We’re quiet for a long time, him working my muscles into putty and me willing my body to calm. “You didn’t tell me about the massage therapist girlfriend,” I say, if only to make myself think about something else.
He swallows loud enough that I can hear it, and I wonder if he’s struggling to get hold of his thoughts too. “We met at Jackson Brews back when the bar was still a hole in the wall and Dad was running everything. She was here for law school, and we dated for a couple of years.” His tone says it’s no big deal, but there’s something beneath the words that makes me think she was more than just a casual girlfriend.
“What happened?”
His hands move to my calves, and I nearly fly off the bed when he presses into a particularly tender spot. “Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing over it with a whisper-soft touch. “She left.”
“You were in love with her.” I squeeze my eyes shut at the tug of jealousy those words bring. To be loved by Brayden Jackson. I wonder if she had any idea how lucky she was.
“I wouldn’t have been with her so long if I didn’t love her.”
“She’s an idiot if she walked away from you.”
He stills, then starts working on my other calf, his thumbs melting away the knots and tension. “Thank you.” I hear it in those words—vulnerability, old hurt I never suspected.
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about her anymore, so I let it go. I relax into his skilled touch and eventually find myself drifting off to sleep.
I don’t wake up until my phone alarm beeps at me from the bedside table. I’m still in Brayden’s bed, the covers pulled over me. I turn off my alarm. Brayden must have brought my phone in after I fell asleep, but why not wake me up? Why give me his bed?
I pull myself out of bed and go to the kitchen to find a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a note from Brayden.
Hope you slept well and are a little less sore this morning. I’ll let Carter know you’re a total badass and went in search of a better workout this morning. I’ll see you at the office.
-B
He undoubtedly spent his night in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but surely he would have slept better in his own bed.
As my fingers skim over the blocky letters on his note, I realize part of that steely will I’ve cultivated to resist my boss has already melted away.
Molly
Jason Ralston is leaning in my office doorway later that morning, arms crossed, worry written all over his face. “Hey, beautiful.”
“Oh, hey.” I save my spreadsheet, close the program, and stand, wiping my hands on my jeans. “You got my message, I take it.”
He studies me. “I decided I’d rather talk in person. I hope you don’t mind.”
I nod. He’s right. Better to do this face to face. “I feel awful about Saturday.”
He drags a hand over his face. “You and me both,” he murmurs, stepping into my office. That’s when I see it. The bruise around his left eye. From Brayden’s right hook.
“Oh, no. Look at you. I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I owe you the apology. I typically read situations better than that, and I read you all wrong.” He searches my face. “I promise I’m not some brute who forces himself on women.”
“No. Of course you’re not.” I walk toward him, my shoulders tense. “When I dove out of the car like that, it wasn’t because of you or anything you’d done.”
Swallowing, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. I nearly pull away from the intimacy of the gesture, but the vulnerability in his eyes keeps me still. A bolt of regret slices through me. “Then what was it?”
“Things were just moving too fast, and I . . .” I glance over his shoulder and realize we have an audience.
Austin is lounging against the wall between Brayden’s office and mine, toying with his phone. I take Jason’s hand and gently urge him farther inside so I can close the door. When it clicks closed behind him, I say, “I panicked.”
“I’m sorry. About moving too fast. I shouldn’t have . . . I mean . . .” He grimaces. “I swear I’m usually better at this.” His lips tilt into a lopsided smile. “You’re just so beautiful, and I’m scared I screwed up my chance by moving too fast. Frankly, I was relieved when I got your message that you wanted to talk.”
His chance? I step back, just out of his reach. “I like you, Jason. You seem like a really nice guy, and I’m sorry if Saturday night gave you the wrong idea. I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“Oh?”
“I have a four-year-old son.” I wait for him to withdraw. Mention of a kid does the trick most of the time.