by Elise Faber
And fuck, did they have eyes and ears in Molly’s office? Had they seen them?
“How long?” he asked, not giving a shit that he’d interrupted.
“What?”
“How long have you been surveilling her here?”
“Since last night. The team put them in while I came to your office,” Dan said. “There was an active threat, and—”
Jackson stifled his sigh of relief.
They might have heard and seen him getting yelled at, but at least they hadn’t seen Molly when they’d been together in her office.
“I understand,” he said. “It’s smart, but I need to tell Molly. I promised her I wouldn’t keep any secrets, and I’m going to keep my word.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Dan told him. “I get it, man, I really do. But know if she freaks out and has us take the audio and visual out then we won’t be able to protect her properly, or you for that matter.”
Jackson didn’t have a death wish, but his well-being was much lower on his priority list than making sure whatever risk had bled over from his life into Molly’s was taken care of.
He wanted her safe.
He wanted her happy.
He wanted to figure out a way to move forward.
“I’ll do my best to help her understand that it’s important for her safety,” he said. “And temporary.”
“Temporary is a good point to focus on,” Dan said. “That and chocolate—” He broke off. “Okay, she probably has plenty of chocolate. How about alcohol? Or really expensive shoes?”
“Alcohol and kitchen accessories are my safest best, I think,” he muttered, hitting the button to boot up his laptop. “The woman can never turn away from a new spoon.”
A beat, then, “Kinky.”
Jackson snorted. “So, were you just calling me for a heart-to-heart, or did you actually have something important to discuss?”
“Heart-to-heart.”
He rolled his eyes. “Cool. Well, some of us have real work to do.”
“I resent that comment,” Dan said, then his voice went serious. “One of us will always be watching, and listening, and close. We’ll send in the troops if something goes down.”
Fuck, that didn’t sound good.
“Do you think something is going to go down here?”
Because fuck what he’d said about not interfering with Molly’s business. If she were at more risk here, if the bakery were targeted, then he was bundling her ass up and shipping her off to Alaska.
“No,” Dan said. “They’d be stupid to risk something at the bakery. There are too many neighbors, too much cross-traffic. They’d be much more likely to make a grab at her duplex, since it’s a corner unit and semi-isolated.” He paused for a second. “Probably also something you should talk to her about. Think she would stay at your place? It’s more secure.”
No. She wouldn’t like staying with him at all, but he didn’t say that, just entered his password into the laptop’s lock screen, and said, “I’ll find a way to make it happen.”
“Booze and kitchen accessories.”
“Right,” he muttered.
“This will all be over soon,” Dan said. “Just remember that.”
He’d placed his online order for the local kitchen store, along with one for the local wine shop, and he’d arranged for his assistant to pick both up and bring them to him by lunchtime.
He might have actually gotten off cheaper if he’d been looking to buy Molly expensive shoes or purses because, turned out, kitchen shit was expensive.
Or at least the brand he’d remembered her liking was.
Anyway, the collection of spoons and scrapers (not spatulas, because he’d at least learned that minimum piece of information from Molly during their time together), came bundled together like a bouquet of flowers. But apparently the wooden handles were “to die for,” according to the reviews, and he knew she’d appreciate the bright and cheerful display of llamas printed on the silicone head of the scraper.
The wine was just that. Something else she’d appreciate.
A medium-bodied Pinot Noir with fruity tones they’d discovered while wine tasting years before.
Once, it had been her favorite.
Today, he hoped she wouldn’t launch it at his head.
A little after six, Molly came out of the kitchen with a tray in her arms and started filling the case.
Jackson hadn’t consciously moved, but one second, he was in his seat, and the next he was at her side, lifting the tray—the sheet pan—from her arms and holding it so she could arrange the case. And when the sheet was empty, he pushed through into the kitchen, set it on the counter, and retrieved two more trays filled with muffins. Molly murmured “thanks” when he reappeared with them, but otherwise they didn’t speak as she carefully filled the display case with the variety of treats she had managed to whip up in just under two hours.
When he carried the last of the empty pans into the kitchen, he came out to find she’d moved toward the front door, scooping up a newspaper that had been dropped through the slot, and was carefully folding it. With a look rife with different emotions—fear, tentativeness, frustration, hope—in his direction, she had set it on Ronnie’s table.
“Coffee?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring it out.”
And she had, along with a banana chocolate chip muffin that had him seeing stars it was so delicious. But then again, she’d probably known that, considering she’d remembered bananas and chocolate were his kryptonite. However, before he could thank her for the food and the coffee—also made exactly as he’d preferred—the morning rush began. Jackson had pretended to keep his eyes on his laptop, but in reality, he’d watched Molly as she worked.
In reality, he couldn’t stop watching her.
Her personality filled the space with comfort, with caring. She had a bright smile and a kind word for everyone who walked through the door, and he knew it wasn’t an act. He knew she did care.
She wanted her customers to have full bellies and satisfied taste buds.
