I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Mollie dropped her cell and lipstick into her clutch and headed toward the kitchen, wishing she’d remembered to pick up some wine earlier in the day. She could use the liquid courage.

  The sound of the fridge opening and closing made her skid to a halt.

  Jackson turned his head, one hand still on the fridge door handle, the other holding a beer bottle. He froze when he saw her. And stared.

  After several tense moments, Mollie forced a smile. “I didn’t hear you come home.”

  He pulled out the bottle opener and flipped the top off his beer without looking away from her.

  His eyes drifted down, lingering on her legs, then back up. “Nice dress. Familiar.”

  She bit her lip. “It’s one of the few date-worthy ones I own.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Date-worthy, huh?”

  “Not that you and I were on a date that night,” she said quickly as she walked all the way into the kitchen. “I just mean . . . I thought . . .”

  He gave her a small smile. “You look nice.”

  Nice. It was the blandest compliment anyone could possibly drum up. She didn’t want to look nice. Not for him. She wanted to take his breath away.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  Jackson glanced at his watch—it wasn’t the ridiculously expensive one Madison had gotten him a few years before, and absently she wondered when he’d replaced it. Why he’d replaced it.

  “How about a drink? Beer, wine, martini?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “You have a personal bartender back there, or . . .?”

  “I’ll have you know that I have the deluxe man card. I can 007 it up right now, baby.”

  “Just swap that suit for a tux, and you could totally give Daniel Craig a run for his money in Casino Royale.”

  “I think you mean Sean Connery, darling.”

  She tilted her head. “Nope. You’re definitely a Daniel Craig Bond.”

  He pulled open a drawer and took out a kitchen knife, holding it to her. “Here. Just go ahead and stab me.”

  “What’s wrong with Daniel Craig? He’s hot.”

  Jackson waggled his eyebrows as he put the knife away. “Is he now?”

  “You fishing for compliments, Burke?”

  “From a hot young thang in a short red dress? You betcha.”

  “A hot young thang who’s about to go out with your friend.”

  “Ah. Right. That.”

  Tell me not to go. Tell me I should be dating you instead. But of course he wouldn’t. Only in her fantasies.

  “So was that a yes on the drink, then?” he asked, as though the idea of her and Lincoln dating didn’t bother him in the least.

  “No, I’m good. I keep meaning to stop and get some wine, but—”

  “Mollie. You wound me. What kind of wine do you want?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Red? White? I’m opening a bottle regardless, so if you don’t voice a preference—”

  “White.”

  He went to the refrigerator and studied a half dozen bottles before pulling out one with a green label.

  “I thought you hated white wine,” she said.

  “I do.”

  “So, what? You just keep it around for the ladies?”

  He pointed at her with the corkscrew. “Which you should be damn glad of.”

  Mollie narrowed her eyes slightly. “Jackson. Your supply of chilled white wine doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that that’s the only thing Madison drinks, does it?”

  His hands stilled for a moment; anyone who wasn’t looking for it would have missed it.

  But Mollie was looking for it, and she couldn’t deny that it caused just the slightest sour taste in her mouth to know that he kept his ex-wife’s favorite beverage on hand.

  “Have you talked to her?” Mollie asked quietly.

  He glanced up as he pulled out the cork. “You’re telling me you don’t know? Thought you two compared Jackson Burke notes every morning.”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten my full written report yet, so help me out,” she snapped sarcastically.

  “That dinner was a one-time thing,” he said. “So whatever you two have up your sleeves, you can forget it. I have absolutely zero interest in reconciling with the woman who told the world I was cheating on her and then divorced me after a car accident.”

  “Don’t go biting my head off. You’re the one who keeps her favorite wine in the fridge.”

  “I don’t—”

  Mollie reached across the counter and snatched the wine.

  “Mollie—”

  He grabbed for it, but she danced out of reach as she glanced at the label.

  “I knew it.” The satisfaction of being right warred with disappointment. Turning the bottle around to face him, she taunted, “Let’s see, why is that label familiar? Oh yeah—it’s my sister’s favorite.”

  Jackson was on her in a second, jerking the bottle out of her hands. “It’s not like that.”

  She glanced up at him, vaguely aware that he was standing closer than he needed to, but neither one of them stepped back.

  “Then what’s it like?”

  He clenched his jaw. “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “First it’s the casual dinner, then you start stocking her wine, then—”

  “Have you forgotten? Madison and I live in different states.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten, not for a moment,” Mollie said, holding his eyes. “And I don’t think you have either. I think a part of you misses Texas like crazy.”

  He looked away, and Mollie’s heart tugged for him—and for herself. Even so, it was a good reminder that deep down he was still Madison’s Jackson. Still a Texan. Still a quarterback first and foremost, even if he couldn’t play anymore.

  “You looking forward to tonight?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I am,” she said slowly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good . . . date.” She let the word slide off her tongue as though it were a euphemism for sex. The little devil on her shoulder wanted to bait him, to poke at the sexual tension that seemed to ebb and flow between them, but which neither would give in to.

