I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2) (11 page)

Jackson pulled back slowly, and Mollie barely withheld her whimper of protest.

He rested his forehead against hers as their gazes locked in bewildered want, both of them still breathing hard.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Mollie could only nod mutely. This was bad.
Really
bad.

“Mollie—”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “If you’re going to apologize, just don’t.”

His mouth lifted in a half smile. “Trust me, apologizing wasn’t on the agenda, but that was…that was a mistake.”

Her heart twisted, and she wanted to retort that the best kiss of her life had not been a mistake. That a kiss like that could only mean good things.

But of course he was right. The two of them…they couldn’t.

She closed her eyes. This was a mess.

He slowly leaned back, putting more space between them before finally stepping back. Wordlessly he turned away, reaching for the neglected water pitcher and pouring her a glass before handing it over.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded, then put the pitcher back in the fridge. The light from the refrigerator illuminated his perfect body for just a moment before he closed the door, his fingers still on the handle. He leaned forward slightly and rested his forehead against the stainless steel of the fridge door.

“Mollie?”

She froze in the process of taking a sip of water. “Yeah?”

“This can’t happen again.”

“I know,” she said, a little testily.

He gave her a small smile. “Sure was good, though.”

Mollie’s fingers clenched around the glass, tempted to hurl it at him. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t get to kiss her like that, then tell her it was a mistake, then tell her how good it was.

“Good night,” she said pointedly.

His smile faded and he gave a nod before turning and walking quietly toward his bedroom.

Mollie chugged her water in three gulps before shaking her head in irritation. She was definitely going to need that cold shower after all.

After his late-night run-in with Mollie, Jackson was still behind on sleep. He rubbed at his tired eyes as he realized there was zero hope of getting any real work done until he’d had a caffeine fix. Another one.

Swear to God, if it wasn’t one Carrington sister turning his life upside down, it was the other. The Madison-induced insomnia he could understand. The woman had been wreaking havoc on his life for over a decade now. But it wasn’t
Madison
that had kept him up the past few nights.

It was Mollie.

Mollie, who had always been a constant in his life. His light when everything else was dark. She was
still
a constant, but there was nothing uncomplicated about the way she’d been turning him on lately. And turning him on without even trying—that was the real kicker. Jackson had had some of the most gorgeous women in the world throw themselves at him at the peak of his career, but none of them had made him feel as much of a horny schoolboy as Mollie in those tiny pajamas.

It wasn’t what he should be thinking about. He should be thinking about the fact that he’d spent two hours in his ex-wife’s company—willingly, if perhaps a bit manipulated. But during that whole dinner, mostly he’d felt…bored. For months he’d been doing his damnedest to avoid his ex-wife out of a hidden, desperate fear that he’d fall under her toxic spell. But as they’d sat there with their wine and her admittedly excellent short ribs, he’d felt nothing. Familiarity, sure. Resentment, perhaps. Even though he’d braced himself for a wave of bitterness, he’d realized he didn’t have the energy to hate her anymore.

Not only that. The other, far more alarming reason he hadn’t been able to muster up the energy to dislike Madison, much less hate her, was that his thoughts had been on her sister. And that was
before
he’d seen Mollie’s long legs and perky breasts on display at 3:00 a.m. Before he’d kissed her in what might have been the most erotic experience of his life.

Not that they’d talked about it. If there was a gold medal for avoiding a topic, he and Mollie were neck and neck.

He rubbed his eyes harder.

Jackson pushed back from his desk, hoping a quick walk to Starbucks would clear his head. But Lincoln Mathis appeared in Jackson’s doorway before he could escape for a much-needed espresso.

“Hey, Mathis.”

“Aww, look at us all being friends,” Lincoln said, punching his shoulder.

Jackson grunted, although secretly he was a little pleased. In the past few days, since he’d gotten sucked into the vortex of Lincoln and his friends, he’d felt a little less ostracized. People smiled at him in the hallway, and he smiled back. They weren’t all going to lunch and happy hour yet. Jackson wasn’t even sure he wanted that. But he no longer felt like the loser who played with dirt on the side of the playground while the other kids were on the swings.

“Was just about to head out to Starbucks, but if you need something—”

“I’ll come with,” Lincoln said, as though this were an obvious solution.

“Uh…okay.” Because what else could he say?

The two of them walked toward the elevators, Jackson watching in bemusement as Lincoln had something to say to everyone they passed. Literally everyone.

“Is it hard?” Jackson asked as he punched the button for the elevator. “Being this popular?”

“Why do you think I’m tagging along for some caffeine? A man gets tired giving off all this charm,” Lincoln replied. He said it with a smile, but Jackson gave Lincoln a studying glance, wondering if there wasn’t something beneath the surface.

