by Elise Faber
But he did need her.
He just didn’t know how in the hell he was going to make amends for what he’d done.
Three
Molly
She leaned carefully to the side, peering through the round window at the top of the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the front of house, searching to see if it was safe.
It wasn’t.
Jackson was still there.
When the morning rush had begun, he’d stepped away from the counter and she’d thought he would leave.
Thanked the baking gods that he wouldn’t continue to darken her doorstep.
But instead of leaving, he’d picked up the plate with the lemon and poppy seed muffin she’d heated, snagged the coffee she’d poured and then dumped about a gallon of sugar into, and carried both over to Ronnie’s table.
Now they were talking.
It had been nearly two hours. Jeanine, her morning shift cashier had come in, facilitating Molly’s escape back into the kitchen. Ronnie had gone, the newspaper she left for him every morning folded carefully and tucked under one arm.
And Jackson remained.
Suit jacket off and draped over the back of his chair. Phone out, alternating between typing on it and placing it up to his ear and speaking into it. Yes, she could imagine the velvet rasp of his voice, practically feel it caressing her skin.
So many good times.
So much love.
And then . . . nothing.
He’d ghosted her to an insane degree, disappearing the morning of the wedding. His parents hadn’t known where he’d gone, and neither had his groomsmen. She’d spent the day calling hospitals, organizing search parties, and driving the road between the hotel and the venue, looking for him or any sign of an accident. Eventually, she’d gone to the police department and filed a missing person report.
Then had received a phone call an hour later, asking her to come down to the station. She’d been panicked, on the verge of a nervous breakdown the whole way, thinking something horrible had happened to him. But then she’d been led into a room at the department, and Jackson had been standing there, whole and safe and . . . she’d run to him, thrown herself into his arms. God. She’d never forgot the humiliation of what had come next. The brusque way he’d set her away from him, his normally warm chocolate eyes having turned frozen and fierce.
“You have to stop, or I’ll file a restraining order.”
A restraining order.
While she’d stood there, heart shattering into tiny pieces, head spinning from his sudden transformation—her loving and devoted fiancé had turned into this cold and unfeeling monster—he’d calmly threatened her with a restraining order.
Calmly threatened.
Those two words shouldn’t go together.
And yet, they did.
So, she’d gathered herself, lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, steadied her voice, all while her heart was still breaking, and had slipped the ring off her finger.
The metal against metal sound of the band hitting the stainless-steel table had stayed with her for a long time. Because there had been a finality in the noise, a final nail in the coffin of what she’d always understood deep down in some dark corner of her mind was going to come. Jackson would leave her.
She’d known that.
She just . . . hadn’t expected it to be on her wedding day.
Molly had left that tiny fluorescent-lit room and gone back to the apartment she shared with Jackson to find his things had been cleared out in the hour she’d been gone, a note scrawled in his handwriting left on the counter.
Lease paid up. Money in your bank account. Call this number when you need more.
415-555-6979
-J
She could admit now that was the moment she’d fully lost it. Her purse had hit the floor, dumping its contents everywhere. Her keys she’d launched across the room, leaving a huge dent in the wall. Her cell . . . well, she’d launched it hard enough to probably tear through the sheetrock and fly into the unit next door, but thankfully her aim was off, and it rebounded off the couch and dropped to the floor, ending up functional, albeit with a broken screen.
Functional but broken.
Yeah, look her up in the dictionary and that would be the perfect definition.
And after all of that, the being left at the altar, the panic and worry of the day, the unceremonious dumping, she’d been left with a wedding to dismantle, gifts to return, venders to pay . . . and been threatened with a restraining order.
Because that was Molly’s life.
In hindsight, she could see it was for the best.
She’d been on the precipice of giving up on Molly’s. It was too much work for too little reward, and she’d wanted to start a family. There was no reason she should be working the hours she’d been working when Jackson had the means to easily take care of them both.
In the end, Molly’s had been a godsend.
Because she hadn’t used the money he’d left in her account. Because she’d been too hurt and angry and upset to accept being bought off. And because it had given her the strength to transform from an insecure girl into a strong woman who knew her worth.
She’d packed her stuff that evening then moved it and herself out of the apartment the following morning, living in her office in the bakery until she could afford her own apartment, paid with her own money.
She’d become someone she could be proud off.
A capable businesswoman, a kind human being, a kickass baker.
Not a weak female who’d just roll over and be whatever Jackson wanted her to be.
And while she blamed him for leaving, for hurting her in such a dramatic and unnecessary way, part of her also felt grateful, because she was a different person today than she’d been four years before. Because she was a better, stronger person.
