I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Jackson glared at the door for a moment before reluctantly leaving it open. He highly doubted anyone would be dropping by, but maybe he’d get brownie points for trying.

  He settled behind his desk and was unlocking his computer when the sound of laughter from the office next door distracted him.

  It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. There was always laughter coming through the right wall of Jackson’s office. As far as he could tell, Lincoln Mathis ran a damn comedy club from his office.

  It was annoying enough with the door closed, but now that Jackson had to have the fucking door open, it was like nails on a chalkboard. He felt like the Grinch.

  It had been bad enough to have Cassidy call him a diva. But then Mollie and her big blue eyes had started looking at him like he was a grumpy old man whenever he snapped at her, like this whole mess was somehow his fault.

  Let it go, man.

  But he couldn’t.

  One of the few people he’d thought he could count on had believed the motherfucking tabloids instead of him. He knew what most of the world thought of him, and he didn’t give a shit. But he’d always figured that the people who mattered—his parents, his friends, Mollie—had known. Had believed in him.

  Damn it! Jackson’s hand swiped out and sent a pen cup hurling to the floor.

  He’d thought he had put the rage from his accident and its aftermath behind him, but it was crawling all over him again, leaving him with the distinct urge to punch something. To punch someone.

  Was he an asshole? Sure. He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d become one. It was right when a fucking Ford had T-boned him while he was giving his teammate’s wife a ride to practice, thus igniting a firestorm of speculation not only that Jackson’s career was over but also that Madison’s claims of his cheating were true.

  Only one of the rumors was true—that his career was over. Jackson had never cheated. Had never once thought about it, even when he and Madison had gone days without speaking.

  “To hell with this,” Jackson muttered to himself, plowing his fingers through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this.” He was sick of himself. Sick of the way his brain was on constant replay of everything that was wrong in his life. Sick of the way he woke up each morning hating the day to come and went to bed dreading the next one.

  He wasn’t depressed, or at least he didn’t think so. He was just . . . half alive. He had no fucking clue how to get back to the land of the living, but he did know one step he could take now in the right direction.

  Before he could change his mind, Jackson pushed back from his desk and strode to his office door, hesitating only briefly before entering the hallway and making the short trip to the office next to his.

  Lincoln Mathis’s door was closed, but judging from the raucous laughter, Jackson had a good idea that Lincoln’s closed door had more to do with trying to muffle the noise than it did with keeping people out.

  Jackson raised his hand to knock, then dropped his fist back to his side.

  What if they didn’t answer? What if it got all awkward the moment he stepped into the room? Jackson felt a bit like the nerdy kid on the playground who was about to ask the cool kids if he could play.

  He, Jackson Burke, the man who’d once been voted sexiest guy in America, the man who had six Super Bowl rings, the man whose stunning wife had spent three seasons on Housewives, was scared shitless of rejection.

  He lifted his hand once more and gave the door a firm rap before he could regret it.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again, louder, and this time the laughter inside faded to a trickle before stopping altogether.

  “Yeah? Come in.”

  Jackson’s hand found the doorknob, opening it just enough to stick his head in. It was noncommittal enough that he could back out if things got awkward.

  There were a handful of people in the room, but Jackson sought and found Lincoln first, since Jackson knew him best.

  “Burke, man, sorry,” Lincoln said from behind his desk, where his feet were propped up just inches from his keyboard. “We’ll keep it down.”

  Jackson frowned. “What?”

  Lincoln tilted his head in the direction of Jackson’s own office. “I was assuming this was a standard-issue noise complaint. The walls aren’t exactly soundproof, and Cole here laughs like a hyena.”

  Cole shot Lincoln the finger, but Jackson barely noticed. He was too busy trying to come to grips with the fact that Lincoln thought Jackson was coming by to complain about the noise. Hell, this was worse than he thought. He really was the grumpy old man.

  Fuck it. Might as well play along.

  Jackson pushed the door open all the way, then raised his fist and shook it. “Damn it, you kids, git off my lawn!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence before Penelope Pope let out a delighted giggle.

