Page 139 of The Jaded Notes

I glance at the road and then back at her. “It’s in Paso Robles. It’s a small, family-owned operation for three generations. They’re looking for investment capital to expand their organic certification program.”

“Sounds boring.” Her smile is wicked. “Are you sure that’s why we’re really driving up the coast?”

“What other reason would there be?” I trace lazy circles on the back of her hand with my thumb, marveling at the softness of her skin.

“Maybe you wanted an excuse to spend the day with me.” She leans closer, close enough that I can smell her new perfume mixed with ocean air and that indefinable scent that’s purely Livianna. “Maybe you’re tired of pretending this is just business.”

I smirk because she’s right. The vineyard meeting could have been handled over the phone and with some financial statements.

But the thought of spending an entire day in the car with her and witnessing the way the light plays across her face and the way she laughs at her own jokes… That was worth rearranging my schedule.

“Maybe I am.” The admission is like stepping off a cliff. “Maybe I’ve been pretending about a lot of things.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her features before something deeper takes its place. Want. Need. The same desperate hunger that’s been eating me alive from the inside out.

“Jax… I…” She shakes her head as she seems to stop herself from saying something. “We should probably get back on the road before it gets dark.”

But neither of us moves. We sit there on the side of thehighway, hands intertwined, with the sun sinking lower toward the ocean while cars streak past us in blurs of metal and speed.

The moment suspends as if we’re existing in a bubble outside of time where consequences don’t exist and wanting someone is reason enough to have them.

“In a minute.” I bring our hands to my lips again, pressing a kiss to her knuckles this time. “Let me stare at you for a while.”

So I do. I memorize the way the fading light turns her hair into liquid chocolate.

The tiny constellation of freckles across her nose that she tries to hide with makeup. There is a small scar on her chin from some accident she’s never told me about. The way her lips part slightly when she’s thinking about something she’s afraid to say out loud.

She’s beautiful, yes. But it’s more than that. She’s alive in a way that makes everyone around her seem like mannequins, like pale imitations of what a person could be if they were brave enough to burn as bright as she does.

She’s not chaos. She’s clarity. And God help me, I want every part of her, even if it’s the worst thing I could ever want.

The Malibu house feels too quiet when I enter through the front door, my body rigid with the weight of boardroom politics and international acquisitions that I can’t discuss with anyone.

Seven days of back-to-back meetings in cities I’m not allowed to name, dealing with people whose existence requires security clearances higher than most government officials possess.

“Jax?” Livianna’s voice drifts from the kitchen—warm andfamiliar—immediately unknotting the tension between my shoulder blades.

“I’m back.” I drop my travel bag by the door and follow the sound of her laughter.

She’s leaning against the quartz countertop with a cup of coffee in her hands. Her hair is piled in a messy bun. My fingers itch to pull it loose.

When she peeks up at me, that smile breaks across her face like sunrise, and every mile I’ve traveled this week suddenly feels worth it.

“You look like hell.” She sets down her drink and crosses to me, those knowing blue eyes cataloging the exhaustion I’m trying to hide behind expensive suits and practiced composure.

“Thanks for the warm welcome.” I reach for her automatically, hands finding the curve of her waist like they belong there.

“I’m serious.” She traces the lines around my eyes that weren’t there a week ago. “When’s the last time you slept more than three hours?”

The honest answer is Tuesday, but exposing that means admitting how the deals I negotiate exist in tunnels deeper than she can imagine. Instead, I kiss her forehead and breathe in the scent of her shampoo.

“Let’s have a date night.” She pulls back to study my face, determination replacing concern. “You’re wound tighter than a spring and need a release.”

Heat flares low in my gut at the way she says “release” and how her voice drops to that husky register that makes rational thought impossible.

I tighten my grip on her waist and pull her closer until there’s no space left between us.

“What did you have in mind, firecracker?”