Brayden

Molly is always gorgeous, but I think the lounging, pre-bedtime Molly might be the hardest to resist.

She’s sitting on my couch with a book. She’s still wearing that ridiculous Jackson Brews brothers T-shirt and those black yoga pants that hug the curve of her ass, and her blond hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head. After four days here, she’s finally getting comfortable. The first three nights, she asked for permission before turning on the TV or sitting in the living room with a book—always so worried she was going to disturb me. But tonight, after she put Noah down, she grabbed her book and sprawled out on the leather sofa in the family room, her legs stretched out before her, her feet bare.

Dinner was a success, but more importantly, Molly actually sat down and let Noah and me prepare it for her. She insisted on helping with cleanup afterward, but at least I got her to let me make the meal. With the exception of the thirty minutes she relaxes with a book or a TV show at the end of the day, she’s always going, and I considered it a personal victory to get her to sit down before dinner.

She lifts her gaze from her book and narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because you’re stunning. “Like what?”

She frowns and puts her book down. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

I don’t try to pretend I wasn’t staring. Why bother? When she’s close, I can’t help but look. “I’m just wondering how you do it all. Supermom, employee of the year, life of the party—you’re everything to everyone.”

She snorts. “Trust me, I fail often. But I’m holding you to the employee-of-the-year thing.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve already ordered the trophy.”

“Ha! I’m sure you have. Too bad I won’t be around to see it.”

I frown. “I thought we got past that. Still planning on leaving me?” My voice cracks a little on the me, and I feel exposed. Don’t go. Jesus, please don’t go.

“No, not that.” She rolls her head to the side and rubs her shoulder. “I won’t be around because you and your brothers are trying to kill me with those stupid workouts.”

“Sore?”

Closing her eyes, she nods. “So sore.”

“I was going to soak in the hot tub tonight.” I hold her gaze. “You could join me.”

“My swimsuits are in storage.”

I arch a brow. “Who said you needed a suit?”

It’s too fun—watching the pink flush of her cheeks, her mouth opening and closing for a beat before she remembers her tough act and lifts her chin. “We’re not climbing into that hot tub together naked.”

I might have been offended by the chill in her voice if I didn’t see the heat flicker in her eyes. The same flicker I saw when I told her I had every intention of thinking about her and her collection of pink vibrators. “Shay has a bikini in the laundry room. I’m sure she’d be happy to let you borrow it.”

I leave it at that and head to my bedroom to dig up my swim trunks. We have a privacy fence in the backyard, and the hot tub is right off the back door, so I only bother with the trunks when I have company. Maybe she’ll join me or maybe she won’t, but I won’t press the issue. I think we both know I want her out here for reasons beyond her sore muscles.

I throw on a robe and head out toward the back patio. I’m tempted to grab a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses on my way, but that would be more likely to scare her off than relax her, so I resist the urge. I adjust the lights at the back of the house, flipping off the bright patio lights and turning on the string of lanterns strung from one lamppost to another along the patio’s edge.

The night air is cold, but not bitter or too windy. My favorite weather for a soak.

I pull off the cover and turn on the jets before climbing in and taking a seat in the back corner. I close my eyes to stop myself from watching the back door—to stop myself from willing her to appear—and lean my head back as the water eddies around me, the jets at my back working into my own sore muscles.

Ethan’s right about the catch-22 of my situation. I wish Molly didn’t work for me so she’d be willing to give me a chance, but if she didn’t work for me, I might never see her, and not having Molly in my life at all is far worse than having to settle for boss and friend.

“It’s freezing out here.” Molly dances around on the cold concrete, a towel wrapped around her breasts.

I bite back a smile. “Then get in already.”

She starts to remove the towel, then freezes. “Close your eyes first.”

“You didn’t find a suit?” I swallow hard and remind myself I’m perfectly capable of sitting here with a beautiful, naked woman without trying to touch her.

“I did, but Shay is . . . smaller than me, and it doesn’t fit right.”

My lips quirk. “Sounds promising.”

“Shut up and close your eyes until I get into the water.”

“As you wish.” I let my lids float closed, but all of my other senses kick into overdrive. The water swishes around me, rising slightly as she sinks into the tub.

“You can open them now.”

I obey and study her in the soft lantern light. She’s right. The suit doesn’t fit her. She and Shay might be a similar size on the bottom, but Molly has more curves than my sister, and while the scrap of bikini top covers the most private bits of her breasts, it doesn’t do much to contain them. I grin. “I think it fits just fine.”

“Men,” she mutters, spine straight.

I laugh, grateful things are easy between us again. I’m lucky she didn’t stay angry with me after overhearing my conversation with Ethan. After I said she was broken. I realize how it must have sounded to her. How the word must have made her feel. Broken.

But, hell, aren’t we all?

She squeezes the back of her neck with a soft moan that whips heat through my blood. “I’m skipping the gym tomorrow, but tell Carter it’s because his workouts are too easy for me.”

