I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Jackson ran a hand through his hair. A part of him wanted to tell her to get the hell out, but the other part of him remembered how much he’d once cared for her. Hell, was he no better than Mollie? Clinging too hard to a memory of a Madison that no longer existed? Had maybe never existed? And did he really want to be the asshole who couldn’t manage to sit through one dinner and hear someone out?

  “Fine,” he muttered as he strode toward the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Madison gave a quick sigh of relief before she turned on her heel and headed toward the kitchen, chattering happily about the new short rib recipe she’d perfected.

  Jackson started to follow her out into the hallway, only to turn back at the last moment and glance at Mollie, who hadn’t moved.

  “Coming?” he asked.

  She pressed her lips together nervously before shaking her head. “I—my stomach’s bugging me a little. I think I’m going to lie down. See if it passes.”

  Oh, hell no. “Molls—”

  His ex-wife’s hand found his arm, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from rudely shaking her off. “She said she has a stomachache,” Madison said. “Let it go.”

  Jackson ignored Madison, keeping his eyes trained on Mollie. She gave him an encouraging little smile, but it seemed forced. He searched her face, looking for any trace of the breathy, turned-on woman he’d seen before Madison’s knock had ruined the moment, but he saw only friendly familiarity. Which, once, had been enough. Once, the easiness of their relationship had been his rock. His center.

  But now . . . did he now want more?

  Hell.

  Madison tugged more insistently on his arm. This time he did shake his ex-wife free. He was long past letting her lead him around.

  He opened his mouth to say . . . what, exactly?

  But then Mollie broke eye contact and he knew the moment was gone, although what the hell the moment had been, he didn’t have a fucking clue. He willed Molls to look back at him, but she refused.

  Jackson shook his head and turned away.

  A quick glance at the table showed that it was only set for two. Obviously Madison had planned it like this all along, and Jackson felt unbearably trapped. Not so long ago, this would have been his dream vision, but now it felt wrong. It felt all wrong.

  Chapter 12

  Mollie lay on her back, tapping her fingers idly against her stomach. Sleep would be coming any minute.

  Annn-nny minute. She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Waited.

  Nope. Not gonna happen.

  Her eyes opened again and she resumed staring at the ceiling. She was trying not to do the dwelling thing. She really was.

  There was absolutely no reason she should be replaying the events of the evening over and over. They weren’t even events. It had been an argument with Jackson, followed by . . . something. A moment? Had she and Jackson had a moment? It had sure as heck felt like that, with their breathing all fast, the room all hot, the mood . . . electric.

  But if it had been a moment, it had ended as quickly as it had begun, thanks to Madison’s interruption.

  Madison.

  Mollie repeated her sister’s name over and over in her mind, hoping that the reminder that Jackson was Madison’s ex would banish all the dirty thoughts that kept racing through her head. What was wrong with her tonight? She couldn’t stop thinking about Jackson. Couldn’t stop thinking about him, and what it would be like to have his hands running over her body. She wanted to feel his tongue slip between her lips. Wanted to see him above her, his eyes locked on hers as he slid forward—

  She flung her arms over her face and groaned.

  Water. She needed a glass of cold water. A cold shower would probably be better, but if the running water woke Jackson up, a 3:00 a.m. shower wasn’t really something she was looking to explain. Oh, no big deal, nothing to see here! Just trying to unpicture you naked . . .

  Mollie swung her legs over the side of the bed and went to her bedroom door, opening it slowly and sticking her head out, even though she knew she’d find only silent darkness.

  Madison had gone hours earlier—alone. Mollie knew because she’d maybe been listening a tiny bit too hard to hear when her sister left.

  Though Mollie had made up an upset stomach, leaving Madison and Jackson to eat dinner together, it turned out it hadn’t been much of a lie. After seeing the way Jackson stared at Madison when he’d first walked in the door, Mollie’s stomach really had been upset. And for all his grumbling about wanting to get the evening over with, Madison hadn’t left for two hours.

  Two hours. For a man who’d been so reluctant to spend time with his ex-wife, Jackson had sure as hell found a lot to talk about.

  And as for her sister . . . Mollie couldn’t even go there without wanting to throw something. For someone who’d been soooooo desperate for sister time, she hadn’t checked on Mollie and her “upset stomach” once.

  Mollie crept slowly along the dark hallway toward the kitchen, one hand touching the wall. She hadn’t lived there long enough to know the place in the dark yet. Once in the kitchen, she didn’t bother turning a light on. The illumination from the city skyline was enough for her to find her way to the fridge.

  Mollie opened the door and pulled out the Brita water pitcher.

  “Thought you’d be making a kitchen appearance at some point.”

  Mollie shrieked, so startled that the pitcher slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor with the dull thud of plastic hitting hardwood. Cold water immediately doused her bare feet.

  “Crap,” she muttered. Not exactly what she’d had in mind to distract her from her dirty thoughts, but it certainly did the trick.

  Then she glanced up at Jackson, and her thoughts heated right back up again. He was wearing nothing but boxers. Her mouth went dry.

  She also wasn’t the only one doing some looking. His eyes trailed over her body quickly, then again more slowly.