  “Um, guys,” Lincoln said, glancing around the room, “did Jackson Burke just make a joke?”

  “At least he’s talking to us,” Cole said as he pushed away from the filing cabinet.

  “Jesus, Cole,” Lincoln said. “Don’t do that weird sporty-hero-worship thing now. You’ll send him scurrying back to his cave.”

  “It’s Jackson Burke,” Cole said.

  A dark-haired man whose name Jackson couldn’t remember spoke up. “Shit, no way, Sharpe. Is that his name? I had no idea. I mean, it’s not like we’ve been having staff meetings with him for weeks or anything. I’m pretty sure we all know each other’s names.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence as Jackson stared at the man who was not Cole, not Lincoln, whose name was . . .

  Fuck. He had no idea.

  Cole gave him a friendly smile. “Do you know anyone’s name, Burke?”

  Jackson cleared his throat and ordered himself not to shuffle his feet like a kid in the principal’s office. “I mean . . . I know Lincoln—”

  “Bow down, peons,” Lincoln said. “I’m a king among men.”

  “Where are you coming up with this?” Cole asked him.

  Lincoln pointed at Jackson. “Um, hello—Jackson Burke knows my name.”

  “And you barely know what sport he plays,” Cole shot back.

  Jackson raised an eyebrow at Lincoln. “You don’t know what sport I played?”

  If anyone noticed his subtle emphasis on the past tense, they didn’t show it.

  Lincoln gave a sigh and leaned back in his chair once more. “So sue me. I don’t watch ESPN.”

  “Or turn on the news, or watch the Super Bowl . . . ” Penelope muttered.

  “Hey, I watched the Super Bowl,” Lincoln said. “Nearly cried at the Bud commercial with the horse.”

  “Is this how you get so many women?” Cole asked, sounding appalled.

  Penelope grinned. “Is that jealousy I hear in your tone, baby?”

  Cole winked. “Nope. I’ve got all the woman I need packed into a tiny, sexy little—”

  The man to Jackson’s right mimed a gagging motion before he strode forward to shake Jackson’s hand. “I’m Jake Malone, travel editor.”

  “Hey,” Jackson said, feeling like a tool as he shook Jake’s hand, knowing that he’d probably already done it at least once in the past.

  His first day, there’d been a whole welcome-the-newbie thing, but Jackson had been so busy wishing he could untie his tie that he’d barely remembered his own name, much less anyone else’s. But mostly he’d just sort of . . . kept to himself.

  As he glanced around Lincoln’s office, taking in his coworkers’ compatibility with one another, he felt a pang of regret that he’d been such an uptight ass. Maybe if he’d made a little effort, he wouldn’t have spent so many Friday nights alone.

  “So what can we do you for, Burke?” Lincoln asked.

  “Uh . . .” Hell. He hadn’t thought this one out. What should he say? He didn’t think I want to be friends because my boss said I should was the best approach.

  And to be fair, that wasn’t even the whole of it—he w
anted to be their friend because, damn it, he could use a few friends. Or even just one.

  Still, a man didn’t go around blurting that out. He needed a reason for being here. An excuse . . .

  Inspiration struck. Thank you, Mollie.

  “It’s, uh . . . well, this is awkward,” Jackson said, glancing at Lincoln.

  “We’ll clear out,” Penelope said, starting to stand.

  “No!” Jackson lifted a hand. “Stay. It’s just, well, I’ve got this friend . . . a female friend, and I told her that I’d set her up on a blind date. And I was thinking that since Lincoln here is—”

  “A man whore?” Cole said.

  Jackson smiled. “I was thinking that since Lincoln was single, he might be interested.”

  “Sure,” Lincoln said with a shrug.

  “Well, that was easy,” Jackson said, surprised by the man’s quick capitulation.

  “It’s like I said. Man whore,” Cole muttered.

  Jake clamped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Hold on now, Jackson my man. There’s one thing you should know. If you have any interest in this girl yourself, you’d better speak up now, before she meets Lincoln. He tends to make women a little, uh . . .”

