Standing in the doorway, I admire Amelia—her sexy bedhead hair, plump lips, nipples showing through her thin sports bra … and I slightly drool.
That’s my girl.
Well, who I want to be my girl, but she’s not making it easy on me.
I place my hand on the nightstand and slip back underneath the sheets with her. I’ve missed her body heat since I dragged my sleepy ass out of bed when my phone rang in my pants pocket. I snuck into the living room, not wanting to wake her up, and tuned in to the information Uncle Kyle recited.
My elbow digs into my pillow as I stare down at her, tip my head down, and gently brush my lips against hers. She stirs, one eye opening and then the other, and I hope she doesn’t kick me in the balls for waking her up like she’s damn Sleeping Beauty.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around last night. I can’t blame Amelia for her doubt toward me. My track record with her hasn’t been the best these past few weeks. If she wants me to prove I’m not a flight risk, then that’s what I’ll do.
“Morning,” I say in a hushed voice, drawing back.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“It seems we can blame Sandra and Mick for the vandalism and tire-slashing after all.” I love starting the day with pleasant news.
She groans. “Ugh, hearing those goblins’ names first thing in the morning is like a bad omen for the rest of the day.” She snatches one of her pillows and rests it over her face. “Wake me up tomorrow.”
I chuckle. “Sorry, Millie, baby, but we have to be brewery bound. Toby shot good ole Mick.”
“What?” she squeals, shoving the pillow off her face and swatting it away. “Is he dead?”
“Nah.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Toby took out one of his kneecaps. Mick will live. He’ll just wobble when he walks.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Her cheeks redden. “Why did they even go back? Didn’t they do enough damage?”
“Mick told the officers that he thought it was me in the office, not Toby.”
She sucks in a breath. “So that means he went there to hurt you … like kill you?”
“Sure does, sweetheart.” I’m particularly calm for a man who found out another guy had planned to shoot him last night. But it was Mick, and Mick is a fucking idiot. I’d welcome Mick to show up and try to kill me because I’d love to be the one to put him ten feet in the ground myself. I wouldn’t aim for the kneecaps.
“That might be a worse omen to start your day with,” I add.
“What happens now?”
“Mick and Sandra are in jail since she was the getaway driver. They found enough meth at their house to keep the town high enough for a month. My uncle said they’ll most likely be locked up for a while.”
Hours later, Amelia and I trudge into the townhome with heavy eyes and endless yawns.
She didn’t exactly invite me inside, but she didn’t stop me from stepping out of the car and following her either.
Even on the brink of exhaustion, I’ve held my tongue back all day.
We need to have the dreaded what are we talk.
The day has been long. We went to the brewery, had Amelia’s tires replaced, and then stopped for dinner at Shirley’s.
Yep, Amelia agreed.
It was her idea actually.
We walked in and got gawked at—unsurprisingly—but eventually, everyone’s attention went elsewhere. There were whispers, yes, but what’s a small town without low murmurs and heavy gossip?
I lean against the doorframe to Amelia’s room as she rummages through a drawer, and I cross my arms while observing our surroundings—something I didn’t do last night.
My breathing briefly stops at the realization that there’s no sign of Chris. The picture of them on the nightstand, his clothes draped over the white chair in the corner, and his exercise equipment—all gone.
“You moved his stuff out.” It’s more of a statement rather than a question.
She nods, sitting on the edge of the bed and kicking off her sandals. “The stuff I haven’t gone through yet is in the guest room.”
“Did you do it by yourself?”
“My parents helped.”
Look at my girl.
She’s stronger than me.
I draw in a shallow breath, and a weight settles in my chest at her progress—allowing her heart to heal, sleeping in her bed, and closing her chapter with Chris. Not forgetting him, but just moving on to a new page.
I tug at the collar of my shirt, as if someone cranked up the heat, and my voice is strangled when I say, “Chris’s death, it fucked me up.”
She stills, staring at me, speechless.
Which is okay.
I need to get this out.
I step farther into the room, each step feeling heavier in my sneakers. “But that letter?” A thickness forms in my throat. “It did a number on me.”
“Jax,” she whispers, touching her throat, as if she wants to say more, but the words aren’t coming.
Even though it’s a short distance, the walk to her seems like hours before I reach the bed. I fall on my knees in front of her, as if I’m a man ready to unveil his deepest confessions.
And maybe that’s what I’m doing.
I’m not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.
No one would be able to win the What Is Jax Feeling game.
I can’t rehearse love devotions, nor do I want to.
Whatever I profess to Amelia tonight will be raw and real.
Something no one has ever gotten from me.
Something that only Amelia will ever be able to tear out of me.
I tilt up my head, my eyes meeting hers.
Please see the truth in them.
For the love of God, please see that you’re my heart.
“After reading his letter, every time I did anything, I’d think, Chris can’t do this any longer because of choices I made,” I say, staring up into her eyes. “I’d get into my car: Chris can’t drive anymore. I’d go to Down Home Pub: Chris can no longer enjoy a beer here. I’d see you: Chris can no longer be with Amelia. And in my mind, I thought he would be able to if it wasn’t for me.”
