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“No. He was too willing to offer up his supervisor and honestly, York is more likely to go to someone higher up the chain.”
“Like the supervisor the guard just offered to call?”
“Yes,” I agree, “like the supervisor. But he’ll have a plan. He’ll say he had a key that I gave him, which isn’t the case. I had the locks changed when we said our final farewell.”
“That’s a story I’d like to hear,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, glancing up at him. “One day. Maybe.”
I expect him to push and steel myself to push right back, but that’s not what happens. We stop at the door to the coffee shop, and he opens the door for me and then catches me to him, all that hard muscle pressed close. “When you’re ready.”
It’s the answer I don’t expect and really needed. “Thank you, Jax,” I say softly, and I can feel the pull between us, the expansion of something warm and wonderful. Oh yes. I’m falling for him and the fall will be sweet, the aftermath hard, but I can’t seem to care.
He opens his mouth to speak but several people approach the shop, waiting to enter and he settles on kissing me before releasing me to enter the coffee shop. I step inside and scan the clusters of mostly empty tables, deciding a spot in the corner will be best. Jax joins me almost immediately, his hand settling on my lower back, and we step to the counter. I have this moment where I think—I don’t know what he’ll order, I wonder what he likes?And then I wonder if we will survive long enough for me to order for him and him to order for me.
He encourages me to order first and I order a nonfat white mocha and a slice of banana bread. Jax orders a vanilla latte, non-fat to my surprise, and two slices of banana bread. With our bread in hand and coffee in the works, we head to a corner table.
Once we sit down we focus on each other. “Vanilla?” I tease.
“What’s wrong with vanilla?”
“You don’t seem like a vanilla kind of guy.”
“What do I seem like, Emma?”
His voice is low, rough, his hand sliding to my leg, heat darting up my leg. “Something jolting and complex. Stout. A venti triple black and white.”
His gaze lowers to my mouth and lifts. “Maybe I’m a lot simpler than you think.”
“No,” I say, my rejection coming easy. “No, you’re not a simple man, Jax North. A simple man would not be in this Starbucks with me while wearing last night’s tuxedo. Not a simple man at all.”
“And that means what to you, Emma?”
“It’s a simple observation about a not so simple man.”
“There is nothing simple about that comment and we both know it. You’re constantly looking for York in me.” Guilt stabs at me because on some level, I know he’s right. I’m comparing him to York. It’s the curse he inherits by having me after that man, but on the other hand, I want to know who I’m dealing with. I want to know Jax. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”
“I reallyampretty easy to figure out. My life is family. Work. Focusing on my goals.”
I’m about to point out the reference to him boxing indicating something more, but they call our coffee order. “I’ll be right back.” He winks. “I need that Vanilla latte to keep up with this conversation.”
He stands and crosses the room to grab our orders, tall and broad, and even in a well-worn tuxedo, he owns the room. The women at a nearby table are watching him, admiring him, and I can’t blame them. I’m doing the same. He’s one of those men that women want, and men want to be, one of those men who has the world in his hands, and that shapes character. It shapes outlook. It shapes how he lives his life, and how he might shape mine if I let him.
My cellphone buzzes with a text and I dig it from my purse to find a message from Chance:Running late.
Jax rejoins me and sits down, placing the coffees on the table. “White mocha and a very vanilla latte.”
“For the not very vanilla guy,” I say, eager to get back to where we were minutes before. Back to who he is and who I am. More importantly, how who I am reflects on who Chance is, before my brother arrives. “Jax, I know my dad wasn’t a nice person. Reading his journal opened my eyes and frankly, I feel naïve. Chance isn’t him, though. I haven’t even let him read the journal. We idolized that man. I don’t want to ruin him for my brother, too.”
“How much time did you spend with your father, Emma?”
That question is laced with a hint of accusation that bites. “Not much. My father was—well, he tasked me to travel, which I can hardly complain about, and bottom line, we were never close.”
“And Chance?”
“They worked together daily,” I say, the stark difference between the exposure to my father quite blatant. “Chance was his protégé.”
“Then do you really think that he doesn’t know who your father really was? Do you think he wasn’t learning to do things the way your father did things?”