Cole Sharpe was charming too. So was Jake. But there was something easier about Cole and Jake’s charm, as though they’d come out of the womb with a one-liner and a smile. With Lincoln, though, there was a deliberateness. As though he’d made a conscious decision to craft himself into this likable ladies’ man.

Suddenly Jackson was having second thoughts about putting Mollie in Lincoln’s path. Instinct told him that while Lincoln would be a perfect gentleman, he wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate everything Mollie had to give. He wouldn’t understand that she—

“Hey, so I wanted to talk to you about your girl,” Lincoln said, as though reading Jackson’s thoughts as the two men stepped into the elevator. “We’re still on for tonight?”

Every instinct in Jackson’s body itched to make up an excuse—to say that something had come up, or Mollie had backed out. But Mollie hadn’t said anything about their late-night kiss changing her mind about going on a date with Lincoln, and Jackson was trying to be okay with it.
Trying
being the operative word.

Lincoln lifted an eyebrow at the expression on Jackson’s face. “You know it’s supposed to be the actual people going on the date that get cold feet, right? Not the one doing the matchmaking?”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Jackson asked.

Lincoln smirked, but let the conversation drop. “You know, I’ve gotta say, I think this is the first time I’ve picked up a date from another man’s house. You going to be there? See us off, maybe remind us of her curfew and then list all the ways you’ll dismember me if I don’t get her home in time?”

Jackson laughed as they stepped off the elevator. “Screw you.”

As always, there was a line at Starbucks, but Jackson was surprised to find that the line went faster than usual when there was someone to talk to. Jackson looked on in bemusement as Lincoln chatted up the women in line in front of them and the women behind them, managing to get three different phone numbers without any of the women getting snippy with the others.

“So what’s your story, Mathis?” Jackson asked once they’d gotten their drinks—doppio espresso for Jackson, caramel macchiato with extra caramel for Lincoln.

“My story?”

“You know,” Jackson said, gesturing with his cup to the duo of women Lincoln had just winked at. “The lady-killer routine.”

“You looking for tips, Burke?”

“Hardly,” Jackson said with a snort. “Count me in the women-are-more-trouble-than-they’re-worth category.”

“Ah, the gruff, cynical bachelor cliché. Let me guess—you drink beer and watch sports too? Maybe cook a mean steak?”

Jackson took a sip of his coffee. “Well, let’s see, I’m a former football player from Texas, so…yeah, pretty much.”

“None of which explains the hating-on-women thing.”

Jackson snorted. “I’ve been married. You’ll understand when some minx tricks you into walking down the aisle.”

Lincoln’s hand froze for a split second as he was bringing his sugary, frou-frou coffee to his lips, and Jackson felt a stab of panic that he’d just said the worst possible thing to the man who was the closest he had to a friend in this city. Lincoln looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

Fuck.
Had Lincoln been married? If he had, something had gone seriously wrong, because the man looked destroyed.

“Shit, Mathis, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s cool,” Lincoln interrupted.

It wasn’t cool. Any idiot could see that. But Jackson also understood that sometimes the last thing a man needed was to talk it out.

They rode the elevator back to the office in silence, and by the time they stepped into the
Oxford
lobby, the tension was gone from Lincoln’s shoulders.

Jackson looked at the other man out of the corner of his eye, curiosity mingling with respect. Whatever demons Lincoln had were buried deep, and he was damn skilled at hiding them.

They rounded the corner toward their respective offices only to skid to a halt when they saw their boss hovering outside their doors.

Cassidy’s hands were on his hips, his face unreadable as they approached.

“What’d you do?” Lincoln asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Me? You’re the one who tried to implement Thursday morning dance party yesterday.”

“Burke,” Cassidy said when they got closer.

“Shit,” Jackson muttered.

Lincoln smirked.

“Got a minute?” Alex Cassidy said as Jackson and Lincoln stopped in front of him.

“Jackson is in trouble, Jackson is in trouble,” Lincoln chanted in a singsong voice.

Cassidy pointed toward Lincoln’s office. “Mathis, get your ass and your dessert coffee in there and don’t come out until I have revisions on that beach babe article.”

Jackson shook his head. “Your job is so much better than mine. I’m currently writing about perfect bench press form.”

“I wrote about how to have sex on the bench once,” Lincoln said. “If it makes you feel better.”

“Nope. It does not,” Jackson said before following Cassidy down the hall to his office.

“Shut the door,” his boss said.

Jackson did as asked and lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve gotta tell you, boss, this feels a little bit like the principal’s office. Is this because I was late to homeroom?”

