I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Because he was one of them. Or at least he was trying damn hard to be.

  Jackson slid a finger under the collar of his shirt and tugged. He didn’t care what his tailor said. The damn thing was too tight.

  He went for another sip only to freeze when he saw a pair of very nice legs out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head subtly to get a better look, and all traces of boredom vanished.

  A woman in a short red dress could do that to a man. Especially when the woman had the most perfect pair of legs he’d ever seen. Long—sinfully long—toned, smooth, golden skin . . .

  His eyes traveled up over the trim ankles in their sexy sandals, over the defined calves and toned thighs and narrow hips. The woman was tall and thin, bordering on lanky, which he didn’t usually go for, but it was working for her. In a big way.

  His gaze kept right on going, over the narrow waist, over the small but perky breasts, until he reached her face.

  Pretty. Very pretty. Her shoulder-length blond hair was sexy and tousled, her eyes big and blue. And that mouth . . .

  That mouth was smiling at him. No, smirking. At him.

  The woman had definitely caught him in the act of leering.

  Shit, he thought. Might as well roll with it.

  Jackson calmly lifted his drink to his lips as he met her eyes, only to experience a jolt as their gazes collided.

  No. Hell no.

  Jackson felt a punch of lust in his gut, followed by something else . . . something low and dangerous, not unlike an eerie siren trying to tell him that his complicated life was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Slowly the woman lowered herself to the barstool next to his. He watched in horrified arousal as she reached out, plucked his drink from his hand, and raised it to red, red lips, taking a deliberate sip.

  Only after she’d set the drink—his drink—back on the bar did she speak.

  “Hello, Jackson.”

  Damn, he thought. If he’d been in trouble before, he was completely fucked now.

  Jackson swallowed. “Mollie.”

  Chapter 3

  Jackson Burke was here.

  He was here.

  After nearly eight months of radio silence, he’d taken her up on her dinner invitation, and she felt . . .

  She felt . . .

  She felt . . .

  Mollie threw her arms around him before she could stop herself, her cheek buried against the fabric of his suit.

  “I missed you,” she said quietly.

  His hand came up to her elbow. Gave it an awkward pat as he cleared his throat. “Missed you too.”

  Mollie pulled back, and before she could think better of it, she placed both palms to his face, turning his head slightly from side to side so she could study him. She couldn’t help it. She’d always been a toucher—it was how she figured things out.

  And what she was trying to figure out was how Jackson Burke was. Not how he said he was. How he actually was.

  He looked handsome, but then he always did, in that rugged, sexy-as-hell way. His hair was that in-between place of dark blond and light brown that looked blah on women but which men could easily pull off, especially when paired with sexy hazel eyes and the perfect amount of stubble.

  And yet Mollie looked closer. Saw beneath the perfect bone structure and full bottom lip. She saw the tension around his mouth, the flat look in his eyes.

  It was worse than she’d feared. This was a shell of the man she’d once known.

  Damn you, Madison.

  He rolled his eyes at her scrutiny before gently pushing her away. “Quit inspecting me. My great-aunt Millie used to do that when she saw me once a year on Christmas, and then ask if I’d considered witch hazel for the pimples.”

  Mollie released his face. “She was probably right. The bark and leaves of Hamamelis virginiana make a powerful astringent that is thought to help acne.”

  Jackson let out a laugh. “Jesus. I haven’t seen you in eight months, and practically the first word out of your mouth is ‘acne’?”

  “You don’t have any, if it makes you feel better. Pimples, I mean. I’d tell you if you did.”

  “I know you would.” His eyes softened slightly as he smiled at her.

  “So are you going to tell me how you’ve been, or what?” she asked, slapping the bar with her palm a little impatiently.

  Jackson hesitated, licking a drop of whisky from his bottom lip with his tongue.

  Mollie’s stomach tightened a little, but she told herself that it hadn’t. It mostly worked—she’d gotten darn good at telling her body that it had absolutely no response to Jackson Burke.

  “How about we start with you?” he asked.

  “Nope,” she said, already shaking her head. “You know how I am. I’ve been emailing you at least once a week for months. You know about my job and my friends and that weirdo I dated, and—”

  “Anything you think you might have forgotten to mention?” he interrupted.

  Mollie frowned. “I don’t forget things.”

  He smiled. “Fine. Anything you might have neglected to mention?”

  Mollie tapped her nails across the bar as she thought it over. “You mean updates on Madison?”

  He flinched. “God, no. Why the hell would I want to hear about her?”

  Mollie felt a little stab of relief. She’d deliberately avoided any mention of her sister in her messages to Jackson. She couldn’t imagine that he’d want to know how Maddie was doing—not after the way their relationship had quietly imploded and then violently exploded.

  But for some reason, it was a relief to hear it all the same. She didn’t want to have to be the one to tell him that Madison was not only dating the guy she’d left Jackson for but had invited him to move into the house Jackson and Maddie had shared—the house that Jackson had bought.

  That was just what a divorced man didn’t need to hear. That not only had his former wife kicked him out, she’d replaced him with a guy who was neither younger, nor richer, nor more successful.

