didn't have a social life, and wanted to become the first female CEO of a bazillion dollar company. I'd been valedictorian and winner of the Most Likely to Be Successful banner at graduation.
The only fun I'd ever had was with Jax. Whatever had prompted him to notice a mousy, studious, absolutely average girl was beyond me. But once we'd started dating, he'd slowly begun pushing my buttons, helping me to lean on my rigid views of life. He'd given me my first beer, helped me achieve drunk for the first time, and kept me out past curfew. I pushed back, studying hard and vocalizing my need to get good grades and go to a good college, but little by little my self-imposed rules bent a bit and even broke on occasion.
He'd been the first (and arguably only) man I'd ever loved.
The night he told me he loved me, I'd had one thought: if this isn't love, I don't know what love is. I don't want to know .
My emotions had run so high: scared, thrilled, exhilarated—I'd cried out of happiness and sobbed out of fear that I'd lose him.
And when he asked me to marry him…
"Thought you might be here." The man himself stepped from the woods behind me, pulling a book of matches out of his pocket.
"What are you doing here?" I leapt up and took a few steps back. I didn't feel like getting surprised, scared, or arrested at the moment, and he'd already hit two of the three. I wanted to avoid the third.
Jax stepped past me, pushed away extra debris, and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves into the fire pit. He lit a match and tossed it onto the small teepee. It was ablaze in a second, a beautiful little fire. Looking around, he carefully selected a larger log and added it to the flames.
Watching him was a thrill in itself despite my desire to stay far, far away from the man I'd loved so hard. His naturally earned muscles rippled as he lifted another piece of wood, twisting his chiseled midsection and exposing a row of beauteous abs, visible through his tight, plain T-shirt. His hands, with a softness that I remembered so perfectly, gently placed the log on the pit and adjusted the fire as if his fingers contained magic. (Which they did—I can vouch for them. Pure wizardry, in fact). There was no other explanation for the feelings he could invoke through a single touch or a soft stroke.
My mind flickered through a reel of thoughts, none of which I could find the words to voice. He moved so easily, it seemed almost sacrilegious to break the flow with which he caressed the fire to a warm, sparkling life.
Appearing satisfied, Jax's gaze washed over me quickly, a question silent in his eyes. He looked away just as fast. A few short steps later, he perched next to me on the log.
"You're running." He stated a fact, didn't ask a question.
"No." I glanced down at my shoes. "Well, yes. But not far. Just…jogging."
"Right." The skepticism with which he spoke pained my stomach. It was as if he'd lost all faith in me.
I shook my head. I'd broken his trust, badly. I deserved it. I looked anywhere but him: up through the tree branches, deep into the fire, at each and every single twig and grass strand beneath my dirty running shoes.
I worked up the courage to look at him. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened ten years ago."
Jax started to speak, but I put a hand up and spoke over him until he quieted.
"I should've apologized a long time ago. I tried but…well, I tried. But I didn't come back to take abuse for it."
"Why did you come back?"
It was my turn to pause. "Different reasons."
Jax let it drop. "Did you do it?"
"Do what?"
He leveled his gaze at me, and I knew he was speaking about Anthony Jenkins.
"Do you honestly think I did?" I met his gaze straight on. Neither of us wavered for a long moment. Eventually he looked away into the fire, and I followed suit.
"Tell me about the vandalism."
"What do you want to hear?" I watched the flames flicker red, blue, yellow. "Someone broke into my studio and painted a mess. I'm sure
The only fun I'd ever had was with Jax. Whatever had prompted him to notice a mousy, studious, absolutely average girl was beyond me. But once we'd started dating, he'd slowly begun pushing my buttons, helping me to lean on my rigid views of life. He'd given me my first beer, helped me achieve drunk for the first time, and kept me out past curfew. I pushed back, studying hard and vocalizing my need to get good grades and go to a good college, but little by little my self-imposed rules bent a bit and even broke on occasion.
He'd been the first (and arguably only) man I'd ever loved.
The night he told me he loved me, I'd had one thought: if this isn't love, I don't know what love is. I don't want to know .
My emotions had run so high: scared, thrilled, exhilarated—I'd cried out of happiness and sobbed out of fear that I'd lose him.
And when he asked me to marry him…
"Thought you might be here." The man himself stepped from the woods behind me, pulling a book of matches out of his pocket.
"What are you doing here?" I leapt up and took a few steps back. I didn't feel like getting surprised, scared, or arrested at the moment, and he'd already hit two of the three. I wanted to avoid the third.
Jax stepped past me, pushed away extra debris, and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves into the fire pit. He lit a match and tossed it onto the small teepee. It was ablaze in a second, a beautiful little fire. Looking around, he carefully selected a larger log and added it to the flames.
Watching him was a thrill in itself despite my desire to stay far, far away from the man I'd loved so hard. His naturally earned muscles rippled as he lifted another piece of wood, twisting his chiseled midsection and exposing a row of beauteous abs, visible through his tight, plain T-shirt. His hands, with a softness that I remembered so perfectly, gently placed the log on the pit and adjusted the fire as if his fingers contained magic. (Which they did—I can vouch for them. Pure wizardry, in fact). There was no other explanation for the feelings he could invoke through a single touch or a soft stroke.
My mind flickered through a reel of thoughts, none of which I could find the words to voice. He moved so easily, it seemed almost sacrilegious to break the flow with which he caressed the fire to a warm, sparkling life.
Appearing satisfied, Jax's gaze washed over me quickly, a question silent in his eyes. He looked away just as fast. A few short steps later, he perched next to me on the log.
"You're running." He stated a fact, didn't ask a question.
"No." I glanced down at my shoes. "Well, yes. But not far. Just…jogging."
"Right." The skepticism with which he spoke pained my stomach. It was as if he'd lost all faith in me.
I shook my head. I'd broken his trust, badly. I deserved it. I looked anywhere but him: up through the tree branches, deep into the fire, at each and every single twig and grass strand beneath my dirty running shoes.
I worked up the courage to look at him. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened ten years ago."
Jax started to speak, but I put a hand up and spoke over him until he quieted.
"I should've apologized a long time ago. I tried but…well, I tried. But I didn't come back to take abuse for it."
"Why did you come back?"
It was my turn to pause. "Different reasons."
Jax let it drop. "Did you do it?"
"Do what?"
He leveled his gaze at me, and I knew he was speaking about Anthony Jenkins.
"Do you honestly think I did?" I met his gaze straight on. Neither of us wavered for a long moment. Eventually he looked away into the fire, and I followed suit.
"Tell me about the vandalism."
"What do you want to hear?" I watched the flames flicker red, blue, yellow. "Someone broke into my studio and painted a mess. I'm sure
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