse I’d been using in my mind is now gone, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other issues at hand here. Scarlett has just been given her freedom after being in an abusive relationship, and then accused of murder—I don’t think one comes out of that unscathed. I don’t know what she wants, or if she even knows what she wants, and I don’t want to get attached to her if she’s just going to leave. It’s too early to even have that conversation though, so I don’t know what I’m meant to do. I also don’t want her to look at me like I’m her hero and that be the reason she wants me. In a way I feel like I’m almost preying on her. She’s so vulnerable and I don’t want to take advantage of her or her situation. But I like her. I don’t know what it is, but I like being around her, and I want to get to know her better, away from all of this mess.
I want to kiss her, taste those juicy, pouty lips but I’m not going to, at least not tonight. Too much has happened today, and I never want her to feel obligated to me or regret anything that’s happened between us.
I’m a patient man; I can wait until she’s ready, or until she knows what she wants.
I just want to get to know her and let her get to know me. For now, that’s all I can offer, and I think it’s all she’s ready for.
“Should we stop at the store for groceries?” I ask her.
“I think I have everything,” she says, looking like she’s mentally ticking things off a list in her head. “We should be good. Unless you want a particular wine or something?”
“I’m good,” I tell her, absently bringing my hand to her thigh.
I remove it the second I realize what I’ve done, and I hear the intake of her breath. Not in a bad way, more like a soft gasp of pleasure.
Why did I do that? Friends don’t do that. They don’t do casual thigh touches. It was so natural though, and I don’t know where it came from. What is she doing to me? She’s making me fucking crazy.
I clear my throat, and say, “Maybe another night this week you’ll let me cook for you.”
“Let me guess, the menu will be something ‘manly’?” she asks, flashing me a side look, and then laughing to herself.
I love the sound of it, I could listen to her laughing all day.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” I grumble, turning onto the road to her house. “I’ll whip something up, just don’t judge my cooking against yours.”
“So no cook-offs then?” she teases, and I can feel her staring at my profile. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you.”
“If we’re having a cook-off, I’m going to need some notice so I can practice first.”
So I can actually learn a recipe, for starters. Maybe I’ll call Mom up and see if she can tell me how to make one of her many delicious dishes. I can just see how that conversation will go, and the million questions I’ll be asked.
“Shape of You,” by Ed Sheeran is playing on the radio, and I notice her mouthing the words to the chorus.
If only she knew how I felt about her body.
And the things I want to do to it.
“CAN I HELP YOU do anything?” I ask from behind her as she fixes our dinner. “Chop the vegetables or something?”
“No,” she answers, turning to face me. “I’ve got it under control. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m good,” I say, closing the space between us and placing my hand on her hip. Her breath hitches at the bold contact, and she looks down at my hand before raising those hazel eyes to mine. “Are you sure I can’t help in any way?”
“You’re already helping,” she answers, and I know we’re no longer talking about the food. “I can’t believe how today went . . . and now you’re here.”
“Why didn’t you trust that I’d keep you out of prison?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “You know I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”
“I know,” she replies, licking her lips. “Which is why I kept thanking you today.”
“I told you that you don’t need to thank me. I did my job. I just happen to do it very well,” I say, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She always has one errant lock that falls on her cheek, and I love using it as an excuse to touch her. Her hair is so soft and silky, I want to bury my face in it to smell it, and tangle my hands in it. I want to explore every inch of her, but I know that I need to go slow. Rushing into things won’t keep her around—I know that. I don’t know what I’m doing, if I’m being honest, but I want to try to make all the right moves here. There’s no fucking map for this though, so I just need to go with my gut.
“If that’s the story you’re going to stick to,” she cheekily replies, arching her brow at me. “I hope you like chicken.”
“I love chicken.”
I think I’d love anything she cooks. I’m not a fussy eater, so there’s not much I wouldn’t like. Who am I kidding? I’m just happy to be around her.
“Good,” she says, turning back to the stove, my hand dropping from her waist. “Now go sit down and let me do my thing.”
I feel my lip twitch as I move back against the counter. I like when she shows her attitude, the one I know she taught herself to hide. The more it comes out, the more I know she’s being her true self and not trying to be someone Darren wanted her to be. The first time I met her I thought she came off a little cold and impersonal.
Olivia came off that way too, but I knew her, that her heart was pure gold and that she wasn’t cold at all. Never once did I think that she was being abused.
Never.
And even though the asshole who did that to my sister is now behind bars for domestic abuse, I will never forgive myself for not noticing the signs. For not being there for her, or making an effort to see her more. I was always too preoccupied with work. If I had been around, perhaps then I would’ve seen something and I could have saved her.
Why didn’t she come to me?
I’ll never get the answer to that.
And it kills me.
The what-ifs kill me every damn day.
“What are you thinking about?” Scarlett asks me. I didn’t even notice her move closer.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, which is my default answer to anyone who asks me that question.
She nods, studying me. “Are you always so closed off?”
“Are you?” I fire back at her.
“I’m learning not to be,” she answers with pure honesty. “But it’s hard, you know? It’s a little scary to put yourself out there and trust people.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “And it’s even scarier to be vulnerable, or give someone the power to hurt you.”
“I know what you mean,” I tell her. “I hope the next man you trust deserves it.”
“That’s a nice thing to say,” she murmurs, stepping forward. This time when her lock of hair escapes she tucks it back herself. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m making a lot of food.”
“I’m starving.”
And for more than just food.
I’m hungry for her.