  Although Madison must think that her new fling had something to offer her. Madison didn’t do anything that didn’t benefit her directly.

  “Okay, I give up,” Mollie said with a little shrug. “What is it that I neglected to tell you?”

  His gaze flicked over her just briefly. “You look . . . different.”

  Mollie burst out laughing. “Jackson, no offense, but that’s the most constipated non-compliment I’ve ever heard.”

  “Shit. I mean you look good. Or something. Or . . .” He glanced at his half-empty cocktail. “I’m going to need another drink.”

  Mollie took pity on him and reached out to pat his arm. “Short version, I lost a bet to my best friend.”

  “Kim.”

  Mollie nodded. “Yup. We had a bet going over who would get the final rose on The Bachelor, and—”

  “Wait, do they show The Bachelor on Animal Planet?”

  She made a face, although she did like Animal Planet. “Anyway, I lost, so she got to give me a makeover. Blond highlights, overpriced mascara, new wardrobe, the whole bit.” Mollie shrugged. “Turns out I sort of like the new look.”

  Jackson put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, looking adorably nervous. “You looked fine—”

  Mollie rolled her eyes and interrupted him. “If you’re about to tell me that I looked fine before, I will punch you.”

  “You looked fine before.”

  She punched him on the arm, and he grinned, relaxing slightly. “You look great. Seriously. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  Now it was her turn to grin. “I know.”

  She couldn’t help the little thrill that gave her. Not that she wanted to be a stranger to him, but it had been fun. Fun to get a mini makeover. To imagine what it would have been like if this had been their first-ever meeting. Two single people meeting in a bar . . .

  Don’t go there, Mollie. You’re done with that.

  The bartender approached. “Miss, ca
n I get you something to drink?”

  “Champagne, please,” she said with a smile.

  When she glanced back at Jackson, his lips were tilted at the corners in amusement.

  “What?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  He shook his head. “Just remembering the first time you had champagne. You looked like it was the most magical thing you’d ever tasted. It was—”

  “At your wedding,” she said quietly. “I remember. Long time ago.”

  His smile disappeared. “Tell me about it.”

  They fell silent, and Mollie stifled a sigh at the damage her sister had done to a man who’d once let everything roll off him. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off . . .

  “Okay, enough about me and my discovery of lipstick,” she said, keeping her tone light. “How are you?”

  He took a sip of his drink and didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m good. I’m really good.”

  Acting on instinct before she could think better of it, Mollie reached out and touched the back of his hand. “Jackson. It’s me.”

  His gaze flew back to hers, his greenish eyes searching her face.

  She held her breath, hoping he’d find whatever it was that he was looking for. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly, before his eyes moved to where her fingers touched the back of his hand.

  Mollie wondered if she was making him uncomfortable, but decided she didn’t care. She was a toucher. A hugger. A feeler. Jackson Burke had best get used to it.

  “How are you?” she asked again, her voice softer.

  He blew out a long breath. “Honestly, Molls? Fucking miserable.”

  Her heart twisted in her chest at the raw honesty of his words, even as she silently celebrated that he was confiding in her.

  Mollie’s gaze drifted to his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not so much,” he said, staring straight ahead as he took a sip of his drink. “Not if I don’t move it much.”

  Not if I don’t play football was what he wasn’t saying, and Mollie’s heart squeezed again.

  A mere eight months ago, Jackson Burke had been the quarterback who not long before had led his team to one of the most-watched Super Bowls of all time. Jackson had been on his way to the first day of training camp when a car accident had changed everything. Mollie had seen pictures of Jackson’s truck. He’d been lucky to walk away.

  But she knew he wouldn’t see it that way. News that his right shoulder had taken the worst of the injury would have been an annoyance for most people. Perhaps even a sense of relief that it hadn’t been a neck or leg injury.

  But for a right-handed quarterback? A shoulder injury was crushing. Career ending.

  And just days after the accident, Madison had filed for divorce.

  Which hadn’t been a big surprise, at least to Mollie. The marriage had been in a downward spiral even before the tabloids started speculating about the affairs and the fighting and the separate bedrooms. The divorce had been a long time coming, but her sister’s timing had been cruel. Mollie couldn’t help wondering if Madison had done it on purpose—had waited until Jackson was at his absolute lowest before walking out on him.

  Mollie would never forget the stunned, stricken look when she’d gently set those divorce papers on Jackson’s lap as he lay there in the hospital bed, all bandaged and bruised.

  “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m really sorry,” she said now.

  He didn’t have to ask what she meant. “Don’t, Molls. It wasn’t your fault.”

  She held his gaze. “I hated that I had to be the one to do it.”

  “I don’t. I’d rather it have been you than anyone else.”

  “Yeah?” she said, taking a sip of her champagne as she glanced up at the ceiling. “That why you been dodging me for the past few months?”

  He didn’t respond and she glanced over, but his face was unreadable.

  “I shouldn’t have shut you out,” he said finally. “I just didn’t know how to talk to . . . anyone.”

