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“Let’s talk to security,” Jax says right when we’re about to exit the building, tugging me in that direction.
“No one that has any power is here today,” I remind him, tugging him to halt.
“But the person who let York in damn sure is,” he argues. “We need to scare the crap out of whoever that is and make sure they know there are consequences for what they did. Do you have a problem with that? Because I really want to do this, but if it’s an issue—”
“No,” I say quickly and like so many times before, I’m taken aback by this man. Jax is a powerful, confident man who knows himself, who owns a room when he walks into it, and yet somehow in this moment, he manages to take control and give it back to me. “Not at all. It can’t hurt anything.”
Still holding my hand, he folds our elbows and kisses my fingers before he winks. “Then let’s do this.”
Let’s do this, as in us, together. God, this man is trying to make me fall for him and I don’t know if that’s smart. Nothing he’s said erases the fact that he lives in another state or that he hates my family. Nevertheless, for now, I’m living in the moment, and just before we reach the security point, Jax leans close and whispers, “I’m going to rattle him and then you take over.”
I nod and we halt in front of the desk. “Let me be clear,” Jax says, without introducing himself to the singular guard behind the station. “If York Waters, or anyone for that matter, gets into Emma’s apartment without her permission, she will sue you and call the police. I barely talked her out of it today.”
Jeff, the thirty-something guard that has been here roughly six months, jerks his eyes to mine and doesn’t even ask who Jax is. “I have no idea what happened. I’ve been on duty all day.”
I forget about who’s in control and get angry. “Someone let him up. He walked right in. Had I been alone—I need to know how it happened.”
“Before it happens again,” Jax states.
Jeff nods. “I’ll find out. It won’t happen again.” He looks at me. “I can call my supervisor.”
“Yes,” I say. “Call your supervisor and have him call me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says. “Right away.”
A few minutes later, Jax and I step onto the street and he slides his arm around my shoulders, setting us in motion on the short walk to the coffee shop. “I don’t think he did it, do you?”
“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 non-fat 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.”
