I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(76)

“What do you mean, it’s what you needed?” he asked, already dreading her answer.

“We are not the Schistosoma mansoni worms. We are not mates for life, or even a year.” She lifted her chin. “You’ve finally given me exactly what I need to get over you.”

Mollie opened the door and was gone.

And by the time he heard the door close with a final click, Jackson was hit with a searing, awful realization.

He didn’t want Mollie Carrington to get over him.





Chapter 29


“Riley, your collection of junk food is impressive.”

“I know, right?” the brunette said as she came back into the kitchen. “Some people collect stamps, I collect chips.”

Mollie accepted the pair of folded sweats Riley held out, even as she continued to stare at the cupboard stocked with chips, candy, cheese crackers, and chocolate-covered pretzels.

“Not quite the shelf life of stamps, though,” Mollie mused.

“Pretty damn close,” Riley’s husband muttered from the kitchen table, where he sat bent over a laptop. “That crap is so full of preservatives it could withstand a nuclear holocaust.”

Riley made a crude gesture at his back, and Mollie smiled in spite of her ravaged mood.

She still wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up here. Upon walking out on Jackson a couple hours earlier, she’d found herself standing on Park Avenue, on the verge of a complete breakdown and with absolutely nowhere to go.

She’d nearly called Kim. But while Kim was her best friend in the whole world, her friend had a teensy problem with the phrase “I told you so,” and that so wasn’t what Mollie needed to hear right now.

So instead she’d called a newer friend—one certain to give it to her straight, even if straight hurt.

She’d called Riley Compton.

Mollie had said all of ten words on the phone before Riley had interrupted and asked where she was. Directions on which subway train to get on had followed, and an hour after leaving Jackson’s place, Mollie had found herself standing outside Riley and Sam Compton’s brownstone in Brooklyn.

It had been the right decision. Riley had opened the door, opened her arms, and tightly squeezed Mollie before telling her she’d made up the guest room.

“You know, normally I don’t share my goods,” Riley was saying, “but I make exceptions for friends whose hearts have been trampled by boys. Take your pick. Sweet tooth? Salty tooth?”

“Actually, I’m not all that hungry,” Mollie said. She should be. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. Certainly hadn’t eaten at her disastrous lunch with her sister. But she couldn’t fathom the thought of eating right now. Couldn’t really fathom the thought of doing much more than curling into a ball and crying.

Riley shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, what do I want? Sour cream and onion, or salt and vinegar?…It’s a bit like Rosemary’s Baby, isn’t it?”

“Hey, Ri, how about something from the fridge? Carrot sticks? A salad?” Sam said, turning around in his chair to give his wife an exasperated look.

“Don’t be silly, honey. We don’t keep any of that nonsense in the fridge.”

“We do now. I went shopping.”

“Ooh, did they have any of those powdered-sugar donut holes that I like?”

“Riley!”

“You know, maybe you were smart to get out when you had a chance,” Riley said to Mollie out of the corner of her mouth. “Stick with ’em too long, and they start getting weird.”

“Are you a health food guy, Sam?” Mollie asked curiously, looking over at Sam.

He ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “No. Not really.”

“Oh.” Mollie frowned, a little confused as to why an apparently easygoing guy was trying to influence Riley’s eating habits. Based on what Mollie had seen, that seemed a bit like trying to roll a square boulder up Everest.

“Sam, honey, we need whisky and girl time,” Riley said, grabbing a bag of chips and closing the cupboard.

“Oh no, I don’t want to intrude,” Mollie said quickly. “I can just…”

Sam was already moving, closing his laptop and going to a bar cart along the far wall.

“You drink whisky, hon?” he asked Mollie.

“Uh, not really.”

“Well, you do now.” He poured a splash of amber liquid into two crystal glasses and brought one to her before holding up his own glass.

“What are we toasting to?” he asked.

“To men being shits,” Riley said.

He gave his wife a look. “I’m not drinking my own whisky to that.”

“You made this?” Mollie asked, bringing the glass closer and sniffing.

“I did.”

“His distillery is called ROON. It’s won like a dozen awards this year alone, and what he won’t tell you is that it’s the best damn whisky you’ll ever taste,” Riley said, moving closer to her husband and resting a hand on his back as she kissed his cheek.

Mollie’s heart twisted at the easy affection. She wanted that—wanted it with Jackson.

Just like that, the pain came rushing back over her. The pain of telling him how she felt, only to have him stare at her.