  “Panting? Horny? Hot?” Penelope contributed, earning a light smack on the back of the head from Cole.

  But despite all her talk, Penelope obviously had eyes only for Cole. Her eyes drifted to Cole’s crotch, and she all but licked her lips.

  Jackson pointed at the couple and glanced at Jake Malone. “Did that just happen?”

  “You get used to it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Lincoln said. “Jake only gets used to it because he’s always banging his wife in the stairwell.”

  Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m confused. Jake’s wife works here too?”

  “Don’t try to sort it out now,” Penelope said. “We need to put together a manual or something. But Jake is right about this friend of yours. If you introduce her to Lincoln, it’s all over.”

  “Hey, how about we stop referring to me like I’m some sort of womanizing apocalypse?” Lincoln said as he took an orange off his desk and tossed it from hand to hand. “But yes, do tell us about the girl, Burke. And come sit down. You’re making me crane my neck.”

  Jackson stepped forward, feeling slightly uncomfortable, but he did as instructed and sat across from Lincoln.

  Penelope Pope beamed at him, and Jackson found himself smiling back. Somehow it seemed impossible not to smile at her. She was cute as hell.

  “Okay, so this girl you’re trying to set Lincoln up with . . . why aren’t you going after her yourself?”

  Cole groaned. “Pen.”

  “I’m just saying,” she said, waving a hand in Lincoln’s direction. “Mathis here is pretty, but you’re Jackson Burke. Why is this woman letting you set her up with anyone other than you?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Cousin?” Jake guessed.

  “Sister-in-law. Well, ex-sister-in-law. Also, my friend—my good friend.” At least until I found out she didn’t have an ounce of faith in me.

  And then, even more troubling, Jackson’s mind flitted back to how she’d looked in that red dress. How she’d come storming into his apartment, all temperamental and pissed. Or hell, for that matter, how even the way she rattled off nerdy science terms seemed . . . hot.

  But she couldn’t be hot. Not to him. She was Mollie. Which was why he had to set her up with Lincoln. So that his cock didn’t get any ideas.

  “Oh no,” Lincoln muttered.

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  “Your face,” Penelope said, reaching out a hand and patting his arm. “You’re conflicted over this girl.”

  Jackson forced a laugh. “It’s not like that.”

  “Famous last words, young sir,” Cole said solemnly. “Wasn’t ‘like that’ for me and Penelope either.”

  “Nor for me and Grace,” Jake said from where he was tossing a rubber basketball through a hoop on the back of Lincoln’s door.

  “Who’s Grace?” Jackson asked.

  “His hot wife,” Lincoln said. “Works in the Stiletto office downstairs.”

  Jackson frowned. “Isn’t that where Cassidy’s woman works? Ella?”

  “Emma,” Penelope corrected.

  “Who’s a hot girlfriend,” Lincoln chimed in. “But I’m guessing the wife title is on the way.”

  “And I know what you’re thinking,” Jake said to Jackson. “It’s all very incestuous up in here, which is why it’s so very nice to learn that your girl is outside our circle.”

  “Jesus,” Jackson said, rapidly regretting that he’d mentioned Mollie at all. “She’s not my girl.”

  “Then tell me about my new lady love,” Lincoln said. “Where she lives, what she looks like, et cetera.”

  “Uh . . . she lives on the Upper East Side.” That was technically true. Probably best not to mention the whole roommate situation just yet. “As for looks, Mollie, she’s . . . pretty. Smart as hell. Uh, tall, a little thin . . . great smile.”

  There was a moment of prolonged silence, and Jackson glanced around the room to see every person’s lips pressed together as though trying desperately to hold in a laugh.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You just said she has a ‘great smile,’ ” Cole said. “And you’re telling me you’re not into this woman?”

  “Cole has a point,” Penelope said. “Guys only say a woman has a great smile when they’re super not attracted to her or they’re secretly in love with her.”

  “Oh my God,” Jackson said, running his hands through his hair in irritation. “Then I guess it’s the first one. I’m not attracted to her. Also, are you guys always like this?”

  “No, no, we’re usually much worse,” Jake said.