“Then why are you here hiding in the kitchen instead of dealing with the man?” she muttered to herself.
Because she might be stronger, but she wasn’t immune to all that was Jackson Davis.
The voice that made her stomach dip, the body she’d known so intimately, the memories of all the wonderful things they’d shared.
It filled her with so much longing.
Hence her hiding.
“Damn,” she muttered and sucked in a breath, knowing she needed to go out there and deal with him. The rush had died down, the cases needed to be refilled, she needed to give Jeanine her first break, and she needed to get this conversation over with Jackson—
The timer for her final pan of rolls dinged.
Thank the baking gods.
Couldn’t have that conversation right now. She had rolls to pull out, more pastries to bake, Jeanine to give a break, soup to get simmering. Jackson Davis would just have to wait.
Of course, what she didn’t take into account was that Jackson didn’t much like waiting.
Four
Jackson
He’d spent the last hours biding his time.
Well, biding his time along with putting a few things in place. The reason he’d called off his wedding four years ago hadn’t mysteriously disappeared, so he needed to put a few measures in place.
He hadn’t had the means then.
But he had them now.
What he needed to consider was if those means were worth the risk of what they might bring into Molly’s life.
His cell buzzed with a call, but the door Molly had disappeared behind after her employee had arrived swung open at the same moment, and he immediately forget about the phone, about his reasons for leaving, about his current means. Jackson could think of nothing except for how much he wanted Molly.
How much he’d missed her.
How much he’d missed out on.
The longing was sharp, a painful jab to his heart.
God, she was pretty and sweet and had once loved him like no one else had ever done so. Leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, trailed a close se
cond by staying away, by not contacting her to beg her for forgiveness. He’d kept discreet tabs on her, just to make sure she was safe, and those reports from his security combined with the risk he presented to her were what gave him the strength to not come back.
Until now.
Until the papers had been delivered, demanding he excise himself from the final hold he had on her life.
He couldn’t cut that tie.
And now that he’d seen her again, seen what she built . . . fuck, he was so incredibly proud of her, proud of what she’d built. Without him. On her own. She’d always been smart and capable, but she’d lacked confidence. Jackson hadn’t minded that, which probably made him an asshole.
But the woman in front of him wasn’t just sweet and warm. She was comfortable in her skin, filling the space with an air of competence.
This Molly was different than the woman he’d almost married.
She was more.
Because he’d left.
Which then bore the question of whether or not he should just leave again. If he came back, would he ruin that?
He watched her check the case then disappear back through the door. His cell buzzed again, but he still didn’t glance at it. She would come back and then—
She emerged with a large tray held in both arms, efficiently filling the rows of the case with a variety of pastries and sandwiches. After, she flipped a screen and turned the menu to reveal the lunch offerings then smiled at the petite brunette behind the counter who nodded, smiled back, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jackson studied Molly’s even motions, the way she moved. He knew she did it without thinking—wiping down the countertops, the register, scanning then restocking napkins and silverware on the unit that held the supplies, before making a sweep of the dining room with a gray plastic tub and collecting leftover mugs and plates then cleaning off the tables and picking up small plastic placards with numbers on them. In less than ten minutes the space was clean and ready for lunch.
Well, everywhere except where he sat.
The employee had come over to gather up Ronnie’s plate and mug earlier, but she hadn’t wiped down the pale white wood with him sitting there, and Molly had certainly given his table a wide berth before returning back behind the counter.
His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down, saw it was his assistant. Again. The office was probably freaking out. He didn’t take days off, let alone disappear without his computer. Frankly, he was scared to think of what his inbox would look like when he got back to his office, the minimal replies he’d done via his cell akin to trying to put out a forest fire with an eye dropper.
The final patrons got up from the last occupied table and left. They disappeared out the front door, the quiet tinkling of the bell cheerful. And that was the only bit of cheerful in the whole space because when Jackson glanced toward the register, the look Molly gave him was chilly.
Probably, wondering why he didn’t just sign the papers and follow them out.
He should.
He wasn’t going to.
He’d done a lot of things wrong when it came to Molly and if he was going to fix that, then he needed to level with her.
Well, first, it would be good if he were able to get her to listen to him.
At least long enough to level with her, because if she didn’t understand why he’d done what he’d done, if she didn’t forgive him then he . . .
Would leave?
Everything inside him had stilled.
He’d done that. He’d buried himself in work, he’d eschewed his family, women, friends. He’d left everything behind.
And what had that gotten him?
Absolutely fucking nothing.
Well, he was done with nothing.
The papers arriving on his desk were a timely reminder that this was his chance to make things right. If Molly didn’t want to listen to him, to forgive him, well, he wasn’t leaving. He’d make her understand, make her realize he’d had to do what he’d done.
