I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(6)
Feeling eyes on him, Jackson glanced at a group of twentysomethings near the window. He made eye contact with one of them, and though the entire group made a big show of not looking his way, it was obvious they’d recognized him. Had been talking about him.
Jackson took another sip of his drink and told himself that it didn’t bother him.
Not so long ago he’d been able to walk into a room—any room—and be swarmed with fans wanting autographs or selfies or just to touch him. But it was less common in New York. More often than not, he tended to blend into the suit-wearing, Monday-through-Friday crowd as though he were one of them.
Because he was one of them. Or at least he was trying damn hard to be.
Jackson slid a finger under the collar of his shirt and tugged. He didn’t care what his tailor said. The damn thing was too tight.
He went for another sip only to freeze when he saw a pair of very nice legs out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head subtly to get a better look, and all traces of boredom vanished.
A woman in a short red dress could do that to a man. Especially when the woman had the most perfect pair of legs he’d ever seen. Long—sinfully long—toned, smooth, golden skin…
His eyes traveled up over the trim ankles in their sexy sandals, over the defined calves and toned thighs and narrow hips. The woman was tall and thin, bordering on lanky, which he didn’t usually go for, but it was working for her. In a big way.
His gaze kept right on going, over the narrow waist, over the small but perky breasts, until he reached her face.
Pretty. Very pretty. Her shoulder-length blond hair was sexy and tousled, her eyes big and blue. And that mouth…
That mouth was smiling at him. No, smirking. At him.
The woman had definitely caught him in the act of leering.
Shit, he thought. Might as well roll with it.
Jackson calmly lifted his drink to his lips as he met her eyes, only to experience a jolt as their gazes collided.
No. Hell no.
Jackson felt a punch of lust in his gut, followed by something else…something low and dangerous, not unlike an eerie siren trying to tell him that his complicated life was about to get a whole lot worse.
Slowly the woman lowered herself to the barstool next to his. He watched in horrified arousal as she reached out, plucked his drink from his hand, and raised it to red, red lips, taking a deliberate sip.
Only after she’d set the drink—his drink—back on the bar did she speak.
“Hello, Jackson.”
Damn, he thought. If he’d been in trouble before, he was completely f*cked now.
Jackson swallowed. “Mollie.”
Chapter 3
Jackson Burke was here.
He was here.
After nearly eight months of radio silence, he’d taken her up on her dinner invitation, and she felt…
She felt…
She felt…
Mollie threw her arms around him before she could stop herself, her cheek buried against the fabric of his suit.
“I missed you,” she said quietly.
His hand came up to her elbow. Gave it an awkward pat as he cleared his throat. “Missed you too.”
Mollie pulled back, and before she could think better of it, she placed both palms to his face, turning his head slightly from side to side so she could study him. She couldn’t help it. She’d always been a toucher—it was how she figured things out.
And what she was trying to figure out was how Jackson Burke was. Not how he said he was. How he actually was.
He looked handsome, but then he always did, in that rugged, sexy-as-hell way. His hair was that in-between place of dark blond and light brown that looked blah on women but which men could easily pull off, especially when paired with sexy hazel eyes and the perfect amount of stubble.
And yet Mollie looked closer. Saw beneath the perfect bone structure and full bottom lip. She saw the tension around his mouth, the flat look in his eyes.
It was worse than she’d feared. This was a shell of the man she’d once known.
Damn you, Madison.
He rolled his eyes at her scrutiny before gently pushing her away. “Quit inspecting me. My great-aunt Millie used to do that when she saw me once a year on Christmas, and then ask if I’d considered witch hazel for the pimples.”
Mollie released his face. “She was probably right. The bark and leaves of Hamamelis virginiana make a powerful astringent that is thought to help acne.”
Jackson let out a laugh. “Jesus. I haven’t seen you in eight months, and practically the first word out of your mouth is ‘acne’?”
“You don’t have any, if it makes you feel better. Pimples, I mean. I’d tell you if you did.”
“I know you would.” His eyes softened slightly as he smiled at her.
“So are you going to tell me how you’ve been, or what?” she asked, slapping the bar with her palm a little impatiently.
Jackson hesitated, licking a drop of whisky from his bottom lip with his tongue.
Mollie’s stomach tightened a little, but she told herself that it hadn’t. It mostly worked—she’d gotten darn good at telling her body that it had absolutely no response to Jackson Burke.
“How about we start with you?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said, already shaking her head. “You know how I am. I’ve been emailing you at least once a week for months. You know about my job and my friends and that weirdo I dated, and—”