  “That’s what you sleep in?” he asked.

  She glanced down at her shorts and tank top. “What? They’re legit pajamas.”

  “Says who?”

  “Victoria’s Secret.”

  Jackson grunted, but neither of them moved.

  Mollie knew she had to move eventually to clean up the puddle at her feet, but she let herself look just a little bit longer.

  Jackson Burke nearly naked was, well . . . about what one would expect from a former star quarterback. She’d seen him shirtless in ads before—cologne ads, ads for some ab machine, even a Hugo Boss underwear ad when he’d been in his twenties. So she’d known his body was drool-worthy, but she’d always sort of figured that, even for Jackson Burke, there’d been a little bit of Photoshop action going on.

  Nope.

  He was every bit the fantasy in person as he was in a magazine ad. More so, because he was real. And just a few feet away from her, and—

  Get it together.

  “Paper towels,” she blurted out. “Where are paper towels?”

  He jerked his chin to her right, and she tore her eyes away from him and all but pounced on the paper towel roll, desperate for something to do with her hands other than touch him.

  Mollie knelt and began sopping up the spilled water. Jackson came around the side of the counter.

  She glanced up to tell him to stop, only to find that her gaze seemed to be drawn to his crotch, and she immediately looked at the floor. “I’ve got it,” she said. “My mess.”

  Mollie expected him to ignore her and bend down to help anyway, and was a little surprised when he stayed standing over her. Not that she minded, but Jackson Burke was a Texas gentleman despite all his rough edges. She’d have thought . . .

  “If I bend down, I won’t be able to get back up again. Not easily anyway.”

  Mollie frowned in puzzlement, and this time when she looked up, it was to search his face.

  He crossed his arms and shrugged. “My shoulder got the worst of it in the accident, but my hip’s pr
etty messed up too.”

  Having gotten most of the water sopped up, Mollie stood, hands full of cold, wet paper towels. “You don’t limp anymore.”

  His smile was forced. “Because I don’t let myself. I don’t take a single step without thinking about it. Making sure I don’t favor the right leg.”

  Mollie’s chest squeezed, not because he looked destroyed, but because he didn’t show any emotion. As though he’d buried all the pain and frustration so deep inside himself that he no longer knew how to access it.

  Want to talk about it? she wanted to ask. But instinctively she knew that he didn’t—knew that he’d likely already betrayed more than he meant to. He’d talk about it when he was ready.

  Probably to Madison, she thought, a little snidely.

  There was a moment of tense silence, and she bent to drop the paper towels in the trash can.

  There was still just the slightest damp sheen left on the floor. Desperate for something to do, she grabbed two more paper towels and did one last swipe, not wanting any water damage on the gorgeous wood floors.

  Mollie stood, but didn’t realize Jackson had moved forward, and her quick motion caused her to all but slide up his body, her face scandalously close to his more interesting parts, and by the time she was fully upright, her face was bright red and just inches from his.

  The corner of his mouth lifted and he held up the empty Brita pitcher. “Was just going to fill this up.”

  Mollie cleared her throat. “Right. Of course.”

  Move, Mollie. He needs to get to the sink, and you’re in the way.

  Her feet didn’t budge. Instead she and Jackson stood close—not touching, but close. It was almost an exact repeat of earlier in the evening when they’d been arguing.

  But they weren’t arguing now. Nor were they fully clothed.

  Oh my God, I’m half naked standing in front of Jackson Burke, who’s three-quarters naked.

  A glass of cold water was no longer going to cut it. She’d definitely be needing the full shower.

  “Mollie.” His voice was gruff.

  “Yeah?” Her head tilted up just slightly of its own accord.

  “Mollie.” His voice was lower this time. He was looking at her mouth.

  This time she didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Was too afraid she’d say something she’d regret. Like Kiss me, or Take me, or I want you, or—

  Jackson stepped back. Cleared his throat. “Are you hungry?”

  Reality crashed back down.

  “I—no. I was just getting some water,” she said. “Cold water.” Because thinking about you made me horny.

  He shifted past her, being careful not to let their bodies touch as he filled up the pitcher.

  “Madison put some leftovers for you in the fridge.”

  Annnnnd . . . moment officially over.

  “Nice of her,” Mollie said, barely keeping the bite out of her voice. “But I’m good.”

  He pulled a glass out of the cupboard and they both stared for several moments at the pitcher, waiting for the water to filter down to the bottom.

  Mollie’s eyes drifted over the shoulder that was at eye level, but what started out as an admiring perusal turned to agony as she saw the ragged raised scar running along his right shoulder.

  “Oh, Jackson.” She lifted her hand and very gently touched her fingers to the raised scar tissue. He flinched, and she jerked her hand back. “Sorry. Does that hurt?”

  “No,” he said, not looking at her. “It’s just . . . nobody other than the doc’s seen it since the accident, much less touched it.”

  “Nobody?” she asked, surprised, looking at his profile. “What about—”

  She broke off, and he slowly turned his head to meet her gaze. “What about what? What about all the women I’ve been fucking both after my divorce and before it?”