  “I can do tall, thin, and a great smile,” Lincoln said.

  It was on the tip of Jackson’s tongue to snap that Lincoln wouldn’t be doing anyone, but he bit it back. He didn’t care whom Mollie slept with. Maybe if he repeated it enough, it would be true.

  “When?” Lincoln said.

  “Friday night,” Jackson said, hoping Mollie didn’t have other plans.

  Cole shook his head. “You’re making a mistake, man. Never let your woman near Lincoln Mathis.”

  “Hey, I got near Lincoln and didn’t get sucked into his sexy web,” Penelope said.

  “Don’t remind me,” Lincoln grumbled good-naturedly.

  “That’s because you were head over heels in love with me and just didn’t know it yet,” Cole said, bending down and planting a kiss on the top of Penelope’s head. “Unless this Mollie’s in love with Jackson, she’s not going to have that sort of protective shield.”

  Cole glanced up at Jackson. “She’s not in love with you, is she?”

  “Hell no,” Jackson said. “I’m too old for her. And too—”

  “Grumpy? Antisocial? Self-important?” Cole suggested.

  “I was going to say too much like a brother to her, but thanks for the character references,” Jackson said.

  “Sure,” Cole said cheerfully. “Anyway, so Lincoln will go out with your girl under one condition—”

  “I already said I’d go out with her,” Lincoln said.

  Cole made a shushing motion at his friend. “Lincoln will go out with your friend if . . .”

  Jackson tensed.

  “. . . you let me put a picture of the two of us on Twitter saying that we’re bros.”

  Jackson stared at the other man. “You want to take a selfie together?”

  “It’s better than having you sign my bra,” Cole said.

  “Oh, you can sign my bra!” Penelope said. “For the record, I’m a way bigger fan than Cole, so I want in on this selfie.”

  Before he knew it, Cole had whipped out his cell phone, and Jackson was flanked on either side by his two coworkers—and, dare he say, new friends?

  Chapter 10

  “Gross. I can’t beli
eve you’re living in a penthouse and you’re still getting the cheapest possible Thai food and bringing in the leftovers for lunch,” Kim said, jabbing a fork at Mollie’s take-out container.

  Mollie smiled as she twisted the cap off her water bottle and settled down on the bench where she and Kim usually ate lunch together. “I’m just trying to be relatable to you little people.”

  “Sure,” Kim said with a sniff. “You say that now. But just wait until you and Jackson are doing the red carpet at a Broadway premiere and having dinner with the Kardashians or someone afterward.”

  Mollie rolled her eyes. “If I have any chance of meeting the Kardashians, I’ll bring you.”

  Kim nodded, somewhat mollified, as she took a sip of her smoothie. “Okay, so tell me about the place. I’m still waiting for you to invite me over.”

  “Oh, you know. Just a whole lot of awesome views, hardwood floors, and granite.”

  “Does it have two ovens?” Kim asked. “I’ve always wanted to see a home with two ovens.”

  Mollie pointedly held up her take-out container. “Like I know about the ovens.”

  “I so need to teach you how to cook.”

  Mollie snorted. “The only thing you cook is brownies. From a box. And half the time they don’t make it into your one oven—you just eat the batter out of the bowl.”

  “Um, as do you,” Kim said.

  Mollie lifted a shoulder in agreement as she shoveled in a bite of pad thai. She did love brownie batter.

  “So how long is Her Highness going to be living in her marble palace?” Kim asked.

  “Dunno,” Mollie said. “We haven’t really talked about it, but it’s just a temporary thing. You know, a chance for me to find a place of my own without the threat of death by tarantula.”

  “And has the quarterback been keeping his hands to himself?”

  “Yup.”

  Kim turned to face Mollie. “What is that?”

  “What is what?”

  Kim lifted a finger and pointed it at Mollie’s face. “That tone?”

  “What tone?”

  Kim’s finger wiggled. “You want him to touch you.”

  Mollie batted her friend’s hand away. “I do not. I told you, I’m over that. It was just a stupid crush when I was younger. He was the first guy who was nice to me, and that’s all.”