“All set?” he asks, eyes glinting.
“Just need my jacket and bag.”
He waits patiently by the door, one hand in his pocket, watching me with that easy half-smile that makes my pulse skip. When I lock up and step outside, he scrubs a hand over his jaw, glancing toward the street. There’s a shadow in his expression, and it gives me pause.
“Rough day?” I ask gently, even though he’d said earlier it had been a good one. Because I’ve learned, sometimes people say ‘good’ when what they mean is ‘I’m tired but trying’.
He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that always makes my stomach flip, and takes my overnight bag from me like it weighs nothing. “Not too bad,” he says, brushing it off.
“I appreciate you taking care of the wine and salad,” I tell him, meaning it. It’s such a small thing, but the gesture warms me. He just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But for me, it is. I’m so used to handling everything on my own—work, errands, meals, my own company in bed.
Okay. Not going there right now. Definitely not.
He opens the car door for me, and the simple chivalry of it does something strange to my chest. I slide in, trying to act casual while my pulse tap-dances beneath my skin. When he rounds the hood and gets in beside me, the interior feels smaller, filled with his quiet energy. I angle my body slightly toward him, eyes tracing the long lines of his frame as he backs out of the driveway.
I inhale and wrinkle my nose. “Something smells good.”
“Oh, that’s just me,” he deadpans, flashing a grin that makes me want to roll my eyes and climb into his lap.
“Maple and cinnamon,” I tease. “Is that your new cologne, Mr. Smells-Delicious?”
He laughs, easy and unbothered. “Nah. I grabbed some cinnamon rolls at the Nook this morning. I swear, Gina must put crack in them.”
I grin. “You’ll have to try making some yourself.”
“She won’t give up the recipe,” he says, mock-frustrated.
“Maybe you’ll have to sneak in the back while she’s baking and do a little recon.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, the humor dimming slightly. There’s something in that motion—restless, thoughtful—that catches at me. My stomach tightens. He’s got something on his mind, and the longer he doesn’t say it, the more my nerves start buzzing.
Maybe I should help him out. I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay, that we don’t have to do this, but before I can get a word out, he speaks.
“Speaking of the Nook,” he says, eyes fixed on the road, voice casual but not quite. “I ran into Billy there this morning.”
“Really?” That takes me by surprise. Everyone knows the Nook is the Bucks’ unofficial hangout, and Billy’s not exactly welcome. Besides, he’s a Golden Grinds loyalist. I didn’t go inside this morning, so I assumed that’s why I didn’t see him. Apparently, that’s not the whole story. “Why would he go there?” I ask slowly, suspicion flickering to life. If he’s poking around looking for gossip, I swear?—
“He said your usual spot was packed,” Jaxon says, glancing at me briefly.
“It was packed, actually.”
“He said he heard good things about the Nook. Thought he’d check it out.”
There’s a beat of silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. I tilt my head, studying his profile. “Why do you sound so suspicious?”
He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Sorry if I do. I just… I don’t really trust the guy.”
“I can understand that.” It’s not just Billy he doesn’t trust. It’s reporters, and I actually fall into that category.
He gives a humorless half-laugh. “I know you work with him, and I don’t want to say anything negative. But it felt like he wanted to get under my skin, like he wanted me to know you were talking to some guy who brought coffee to your car. He said it like he was testing me, waiting for a reaction.”
Okay, so Billy was at Golden Grinds long enough to see that. “I was chatting with Matt.” That should make him happy right. That’s why we’re doing this. But wait, maybe that made him jealous. When I don’t get a reaction, I explain. “Matt. You know, hot coffee shop guy.”
“I know who Matt is,” he says, eyes still on the road, voice steady but low.
Okay, so it’s not jealous. This is something deeper, older. His issue with being watched, with stories being twisted. His history with the media, and how easily they could turn something normal into something salacious.
“I’m sorry, Jaxon.” My voice softens. “This is too much, and we should end it right now. You’ve had the media breathing down your neck for years. I don’t want to be the reason you start looking over your shoulder again. That’s not fair to you.”