  His hand slammed on the counter. “You’re not seriously thinking of sleeping with Mathis,” he said incredulously.

  “Well, why not? You said he’s a good guy. And news flash—we modern city women don’t adhere to any strict fifth-date rule.”

  “Fine! Fuck his brains out, for all I care,” Jackson exploded.

  “You’re shouting,” she said.

  “I’m not—” He blew out a breath. “Damn it. Also, I keep white wine in the fridge because sometimes I use it in cooking. As far as that particular brand . . . I guess it’s just what I’m used to buying. That’s all.”

  He held her gaze, and Mollie swallowed hard.

  “You make martinis and cook with white wine? Maybe I’m going on a date with the wrong guy,” she said, trying to keep her voice teasing.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Ask me out, you damn fool. But she knew why he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

  And even if he did, she’d have to say no. He belonged to Madison. Always had. Always would. Just because he was finally noticing that Mollie had female parts didn’t mean he was looking for forever, and Mollie . . . well, Mollie was looking for forever.

  She let out a slow breath. “I’ll take a glass of that wine now.”

  He held her gaze for a moment longer before nodding.

  “So, what are your plans for this evening?” she asked.

  He poured the wine and handed it to her. “Hanging out. Watching a game.”

  She gave him a scolding glance. “You’re acting like an old man.”

  He tilted his beer bottle back. “I am an old man.”

  “You’re thirty-five.”

  “Says the twenty-eight-year-old.”

  Mollie tilted her head. “That really gets to you, huh? The age difference?�
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  Jackson was saved from answering by his cell. He frowned when he glanced at the screen, giving her a wary look.

  Mollie raised her hands. “If it’s Madison, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Instead of responding, Jackson answered the call, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Hey,” he grunted.

  Whoever was on the other end talked for a moment.

  Jackson took a sip of his beer, then lowered the bottle to the counter with an angry clank. “Fuck, dude. Don’t do this.”

  Mollie tensed. That didn’t sound good.

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed as he listened. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. I swear to God— Okay. Fine, I’ll tell her. But don’t think for one second— Hello? Damn it!”

  Jackson ended the call and braced both hands on the counter, his expression furious.

  “Who was that?”

  He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Lincoln.”

  “Oh. Oh. He’s not coming?” Mollie asked, torn between relief and disappointment.

  “Something apparently came up.”

  Relief. “No worries. We can reschedule for some other time.”

  Jackson stood up, a finger creeping under the collar of his shirt in the way she’d learned was becoming a habit. “He . . . he suggested we don’t let the reservation go to waste.”

  “We?”

  “You and me.”

  “Yeah, I got that, but why would Lincoln think that you and I should spend a Friday evening together?”

  “Got me.”

  Mollie took a sip of wine and studied his scowl. He obviously wasn’t jumping all over Lincoln’s suggestion that they use the reservation. The man looked ready to vomit at the thought.

  Okay, then. No biggie. She could call Kim or one of the other girls, but when it came to weekend activities, her friends were definitely in the shots-of-tequila category, and Mollie wasn’t sure she had that kind of energy.

  Mollie slid off the stool, taking another sip of wine. “Well, roomie, looks like you’re going to have some company for that game tonight. I don’t suppose I could talk you into mixing a Gilmore Girls rerun into the mix?”

  He frowned. “You’re staying in?”

  “Yup. Just as soon as I change.” She took one last sip of wine before pointing at him. “While I’m gone, how about you figure out how to impress me with those white-wine cooking skills?”

  Jackson said nothing as she made her way back toward her bedroom, and Mollie couldn’t help but wonder if the old Jackson—the charming one—was really, truly gone. He’d always been a little gruff, a Texas cowboy through and through. But he’d also been able to laugh. Tease. Smile. Now, though, it seemed as if that Jackson was dead. Or, at the very least, on a long-ass vacation. The man left behind was an empty shell. Her chest ached for the man he was and the man he’d become.

  Mollie had just shut the door to her bedroom and was about to undertake the contortionist performance known as trying to reach a back zipper all on your own when Jackson knocked at the door.

  She opened it to find him standing there, her red Chanel clutch in his big hand. She smiled when she realized he was holding it the way a man would hold a football.

  He held it out.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She took the clutch.

  They both stared it for an awkward moment before he lifted his eyes to hers. “You kept that?”

  Mollie let out a little laugh. “Jackson, it’s Chanel. Of course I kept it.”

  “Ah.” He gave her a considering look, as though searching for another reason she might have kept his gift.

  “Okay, then,” she said, starting to close the door.

  Jackson’s hand came up, his palm stopping the door before she could shut it. “Have dinner with me.”

  “Well, yeah, I wasn’t going to eat in my bedroom. I’m just changing, then I’ll be back out.”

  “No, I mean have dinner. With me. At a restaurant.”

  Her breath caught at the intensity in his gaze. “Jackson—”

  “Don’t say no.”