She wanted them to feel comfortable enough to linger.
She was the lifeblood of the space. The reason it was so successful.
So, his eyes might have started on his laptop screen, but they’d drifted up to the counter more often than not.
Which meant his emails piled up.
It almost meant that he couldn’t find the strength to care.
Ronnie, the older man he’d met last month, strode in, stopping at the counter to order, even though Molly clearly knew what he wanted. She’d had it over to him about ten seconds after Ronnie had sat down at the table with a placard of his name on it. The nameplate was new, apparently, and because it adorned the table next to the one Jackson had chosen, Ronnie told him all about how Miss Molly spoiled him and how she was so wonderful.
“There’s a woman who shouldn’t be single,” Ronnie said.
“She’s not,” Jackson blurted.
Rather stupidly. Okay, exceptionally stupidly.
Ronnie’s eyebrows lifted, but just as Jackson was about to blurt out something else, something along the lines of he’d fucked up and was trying to get Molly back, Ronnie nodded, picked up his paper, flicked it open, and said, “Good.” Then he began reading.
Feeling like he should clarify, Jackson opened his mouth. “I—”
“No disrespect, son, but I don’t come into this place to talk. I want to read my paper in peace.”
Jackson’s teeth clicked together.
Hadn’t come in to talk?
This from the man who’d spent the last five minutes waxing poetic about Molly? Who’d talked his ear off during his last visit? Ronnie ignored him, eyes on the paper as he carefully turned the page. Okay, then. Jackson turned back to his computer, clicked to open a random email in his inbox, and started reading—
“My Molly deserves someone who’ll take care of her.”
&n
bsp; Jackson glanced over. “Molly can take care of herself.” Ronnie’s brows drew together, but before he could reply, Jackson said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let her.”
The older man’s face relaxed, and he nodded approvingly. “Good man.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked back to his laptop. “Not sure about that, but I’m trying.”
“That’s about the only thing you can do when you meet a woman like that,” Ronnie said. “You keep trying. You keep giving. You keep caring . . .” He paused, waited for Jackson’s gaze to come back to his. “You keep on caring until they believe they’re worth it.”
He folded the paper and pushed to his feet with a groan.
“Only then will you know that you’ve done your job right.”
Eleven
Molly
She stretched her aching neck, taking a short break from decorating the row of cakes she had spaced out on the tables in the kitchen.
Breakfast had come and gone, lunch was in full swing—the newest chef she’d hired doing a great job of putting together the hot and cold sandwiches and salads that dominated the lunch menu. The only major differences between lunch and dinner were the prices—lunch was cheaper—and the portion size—dinners were larger. Well, that and they’d thrown a seasonal pasta dish on there in the last few months, but that had been her marketing and accounting guru, Shannon’s idea. She’d stumbled across a fresh pasta shop a few blocks over, and when Molly had tasted the offerings, she’d known they would need to feature their pasta.
So now there was fresh, bulk pasta for purchase in the case and a pasta dish on the dinner menu.
That was part of why she loved this city—the nooks and crannies, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the food that never failed to make her moan in pleasure.
It fed her soul.
Just like this row of cakes was going to feed the bakery’s bank account.
She stretched again, ignored the ache in her shoulders and neck, and picked up the edible flowers, choosing the prettiest ones and carefully arranging them on each of the white buttercream frosted round cakes.
That done, she gave everything a final inspection, boxed the cakes, and then carried them over to the walk-in. A few seconds to make sure everything was labeled correctly for the pickup that would happen after she left for the day, and she was done.
Well, with the cakes at any rate.
She had to start another batch of soup simmering, bake off the last of her roll dough, and check that her food order was ready to be sent off for delivery the next day.
Then she was done.
Sighing, she dropped her head forward, taking just one more moment to stretch the ache, enjoying the cool air of the walk-in, then straightened and reached for the soup ingredients.
Warm hands on her neck.
Jackson’s warm hands on her.
“Sorry,” he murmured, when she jumped and squawked. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, stilling as his fingers began massaging.
Frankly, anything was okay if he continued to rub the aching soreness out of her neck and shoulders. For the most part, she was used to bending over for hours, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still hurt when it came to the end of the day. Especially when she’d given up sitting on the stool because she couldn’t reach properly. Frankly, her back needed a break.
“Those are beautiful,” he said, voice still soft, warm breath hitting her nape.
“Mmm,” was all she could muster.
The man knew her body, could hit every spot, soothe every ache, and while this massaging was what got her into trouble last time, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she allowed herself just a few more seconds of the delicious contact.
Eventually, when the urge to spin in his arms and have him demonstrate the rest of his skills—only this time in a way that would definitely get her in trouble with the Board of Health—grew to almost a tipping point, she slipped free and grabbed the soup ingredients from the shelf.
She didn’t protest when he immediately snagged them from her.
If he wanted to lug the heavy tub, fine.