  It wasn’t exactly an explanation, but Mollie sensed she wasn’t going to get one. Not today anyway. Whatever Jackson’s reasons for not communicating with her during the divorce proceedings, he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Forgiven,” she said with an easy smile that she hoped would lighten the mood. “And I can’t believe you’re in New York. I never thought I’d see the day. How’s the new job going?”

  Jackson grunted. “It’s a job.”

  “How the heck did that even come about? Oxford magazine, right? That’s big-time.” She wasn’t just blowing smoke—Oxford was the leading men’s magazine in the country. A guy could do a lot worse for a backup career.

  He rolled his eyes but answered her question in his gruff Texas drawl. “It’s not really that much of a stretch. I was a journalism major in college. Wanted to go into sports reporting if the football thing didn’t work out. And, well, the football thing didn’t work out.” Jackson’s tone was joking, but his eyes were flat.

  “So you’re their sports guy?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. They filled that role just a few months before the accident.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Yeah, but you’re Jackson Burke.”

  He snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything anymore. And actually, the sports duo is pretty decent.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Fitness editor.”

  “Well, that sounds like a terrible fit,” Mollie said wryly, giving his impeccable physique an obvious once-over. Jackson Burke was built like . . . well, a quarterback. He was six-three easily, with broad shoulders and drool-worthy biceps, all paired with an easy agility.

  At least he used to be agile, Mollie thought with a stab of regret.

  The worst of the car accident’s injuries had been to his shoulder, but something had messed up his hip as well. The first time she’d seen him on camera after the accident he’d been limping, just slightly, and while she knew most people had seen only the resolute set of his jaw signaling that he would get better, she’d only been able to see the misery in his eyes.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked.

  “Hell no.”

  His bluntness made her laugh. “Careful. You’re talking about the city of my heart.”

  “Yeah, well, the city of your heart has too many damn pigeons. They’re everywhere.”

  “You can’t dislike a city because of the birds.”

  “Says the animal nerd.”

  “Well, at least you’re staying free of the rats and roaches,” she said. “What with your five-bedroom penthouse on Park Avenue.”

  He gave her a surprised look, and Mollie burst out laughing. “Oh my God. I was joking, but I hit it dead on, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s four bedrooms.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m having drinks with a man who lives in a penthouse on the Upper East Side.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She winced. “Ugh. Speaking of animals . . .”

  He held up a hand. “Gross. Explain.”

  Mollie blew out a breath. “Well . . . my place on the Lower East Side was fine when I was twenty-three and could barely afford a box of pasta. But I’ve been through a string of roommates ranging from awesome to annoying, and I think this latest one might break me.”

  “Messy?” he asked, knowing Mollie’s neat-freak ways.

  “That. And he—”

  “He?”

  “Yup. His name is Austin. Seemed nice enough at first, but failed to mention that he’s on a cabbage diet.”

  Jackson frowned. “That’s not a thing.”

  “I know. And get this. Pet tarantula. For real.”

  “But you like bugs.”

  Mollie gave him a withering look. “I don’t like bugs. I find them interesting. But not as pets. And besides, spiders aren’t—”

  “Are not insects, I know.”

  She patted his arm. “Impressive. But any
way, my place always smells like steamed cabbage, and I know that spider’s going to go missing someday soon. So I have to move, and I just . . . ugh. Moving in New York City is the worst.”

  “Where are you moving to?”

  “Whatever I can afford, I guess. I just hate the whole process. Finding a broker, and making sure your landlord’s not a weirdo, and—” She broke off as she realized whom she was dealing with. “You don’t know about any of this, do you, Mr. Millions?”

  His smile was apologetic. “I confess I bought directly from the developer of my building.”

  “You bought?” Mollie shook her head. “Of course you did. I’m having drinks with a man who can afford to buy a place in Manhattan. Hell, you can probably buy the whole city.”

  This was so not her world. Even with her new makeover and attempts to get out there into the dating world, her reality was a lot more petri dishes and lab coats than it was champagne and hot men in suits. This was more Madison’s world. Madison’s man.

  Except not anymore.

  “So how does one go about finding a new apartment in New York?” he asked.

  “Kim used to date a broker she said is pretty good. From there it’s figuring out what I can afford. After this latest roommate disaster, I’m hoping I can swing something on my own. Maybe a studio up near the university. It won’t be so bad, I guess. I’m due for a change.”

  He lifted his eyebrows and took another sip of his drink. “Aren’t you a bit young to be having the itch for a change?”

  Mollie rolled her eyes. “Perhaps, but I hear they have great nannies up in that area, so hopefully I can find someone to make sure the lid’s on my sippy cup nice and tight,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s just say I’ve been feeling old lately.”

  Mollie pivoted on her seat and glared at him. “Jackson Burke, do not pull that shit with me. You’re thirty-five years old. I’m willing to bet that every man in this bar wants to be you, and every woman wants to—”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and Mollie hesitated only slightly before she forced herself to finish the sentence. “Mate.”

  Jackson burst out laughing. “You still do that?”

  “Do what?”