  Mollie winced. “When do we get to drop that subject?”

  Jackson shifted quickly so that instead of standing side by side, they were face-to-face, with her sandwiched between the hard granite and his even harder body. “We’ll drop it when you look me in the eye and tell me you believe me. I get why the whole world thinks I’m a philandering bastard,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ve read the interviews with those women I apparently spent the night with, tying them up and stripping them down and doing God knows what depraved things to. I don’t give a shit what the world believes, because they don’t know me. But you know me, Mollie. You know me.”

  He punctuated these last words by slowly bringing his hands up on either side of her, palms flat against the counter as he caged her in.

  She licked her lips nervously. “It doesn’t feel like I know you lately.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You either believe me or you don’t. You either think I cheated on my wife or you don’t.”

  She searched his face, wanting to believe him. Yearning to, really. And if he’d been married to anyone other than her sister, if she hadn’t seen just how destroyed Madison had been in that last year of their marriage . . .

  “What about after the divorce?” she asked, unable to stop herself. “Have you—”

  “Yes. Plenty,” he said without apology. “And I don’t remember a single one of their names.”

  A stab of jealousy coursed through her at the thought of him rutting with nameless women. He deserved more. Heck, so did the women, but she didn’t know them, and Jackson was right about one thing—she did know him. And he wasn’t a liar.

  “Maybe Madison got it wrong,” she said quietly. “Maybe you were pulling away for other reasons, and she misunderstood.”

  “Misunderstood, or deliberately planted rumors to make herself look better?”

  “I don’t want to fight about Maddie right now.”

  “Of course not,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Wouldn’t want to criticize big sister.”

  “Oh, knock it off,” she snapped. “Despite making a huge show of not wanting to talk to her, you certainly managed to keep each other entertained for two hours at dinner tonight.”

  His soft laugh tickled the hair around her temple. “Mollie, babe, don’t kill me for saying this, but you sound jealous.”

  “Of course I’m not jealous,” she said quickly. “I care about you, Jackson, you know that, but you’re like my brother.”

  He stiffened slightly. “Your brother.”

  “That’s what you were,” she said softly. “For years.”

  “Is that how you’re thinking about me right now?” he asked, easing toward her just slightly. “Do I feel like your brother?”

  Mollie swallowed and looked away.

  Very gently Jackson laid his palm along her jaw, turning her face to his. “Mollie.”

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded, her hands coming up and resting lightly against his chest. His skin was warm beneath her palms, the soft scratch of his chest hair perfectly rough against her fingertips.

  He dipped his head slightly so his cheek was nearly pressing against hers. Not quite touching, but nearly.

  She felt his breath against her shoulder. Knew her own breath was coming hot and fast against his throat.

  One of them should move back, but Mollie’s body refused to cooperate.

  Very slowly his other hand slid from the counter to rest against her hip, his fingers curving around to hold her, his touch possessive.

  “Jackson, we really can’t—”

  “I know.” He turned his head, and now his breath was on her lips. “I know that.”

  She gave the smallest of nods, waiting for him to move away from her, because Lord knew she didn’t seem capable of pushing him.

  Jackson’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth, and Mollie’s breath hitched. He pulled back as though waiting for her to protest, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  He moved in again, this time his lips touching hers square on, and damn it. Damn it. Their mouths fit perfectly.

  Moving slowly, he pressed all the way against her, deepening the kiss
as her arms wound around his neck.

  Mollie had been kissed before. Plenty of times. But nothing—nothing—compared to the feel of Jackson’s mouth against hers.

  He coaxed her mouth open, deepening the kiss even further, and Mollie was lost. Lost in kissing Jackson Burke, a moment she’d entertained only in her wildest, most forbidden fantasies.

  And the kiss was better than the fantasy. Better than anything she’d ever experienced.

  His hands slid around her, his fingers toying with the thin straps of her camisole, and she was all too aware that it would only take the slightest tug and she’d be topless. In moments more, they could be completely naked. He could lift her onto the counter, and . . .

  Jackson pulled back slowly, and Mollie barely withheld her whimper of protest.

  He rested his forehead against hers as their gazes locked in bewildered want, both of them still breathing hard.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Mollie could only nod mutely. This was bad. Really bad.

  “Mollie—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “If you’re going to apologize, just don’t.”

  His mouth lifted in a half smile. “Trust me, apologizing wasn’t on the agenda, but that was . . . that was a mistake.”

  Her heart twisted, and she wanted to retort that the best kiss of her life had not been a mistake. That a kiss like that could only mean good things.

  But of course he was right. The two of them . . . they couldn’t.

  She closed her eyes. This was a mess.

  He slowly leaned back, putting more space between them before finally stepping back. Wordlessly he turned away, reaching for the neglected water pitcher and pouring her a glass before handing it over.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He nodded, then put the pitcher back in the fridge. The light from the refrigerator illuminated his perfect body for just a moment before he closed the door, his fingers still on the handle. He leaned forward slightly and rested his forehead against the stainless steel of the fridge door.

  “Mollie?”

  She froze in the process of taking a sip of water. “Yeah?”