Cassidy sat and motioned for Jackson to do the same. “Wonderful, another sarcastic team member. I should have known that when I told you to make friends with your colleagues, they’d start to rub off on you.”

Jackson shrugged.

Cassidy laced his fingers and set them on the desk. “Before I say what I’m about to say, know that I hate that I’m about to do this.”

“Usually when someone starts off that way, they offer a man a drink first.”

Cassidy ignored this. “First off, you should know that you joining the team has been great for
Oxford
. There’s a whole group of readers who thought we were all tie clips and loafers until you came on board.”

Jackson said nothing.

“Advertising’s noticed an uptick too. Brands that used to distance themselves are now fighting for spots.”

“I don’t suppose you’re gearing up to offer me a raise?” Jackson asked.

“The thing that I didn’t count on,” Cassidy continued, “was just how in demand your story would be.”

Jackson stiffened. “My story?”

Cassidy blew out a breath. “You’re big news, Burke. I thought it would blow over once the world came to grips with the end of your pro career, but there are rumors of a movie coming out, and your ex-wife gives interviews to anyone who will ask, and the publicity department has been inundated with interview requests.”

“Just spit it out, boss. If my notoriety is hurting the magazine, you can just say so.”

“Far from it,” Cassidy said with a grim smile. “I want to use that notoriety to
sell
magazines. And if you want to punch me in the face, fine, but give me a few days.”

Jackson frowned. “Why?”

Cassidy let loose with a rare grin, then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a velvet box. Flipping it open, he revealed one hell of a diamond.

“Holy shit,” Jackson said. “Congratulations, man.”

“Thanks. But let’s hold the congratulations until after she says yes.”

“You’re worried?”

Cassidy gave a rueful smile. “Let’s just say the last time I put a ring on Emma Sinclair’s finger, it didn’t end well.”

“You sure you don’t want me to give you that shiner, then?” Jackson asked. “Maybe a black eye would summon her feminine sympathetic instincts.”

“Don’t know that my woman has those. She’s kind of badass,” Cassidy said, looking down at the ring with a dopey, adoring smile.

“Oh, man, you’re so whipped,” Jackson said with a smirk.

“Definitely.” Cassidy snapped the box shut, put it back in the drawer, and faced Jackson once more, his usual straight face back in place. “So, thoughts?”

“About your girlfriend? I’ve only met her once, but first thought:
super hot
.”

Cassidy’s eyes narrowed, but Jackson could only shrug. Emma Sinclair
was
hot. Tall, slim, tailored, a tiny bit haughty until you saw her eyes, which radiated warmth. At least when she looked at Cassidy.

“I was talking about your willingness to use your public status for the sake of
Oxford
.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Jackson asked warily. “You want me to agree to a couple of those interviews in exchange for a shout-out to the mag?”

Cassidy sat back in his chair. “I was thinking something a little more in-house.”

“Dude, just spit it out. I can handle it.”

His boss leaned forward again. “Let us interview you. Let us tell the Jackson Burke story,
Oxford
exclusive. An inside look at one of our own.”

“Ah,
shit,
” Jackson said.

He understood why Cassidy had to ask, but Jackson couldn’t help feeling a brief stab of betrayal. He hadn’t realized it until now, but
Oxford
was supposed to be his safe place. His people. The place where he could finally get away from being, well, Jackson Burke.

“I get it,” Cassidy said. “And know this—your job is safe, whatever your answer. But
Oxford
isn’t the only one that can benefit from this.”

“Shit, Cassidy,” Jackson repeated tiredly, throwing back the last drops of his espresso. “The whole this-is-for-your-own-good routine? You’re better than that.”

“I know you want the world to forget about you, to leave you alone, and they will. But it’s going to take a damn long time as long as you stay wrapped up in mystery. The sooner you give them what they want, the sooner their curiosity is satisfied, the sooner they’ll move on.”

Jackson slouched in his chair and tapped his fingers on the paper cup.

“You know I’m right,” Cassidy said, shaking his head. “And if you do it through us, you get to control it. It’s on your terms. It’ll be your friends.”

“My friends?”

“You’re a football player, Burke. Our sports section is one of the best in the industry thanks to Cole and Penelope, and—”

“Cole and Penelope.
That’s
who you want to have tell my story.”

“You know what?” Cassidy said, holding up his hands. “You’re right. You go ahead and go find some stranger—some hungry-for-scandal reporter—and have them tell your story. Better yet, let the paparazzi continue to stalk this building, taking pictures of you. Let your publicist continue to field shitty request after shitty request, and—”

“Oh, save your speech,” Jackson grumbled. “I’ll think about it.”

Cassidy eyed him closely. “Do.”

Jackson stood. “We done?”