I chuckle. She’s impressed the shit out of me with the way she’s taken on the workouts my brothers put together. She’s tough and more competitive than she’ll admit. “I’ll happily lie about your absence if it makes you feel better. Of course, he’ll see right through me.”

“Of course.” Sighing, she sinks into the water and tilts her face toward the winter night sky. She arches her back and stretches those long legs out. Her feet brush mine, and she squeaks and pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Afraid I might be poisonous?”

“No. I . . .”

I lean forward in the water and reach out until my hands come into contact with her foot. She doesn’t say anything but watches me cautiously as I pull it into my lap and dig my thumbs into the arch.

She gasps, then moans—a long, low sound that reminds me I should be careful of exactly where I position her foot if I don’t want to come across as a creep.

Molly

I close my eyes and let Brayden rub my feet. A tiny part of me screams that this is too intimate, that letting Brayden touch me in any way is a slippery slope that could easily lead me back to his bed. The rest of me tells that little part to shut up and enjoy his strong hands.

He finishes one foot then takes the other into his lap and gives it the same treatment. Maybe I should be embarrassed about the moan that slips out, but every muscle in my body is sore, and I don’t care how I sound.

“If you want to come here, I can rub your shoulders,” Brayden says, releasing my foot.

A shudder moves through my body at the silky promise in those words. Does he want me to sit on his lap, or . . . ?

He must see the hesitation in my eyes, because he smiles. “Just sit beside me.” He drags a hand through his hair, and when he pulls away, it sticks up in two different directions. I like him like this. A little mussed. A little off his game. He’s always so put together, and I’m realizing how much I like at-home Brayden. The only problem is trying to remember he’s still my boss. Still off-limits.

“Do you give all your employees back rubs?” I ask as I scoot around to his side of the hot tub to sit beside him. I angle my body so my back is to him, but I hate that I can’t see his face.

“Only my favorites,” he murmurs.

I close my eyes the second he touches my shoulders. The heat of his calloused hands lights my nerve endings on fire and reminds me of our night together. His hands skimming over my breasts, my hips, gripping my waist as I straddled him.

I can’t regret that night, and I suddenly wish he knew that. Wish he knew that it’s one of my favorite memories.

His touch is soft at first, and I wonder if his thoughts have gone in the same direction as mine. He lightly kneads the tight muscles under my skin before moving to my neck to do the same. I roll my head to the side as he rubs the muscles along the ridge between my neck and shoulder and digs a little deeper there. His touch takes away my tension while wrapping my mind in the memory of his mouth, his whispers against my skin. Thoughts of that night send a buzz through me every time I let them surface, but now, with him touching me like this—kneading my muscles and reminding me of the strength of his hands, the skill of his mouth—I know I’d let him take me to bed if he asked.

I hear the moan before I realize it’s mine, and Brayden chuckles, as if he understands what my memories are doing to me—what his touch is doing to me.

“I need to schedule a massage,” I say softly. If he doesn’t believe the sounds coming from deep in my throat can be blamed on my tight muscles alone, he doesn’t call me on it.

“How often do you do that?” he asks. “Go for massages?”

It’s a luxury I’ve only allowed myself when it’s been gifted from a friend. “Maybe once a year if I’m lucky?”

His thumbs dance along my spine before pressing into the muscles on either side. “You need one.”

I groan. “Maybe I’ll treat myself with my Christmas bonus.” The words come out as a husky whisper, because sweet baby Jesus, his hands.

“Why do I feel like you’ve already conspired with Santa Claus to spend said bonus on Noah?”

My laughter is hollow, and I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all. I’d do the same.” He squeezes my shoulder. “If you want, we can go inside and I can work on you a little more.” My eyes narrow, and his lips twitch. “Just a massage between friends, Molly. No expectations.”

But I want more than that. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though I’ve promised myself I won’t.

Swallowing, I nod, sliding away from his touch and climbing out of the hot tub, all too aware of the skimpy fit of Shay’s bikini on my breasts and his eyes on me as I reach for my towel. Do I go to his room or mine? Maybe just the couch?

The questions swirling in my head make me hot enough that I almost don’t notice the winter air nipping at my wet skin.

He seems to see the question on my face. “Go to my room,” he says gruffly. “The bed’s higher and will make it easier to work on you.”

I turn so I can see his face. “Are you sure about this?”

“I used to date a woman who was a massage therapist. She taught me a few things.” His expression is unreadable. “It’s up to you. No pressure.”

I swallow. Hard. My body is practically begging me to climb in his bed. For the massage he’s offering. And for more.

I drew the line between us. He’s my boss. We’re friends. And now . . . roommates. Are we crossing that line if I let him rub my back?

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

I wish things were different. I wish I were different. “I’m thinking you’re right about my Christmas bonus, so I hope your girlfriend was a good teacher.” I grin, totally casual, not at all turned on by what’s about to happen. “I’ll meet you inside.”

I tuck my towel around myself and race into the house and up to my room. I’m sure he doesn’t want me on his bed in a wet bikini, so I dry off and put on a thin tank and a pair of shorts—modest enough but not too much to get in the way.