Make her understand that he hadn’t wanted to, but that things had gotten complicated and . . .
He needed to make her see that things would be different now.
He would make her see that.
Decided, he stood, detouring to the table when the phone rang, picking up the plates and mugs, depositing them into the gray bin she’d carried around, grabbing the towel and spray she’d used to wipe the table, and giving everything a good clean.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so much as cleaned up after himself. His dirty dishes were efficiently swept away, his toilet and sink scrubbed, his clothes picked up from the floor and laundered, his food prepared and placed in front of him fresh and hot no matter the hour he stumbled in from his office.
Coddled.
Surrounded by people.
And yet, alone.
Molly had never made him feel alone. She’d seen him as a person, not a meal ticket, as someone to love rather than a commodity, as—
She’d loved him, and he’d had to shit on that love to make sure she stayed alive.
Now, he would do anything to have that love back.
He was going to do anything to get it back.
Five
Molly
She saw Jackson get up and took advantage of the phone ringing to turn her back on him, relief pouring through her when the bell tinkled, signaling his exit.
Thank God.
He was a stubborn man, but she’d gone toe-to-toe with him plenty. He knew he couldn’t out-stubborn her.
He’d sign the papers. Be done. Leave like he was so fucking good at.
Good riddance.
And no, that wasn’t a fucking slice of disappointment she felt as she hung up the phone and carefully made a few final notes on the large catering order.
She’d been done with Jackson four years ago. She was still finished with him—
“I can’t wait to get my tongue on your sweet treat.”
Velvet. Rasp. Honey down her spine. A heatwave between her thighs. Molly spun and saw that she was wrong. Jackson hadn’t left. He stood just feet away, leaning against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other and looking altogether too sexy for her own good. Tall and lean with narrow hips and defined arms, he was more swimmer than bodybuilder. But that was fine. That was her preference, her type.
Jackson Davis was her kryptonite.
But she wasn’t a weakling, wasn’t susceptible to a line that should have been sleazy and creepy, and instead threatened to melt her from the inside out. She had spine—spine that had become lined with steel over the last few years. Steel she took advantage of in that moment. “You’re a fucking pig,” she snapped.
He grinned.
Her stomach went a little more melty.
No, she wasn’t proud of it. But thus was the power of Jackson. Her pussy knew exactly what he could do for it and was critically aware that it had been four years since her last orgasm of the Davis variety.
And those orgasms were special. He didn’t need a road map to find her clit, his tongue was fucking magical, and . . . he knew her body almost better than she did.
Pathetic?
Probably.
Had she reaped the benefits during their time together?
Hell-fucking-yes, she had.
And there he stood, still grinning, not upset at her snapping, not pissed that she’d called him a pig. But then again, he’d always reacted that way. Provoking her then seeming to gobble up her anger, as though he craved her fury.
Her nipples perked up at the memory.
Pathetic round two.
She sighed. “Why are you here?” she asked, dropping her hands to the counter and letting her head fall forward as she rolled out her shoulders.
Silence.
Molly glanced up after a long moment, saw that he’d moved, but just as she processed that Jackson wasn’t in front of her, that he might have gone, she sensed him behind her. His spicy scent surrounded her, and she
started to spin.
But he caught her shoulders, stopped her motion. “I got you, honey.”
Then those hands slid up slightly and began massaging the tight muscles there. She knew she should stop him, knew that with every brain cell she possessed, but the second he touched her, all common sense faded.
Because it felt good to have him touch her.
And seriously, how fucked up was she that it felt good to have this man touch her?
He knew exactly where her muscles ached, how the pain radiated into her neck, down her right arm. He remembered how hard to press so the knots went away, but not so hard as to hurt her.
He. Remembered.
Her spine softened, body instinctively arching to brush her ass against his pelvis, hearing his breath hiss out.
She got wet.
Just that easily.
But it was always like that with him. One touch and she was hot for him. One touch and she was hot enough to almost make her forget that she hated this man who had his hands on her.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” he murmured into her ear.
Cold washed over her, that heat gone in an instant. She spun, knocked his hands away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch—”
“Baby—”
“No,” she said, ice in her veins. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to put your hands on me. Not when you left like you did. Not when you—”
“Molly—”
“Leave me the fuck alone, Jackson.” She shoved him back a step. “Just leave. You’re really fucking good at that.” Another shove, pushing him clear of the counter. “I don’t need you in my life.” One more and he was out from behind it, back on the customer side. “I don’t need you here. I don’t want—”
“They were going to kill you.”