  She blinked in surprise at his cocky command. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  His grin was slow and sexy as he braced both hands on the door jamb and leaned in slightly. “Because I really like you in that red dress, Molls.” He backed up before she could respond and gave her a little wink. “We head out in five minutes. I’ll go call a car.”

  Mollie stared after him as Jackson walked back down the hall, whistling a Tim McGraw song.

  Well, whaddaya know, she thought. Maybe Jackson Burke hadn’t forgotten how to smile and tease after all.

  Chapter 15

  Somewhere around the arrival of the appetizers, Jackson quit trying to find reasons why asking Mollie out to dinner had been a mistake. It was time to accept that he enjoyed this woman. Had always enjoyed her.

  The kiss might have been a mistake, but it didn’t change the fact that it was only with Mollie that Jackson felt he could relax.

  “So anyway,” she said as she heaped a generous portion of steak tartare onto some fussy little piece of toast, “getting to have my own team would be huge, but . . . I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Isn’t that a promotion?”

  “Of sorts,” she said, taking a bite. “But the thing is, I only have my master’s degree right now.”

  “Yeah, I know. I paid for it,” he said with a wink.

  “And I paid you back, every last penny,” she retorted. She did something with her face then, and he narrowed his eyes.

  “Did you just wink at me and fail?” he asked.

  She tried again, her face scrunching up comically, her whole head tilting to the side.

  He laughed. “Mollie Carrington, are you telling me you can’t wink?”

  She sighed. “Apparently not. I’ve never thought much about it, but I tried it earlier in the mirror and it was a disaster.”

  “Why were you winking in the mirror?”

  She glanced down. “I was trying to see if I could pull off this dress.”

  Jackson nearly groaned. “Trust me, you can pull off the dress.”

  She gave a happy smile that did dangerous things to his insides, so he cleared his throat and steered them back to safer topics.

  “So you have your master’s . . .”

  “Right, I have my master’s, but in order to move to the next level, I need my doctorate. But I don’t want to do that until I have a better idea of my focus.”

  “And do you?”

  She let out a weary sigh and took a sip of her cocktail. “Not really. I still want to do it all.”

  He laughed, and she narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “It’s just that you haven’t changed since you were hell-bent on pulling off a quadruple major in three years.”

  She laughed. “Oh, right. That phase. Yeah, well . . . all dreams must die.”

  “But you still pulled off a triple major and graduated a semester early. Biology, chemistry, and sociology. No easy task.”

  Her lips parted. “You remember that?”

  Jackson glanced down at the table, feeling strangely embarrassed. “Apparently.”

  She stared at him before shaking her head. “Anyway,” she said after a moment of awkward silence, “I know the Ph.D. is next, and I know I’m close to deciding. I just want to be sure.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “Do you think you’d go to school here? In New York?”

  She shrugged. “It’d depend where I got in. It’s beyond competitive.”

  He nodded.

  “But I’d apply,” she said softly. “To schools here, I mean.”

  He swallowed. He didn’t know why her answer was important, but it was.

  “What about you?” she asked casually, running a finger around the edge of her plate to scoop up some of the sauce before licking it off. “Planning on staying in New York?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s not home.”
r />   “Left your heart in Texas, did ya?”

  His eyes narrowed as he wondered if she was making some reference to Madison, but she only seemed curious.

  “You don’t like New York?” she went on.

  “If I had a gun to my head and had to describe it one word? Hideous.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You can’t tell me you don’t get off on the energy here. The city is so alive.”

  “Sure. Alive with pigeons and rats and roaches and—”

  She laughed. “Stop. Why are you here, then?”

  Great question. “Nowhere else to go, I guess. Needed to do something after the accident. Oxford’s the only one that offered. Other than porn.”

  She snorted. “It’s that bad, then?”

  He took a sip of whisky. “Actually, it’s getting better, I think.”

  “The job or the city?”

  “The job.”

  “I read your latest article. It was good, Jackson.”

  He snorted. “You sound surprised.”

  “I’m just glad you’ve found something. Something besides football.”

  Jackson’s head snapped back a little. “This is only a temporary gig, Molls. Until—”

  She frowned. “Until what?”

  Until I can convince my former boss to give me a coaching job. But he didn’t say it. Wouldn’t say it out loud until he knew he had a chance. But the last email he’d gotten from Jerry had said that while he was damn good at football, there was no chance until Jackson had gotten his public image in order. Which meant . . .

  “I’m thinking of doing an interview with Oxford.”

  She frowned. “You mean for Oxford?”

  “No, I mean telling my story. To the sports editors there.”

  She sat back in her chair. “Wow.”

  “You don’t think I should?” he asked, oddly desperate to hear her answer.

  She took a sip of wine. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess you should. If Madison hadn’t talked, you could play the whole ‘Please respect our privacy during this difficult time’ card, but she did talk. She went on the offensive, and unless you defend yourself, you look guilty as hell.”

  He shook his head. “You can admit that, and yet you and Madison still think I’m going to want to get back together with her?”

  “People make mistakes,” Mollie said gently. “Madison knows she made some: going public with your problems, divorcing you when she did.”