“Jax,” she whispers.
I rest my hands on her knees, no doubt the anguish on my face as transparent as water. “I made a mistake. I was just in so much pain—but that isn’t an excuse, I know. I should’ve never said the things that I did, and I can promise you right now, that’ll never happen again.” My grip tightens on her knees. “I don’t know if you have it in you to forgive me, and if you don’t, I’ll completely understand and respect that decision. But if you do, I beg that you give me that chance. The chance to make up for the hurt I caused you. To prove how much I love you. I don’t believe in second chances, but this time—and only this time—I’m begging you to please give me that chance.”
Tears well in her eyes.
I focus intently on her face, the need to witness her every reaction to my words. “I’m in love with you, Amelia. Hell, I didn’t even know what love was before. And I want to say, hey, maybe that’s why I fucked up, but it’s not an excuse. I know what love is because it’s how I feel when I walk into a room and see you, how it lights me up inside when I make you laugh, how you’re the only woman I ever want to touch again, and how it’s felt like I’m living life with a knife through my chest after losing you.”
I’ve emptied all that I have, exposed every emotion, and I pray to the good man above that it’s enough. My eyes mist, and my heart thunders against my chest, telling me it’ll also leave me if I fucked this up and lost her.
I wait.
Wait for her to declare my future—whether I’ll be one of those men who stays brokenhearted for the rest of his life or if I’ll have the chance to devote my everything into being the man she needs, the man she deserves.
“Jaxson,” she says, tears falling down her cheeks, and she reaches her hands out to stroke my hair. “How can I say no to that?”
That isn’t enough.
It isn’t enough to get my goddamn heart to calm down.
“Say it,” I choke out. “I want to hear you say it.”
She sobs, grabbing at my elbows in an attempt to pull me to my feet. Instead, I lean in closer to her, both my arms resting alongside her legs, and shift my chest forward until my face is mere inches from hers.
“I’m in love with you,” she says, her voice soothing.
“With who, Amelia? Who are you in love with?”
Her hand slides from my hair down to the light scruff on my cheek. She strokes my face the same way she stroked my hair. “With you, Jaxson. I’m in love with you.”
I smirk, give myself a mental pat on the back, and kiss her.
It’s not quick and urgent and forbidden, like so many of our other kisses.
It’s slow as we take a moment for our tongues to meet.
She whimpers, “I love you,” again as I lower her onto the bed.
I rain kisses along her jawline before returning to her mouth to breathe, “Who do you love?” into it.
“Y-O-U,” she says, her tongue tracing my lips.
I undress her, and she pulls my shirt over my head and unbuckles my jeans, freeing my cock from them. It jerks in her hand, but I ignore how hard it’s aching for her.
Instead, I kiss every inch of her body in a leisurely pace as she writhes underneath me and says, “If you love me, you’ll stop going so slow.”
I love her, but that doesn’t mean I listen.
My mouth pays the most attention to her nipples, sucking on each of them and twirling my tongue along the hard pebbles, but that changes as I slide down, settling my face between her legs. That’s where I could spend forever and never get bored.
I slide my finger between the lips of her pussy, keeping that same slow pace, and with a surprising strength, she pushes me closer to her, aiming for my cock to be inside her pussy.
Then, I bend down, grab a condom from my pants pocket, and give her what she wants.
I slide my dick in, inch by inch.
My strokes are deep and precise and unhurried as I make love to the woman I love. And when I know she’s close, oh-so close, I ask her if she’s my girl.
She looks into my eyes and says, “I think, in a way, I always have been.”
“Jax Bridges is a poet, and I didn’t know it.”
“Baby, my love proclamation was far from a haiku, but I told you I’m a man of many skills,” I say as we lie next to each other in bed. “And you pack a good smack.” I rub my cheek. “My face was sore for a week.”
She flops onto her stomach and rests her chin on my bare chest. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“I deserved it and more.”
She mindlessly strokes my chest. “You never asked if I read my letter from Chris.”
I peer down at her. “Did you?”
She nods. “You don’t want to know what it said?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I already placed enough blame on my shoulders. I don’t know how much more I can hold before I collapse.”
“He wasn’t mad in his letter to me. Hurt? Yes. But angry? No.”
I appreciate Chris saving her from that pain.
For placing it all on me.
I twirl a strand of her hair around my finger. “At least he didn’t wait until the second letter to do that with you.”
“Second letter?” She rises to stare at me with wide eyes. “You got a second letter?”
I nod.
“Can I know what it says?”
“He asked me to take care of you.”
Her entire demeanor changes. “Is that why you’re asking for forgiveness? To fulfill his wish for you to take care of me—whatever that means?”
“No. I could take care of you and not be with you, Amelia.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me this?”
“I needed to work on myself to be strong enough for you—to be the man you deserve. I talked to my mom, my dad, your goddamn father. I couldn’t fix our relationship until I fixed myself. I refused to give you a broken man since broken men can do stupid shit that make them lose their girls.”