I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(23)

“No,” he said with a slow grin that was maybe just a bit sexier than it should have been. “Care if I join you?”

I was counting on it. “Only if I get to pick the pizza toppings,” she teased.

He groaned. “No. No pineapple.”

“The fruit’s good for you,” she said, pulling out her phone.

“Please. You just like it because it’s sweet.”

“Like me,” she said, glancing up with a toothy smile.

He snorted, but Mollie’s heart warmed when she saw that he looked relaxed. Happy, even.

“Fine, order what you want,” he said, heading toward his bedroom. “I’m going to go change out of this damn suit.” Before he left the kitchen, he turned and gave her a thoughtful look. “You really think I’m hot?”

Mollie rolled her eyes and shooed him away. “Please. If you want an ego stroke, go look at the ‘sexiest man alive’ magazine covers you probably have stashed under the bed.”

He laughed as he walked away, the sound easy and familiar and wonderful.

Mollie hid her grin until he’d gone into his bedroom. Humming happily to herself, she ordered the pizza, extra pineapple.

Only after they’d plopped onto the couch, her bare feet propped up contentedly on his knee, his hand carelessly resting on her shin, did she realize that she hadn’t thought about what her sister would think of this cozy scenario.

Even more alarming, Mollie wasn’t sure she cared.





Chapter 9


On Monday morning, Jackson arrived in his office, like he always did.

About to close the door, like he always did.

Only to stop when he remembered his boss’s “pep talk” about him being an antisocial *.

Jackson glared at the door for a moment before reluctantly leaving it open. He highly doubted anyone would be dropping by, but maybe he’d get brownie points for trying.

He settled behind his desk and was unlocking his computer when the sound of laughter from the office next door distracted him.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. There was always laughter coming through the right wall of Jackson’s office. As far as he could tell, Lincoln Mathis ran a damn comedy club from his office.

It was annoying enough with the door closed, but now that Jackson had to have the f*cking door open, it was like nails on a chalkboard. He felt like the Grinch.

It had been bad enough to have Cassidy call him a diva. But then Mollie and her big blue eyes had started looking at him like he was a grumpy old man whenever he snapped at her, like this whole mess was somehow his fault.

Let it go, man.

But he couldn’t.

One of the few people he’d thought he could count on had believed the motherf*cking tabloids instead of him. He knew what most of the world thought of him, and he didn’t give a shit. But he’d always figured that the people who mattered—his parents, his friends, Mollie—had known. Had believed in him.

Damn it! Jackson’s hand swiped out and sent a pen cup hurling to the floor.

He’d thought he had put the rage from his accident and its aftermath behind him, but it was crawling all over him again, leaving him with the distinct urge to punch something. To punch someone.

Was he an *? Sure. He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d become one. It was right when a f*cking Ford had T-boned him while he was giving his teammate’s wife a ride to practice, thus igniting a firestorm of speculation not only that Jackson’s career was over but also that Madison’s claims of his cheating were true.

Only one of the rumors was true—that his career was over. Jackson had never cheated. Had never once thought about it, even when he and Madison had gone days without speaking.

“To hell with this,” Jackson muttered to himself, plowing his fingers through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this.” He was sick of himself. Sick of the way his brain was on constant replay of everything that was wrong in his life. Sick of the way he woke up each morning hating the day to come and went to bed dreading the next one.

He wasn’t depressed, or at least he didn’t think so. He was just…half alive. He had no f*cking clue how to get back to the land of the living, but he did know one step he could take now in the right direction.

Before he could change his mind, Jackson pushed back from his desk and strode to his office door, hesitating only briefly before entering the hallway and making the short trip to the office next to his.

Lincoln Mathis’s door was closed, but judging from the raucous laughter, Jackson had a good idea that Lincoln’s closed door had more to do with trying to muffle the noise than it did with keeping people out.

Jackson raised his hand to knock, then dropped his fist back to his side.

What if they didn’t answer? What if it got all awkward the moment he stepped into the room? Jackson felt a bit like the nerdy kid on the playground who was about to ask the cool kids if he could play.

He, Jackson Burke, the man who’d once been voted sexiest guy in America, the man who had six Super Bowl rings, the man whose stunning wife had spent three seasons on Housewives, was scared shitless of rejection.

He lifted his hand once more and gave the door a firm rap before he could regret it.

Nothing.

He knocked again, louder, and this time the laughter inside faded to a trickle before stopping altogether.