When I get back down to his room, he’s shirtless and in a pair of flannel sleep pants. His bedside lamp is on, and he waves me toward the massive four-poster bed. “It’s not as ideal as a massage table, but I think I can make it work.”

Dear Girly Bits: I’m going to lie down in Brayden Jackson’s bed and let him put his hands on me. Do not get any ideas. This isn’t for you.

I lick my lips then stare at him, the bed, then him again.

He cocks his head. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

It makes me hot. It makes me want things. “I feel a little selfish, I guess.” I shrug, as if it’s nothing. “Maybe you can teach me, and I can massage you next. Quid pro quo, or whatever.”

He grimaces at my word choice. “It’s just a massage, Molly. If you want it.”

Just a massage. Just his hands on my body for the first time in seven months. Just the very thing I fantasize about on a nightly basis.

I climb onto his bed and lie on my stomach, closing my eyes. I’ve been sore all week—not just from working out with the Jackson boys but from putting in too many hours at the banquet center. I know this will help. What I don’t know is whether I’m letting him do it because I want relief from my sore muscles or because I’m so desperate for his touch.

He runs his hands lightly down my back, over my tank, moving up and back down and adding pressure with each pass.

“Tell me about your masseuse ex,” I say. Maybe if we talk about a woman from his past, my brain will remember that this touching—this delicious, perfect touching—is platonic.

He scoffs. “Don’t let her hear you call her that.”

“Call her what? Your ex?”

“No, masseuse. She hated that word. Said it’s too associated with people who give happy endings. She had an athletic training degree and preferred the term massage therapist.”

“Oh, wait.” I turn my head to look at him and put on my best innocent mask. “Does that mean I shouldn’t count on a happy ending to go with this massage?”

His grin is damn near lecherous, and his gaze sweeps down my body, leaving little chills of pleasure in its wake. He crouches beside the bed until our faces are level and his mouth is inches from mine. “Struggling with some tension in other places, Molly?”

So much tension. My breasts are full and aching, my nipples too tight and sensitive against the mattress. I should look away from those dark, seductive eyes, but I don’t.

He holds my gaze as he rubs the tight band of muscles at the small of my back, right above my waistband. “Do you need me to use some of your pink tools to help me reach those deeper muscles?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice is husky.

He takes my hand and strokes my fingers one at a time without taking his eyes from mine. His fingers toy with the web of skin between my thumb and index finger. Lightly. So lightly that the touch reminds me of what those skilled fingers can do between my legs. I don’t care about the secret box at the back of my closet. All I need are those hands. “You set some pretty clear boundaries between us, and I’m not about to violate those. But if you change your mind and want to adjust the rules because you need something more from me . . .” His fingertips slide over my palm, and I swear I feel it between my legs. “Just say the word, and I’d be happy to help you out. With or without your collection of toys.”

He stands and returns to the muscles on my back, as if nothing has happened. As if he hasn’t just offered to get me off. I close my eyes and try to ignore the pulsing ache between my legs, try to ignore the devil on my shoulder who’s telling me to roll over and drag him down on top of me.

Could I take him up on his offer without ruining everything? Does he mean it? Or is he just teasing me? No matter how much I want him, I need to think this through.

We’re quiet for a long time, him working my muscles into putty and me willing my body to calm. “You didn’t tell me about the massage therapist girlfriend,” I say, if only to make myself think about something else.

He swallows loud enough that I can hear it, and I wonder if he’s struggling to get hold of his thoughts too. “We met at Jackson Brews back when the bar was still a hole in the wall and Dad was running everything. She was here for law school, and we dated for a couple of years.” His tone says it’s no big deal, but there’s something beneath the words that makes me think she was more than just a casual girlfriend.

“What happened?”

His hands move to my calves, and I nearly fly off the bed when he presses into a particularly tender spot. “Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing over it with a whisper-soft touch. “She left.”

“You were in love with her.” I squeeze my eyes shut at the tug of jealousy those words bring. To be loved by Brayden Jackson. I wonder if she had any idea how lucky she was.

“I wouldn’t have been with her so long if I didn’t love her.”

“She’s an idiot if she walked away from you.”

He stills, then starts working on my other calf, his thumbs melting away the knots and tension. “Thank you.” I hear it in those words—vulnerability, old hurt I never suspected.

I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about her anymore, so I let it go. I relax into his skilled touch and eventually find myself drifting off to sleep.

I don’t wake up until my phone alarm beeps at me from the bedside table. I’m still in Brayden’s bed, the covers pulled over me. I turn off my alarm. Brayden must have brought my phone in after I fell asleep, but why not wake me up? Why give me his bed?

I pull myself out of bed and go to the kitchen to find a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a note from Brayden.

Hope you slept well and are a little less sore this morning. I’ll let Carter know you’re a total badass and went in search of a better workout this morning. I’ll see you at the office.

-B

He undoubtedly spent his night in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but surely he would have slept better in his own bed.

As my fingers skim over the blocky letters on his note, I realize part of that steely will I’ve cultivated to resist my boss has already melted away.