Plus, if his hands were busy holding things, he was a lot less dangerous to her willpower.
“Where do you want it?” he asked.
Everywhere.
That was the problem.
“On the counter by the sink,” she said, and if he caught the edge of need in her tone, Jackson didn’t comment on it. Instead, he nodded and left the walk-in, and Molly would be lying if she said she didn’t take an extra minute in the cool air of the refrigerator, trying to temper her desire.
Bad for her.
Jackson was very, very . . . good—
No. Bad. He was bad for her. He’d broken her heart. He constantly made her lose her temper. He’d said cruel things and shown up just because she wanted him out of the business.
But . . . he wanted to protect her, was here because—
“Because the federal agent told him to be,” Molly muttered to herself.
The cold of the space finally penetrated her mind and body because . . . that was reality.
He wasn’t here for her. He was in her bakery to assuage his conscience.
He didn’t want her at risk.
But he also didn’t want her—
Then why did he come back? her brain countered. Why is he here rather than some burly bodyguard? Why is he lugging soup ingredients and massaging aching shoulders?
Because they had chemistry. Because the sex was good, a bonus byproduct to doing the right thing.
Sigh.
Molly couldn’t tell if that disappointed sigh came from her brain or her heart, but what she did know was that she had to grasp on tight to the reality that Jackson wasn’t here for her, not really.
He was here for him.
Head on straight, keeping a firm hold to the truth of his presence, she left the walk-in. There was work to be done.
She’d best get to doing it.
“Ready?” Jackson asked, just under two hours later.
She glanced up from the stack of order forms she’d been double-checking and saw he was leaning against her open office door. Since he’d clearly interrupted her while she was in the middle of noting something on the page, no, she wasn’t ready to go. “Nope.”
Her eyes dropped back down to the page, but her ears still worked.
Hence the reason she heard his sigh.
“What?” she snapped, eyes flashing up again.
“You’re at twelve hours.”
Her brows drew together. “What?”
“You’ve been working for twelve hours straight,” he said, coming fully into her office and shutting the door behind him. “I haven’t seen you so much as take a bathroom break, let alone stop for lunch or to rest for a few minutes.”
“I seem to recall you rubbing my shoulders a couple of hours ago.”
His lips pressed flat. “So, a sixty-second massage is a replacement for actual rest and nourishment?”
“I went to the bathroom,” she pointed out. “Several times. And I ate.”
“One croissant. Four cups of coffee,” he said, crossing his arms. “Oh, and one half of an apple that was left over from the turnovers you made.”
“I ate more than that . . .” She trailed off as she thought back. Hadn’t she? She had started to pull together lunch.
“Your salad you made for yourself is in the trash.”
Her jaw dropped open.
How did he know that?
“Because I just threw it away,” he went on. “After seeing it sit untouched on the counter in the front of the bakery for three hours.”
Damn. That salad was her favorite.
Kale and colored bell peppers, slivered onions, and a chipotle vinaigrette. And homemade—because, duh—parmesan crisps.
She’d been on track for a normal day, for a normal lunch, but then her employee, Todd, had been telling her about the new play he’d just landed,
and telling her with a certain amount of flair. So much so, that he’d flung out an arm in dramatic fashion, and accidentally knocked over the gum paste flowers she’d crafted for the large cake order she’d finished earlier. They’d hit the floor, and what few hadn’t shattered had needed to be tossed—because, well, they’d hit the floor.
Luckily, her client had been understanding, especially when she’d shown them a pic she’d snapped of one of the cakes with the edible flowers carefully arranged on them.
Vibrant. Elegant. Striking.
Something that was challenging to do with gum paste.
Something that nature made easy.
It wasn’t the first time a kitchen disaster had struck, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time.
Nor was it the first time her lunch had ended up in the trash.
Stuff happened, she pivoted and coped, and made the best of it.
Then she got on with her day.
The final part of which was this order.
“Two things,” she said, setting down the pencil she’d been holding. “Or three, rather. First, thanks for throwing that away.” His face clouded, lips parting like he was going to interject, so she talked right over him. “Second, I know you’re not talking to me about working long hours.”
“I—”
“Third, I have to finish this order so that I can leave, and you once again interjecting yourself into my life is delaying me.”
He crossed over to her, bypassing the extra chair as he rounded her desk, and leaned back against it, his thigh six inches from hers. Her stomach clenched, heat pooling between her legs . . . because this man breathed and she wanted him, especially when his eyes were hot and angry, his jaw tense. That intensity had always translated into pleasure for her.
And her body knew it.
God, she was so fucked up.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled.
She tore her gaze away from where it had been slowly drifting down, tracing the buttons of his shirt, sliding toward the brushed nickel of his belt.
But she didn’t have to look lower to know he was hard.
Molly let her eyes close, slowly inhaling, and trying to reason with herself. A month ago, she’d thought to take control, to fuck him, to get her pleasure, her taste, and then they could be done.
