Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Morning.” I smile at Noah, then steal a glance at Jackson. He’s at the counter sipping his coffee. I fight a smile at his choice of tie—the one he used to gag me a few days ago in his office while he fucked me from behind.
“Georgia.”
Chills race up my spine. “Morning, Mr. Blake.”
He sets his coffee down. “When are you going to call me Jackson? Mr. Blake makes me feel old.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Oh, you’re not old, Mr.—Jackson.” I fight the giggle that wants to escape my lips. Jackson hates being referred to as old. It’s a button I love pushing. It always ends with me tied up and his palm on my ass.
“Are you cold, Georgia?” he asks, eyeing the goosebumps on my arms.
“No. I’m just thinking about lunch. Hungry.” A fire lights in his eyes.
“Want me to make you something? We have time.”
I look over at Noah. “Um… yeah. Sure.” Smiling, he hops off his stool and heads into the oversized pantry, returning with a handful of ingredients.
“Sit down. I’ll get you coffee.”
Noah has been extra accommodating lately. So has Jackson. I’m starting to worry the sleepovers are causing old feelings to resurface. If they were ever buried in the first place. “It’s fine. I can get my own coffee.” I move to stand up when Noah puts his hand out.
“Sit. I’ve got you.”
I nod and retake my seat, stealing a glance at Jackson. His jaw is tight, and his knuckles are white as he grips his coffee mug. Shit. Why can’t he ease up on me when it comes to Noah? His patience is nonexistent. Whether it’s a ride home, a shared movie, or sitting next to him at lunch… every interaction ends with Jackson punishing me for crossing some invisible line. And while I don’t mind that kind of playtime, I can’t figure out how to meet his impossible demands.
Sighing, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” then turn back. I will definitely pay later. My phone vibrates on the counter, and I flip it over to see who’s calling. My mom. This is the third time this week. Every voicemail is the same. Please call her. She misses me. She wants to make amends.
She should have thought about that when she allowed her loser husband to take his fist to me.
I hit decline and flip my back phone over.
“Your mom again?” Noah asks.
“Yeah. She’s clearly not getting the hint.”
He sets a mug in front of me. “Maybe you should answer. Let her get out what she wants to say so she stops calling.”
I take a sip, needing the caffeine to jolt my senses. “Or I can continue not to answer.”
Noah offers a sympathetic smile. “That too. Hey, what do you think about going on my dad’s boat this weekend? Dad, you don’t care, right?”
I dare a look at him, assuming he’s going to really fucking care.
“Why don’t we all go?” Jackson says.
Noah shrugs. “Boat’s big enough. I don’t care. What do you say?”
I take another sip of coffee. “Sure, why not? Sounds fun.” Or my death sentence.
Jackson sets his mug in the sink with a dull clink, his focus shifting to Noah. “Don’t be late.” With that, he strides out of the kitchen. I hesitate, wanting to follow him, to demand an explanation. I never suggested these plans. And before I had the chance to answer, he invited himself.
So why does it feel like I’m the one who did something wrong?
“Here. Eat.” Noah slides a plate of pancakes in front of me. I thank him and force down a bite. They’re probably delicious, but they taste like regret. The moment he steps away to grab his work bag, I scrape the rest into the trash. “We should get moving,” I say casually. The sooner we get to work, the sooner I can track down his pissed-off father.
When we arrive, I wave Noah off before making a beeline straight for Jackson’s office.
“Hey. Is Mr. Blake available?”
“I believe so, but let me double-check.” Sarah clicks her buzzer and notifies Jackson I’m here. She nods and tells me to go in. I thank her and step into his office, quietly shutting the door behind me. “Hey. I wanted to talk about—”
“Not now, Georgia.”
The way he says my name is wrong. There’s no purr or lust in it.
“Are you mad at me? I didn’t do—”
“Fuckin’ Christ. Stop acting like a whiny child for one fucking second.” His voice raises, and I jerk at the way he speaks to me. Wiping his hands down his face, he says, “What do you want?”
“Nothing.” Not anymore.
“Stop acting like a child and spit it out,” he snaps.
“Screw you, Jackson.”
“It isn’t lunchtime yet, Peach.”
His words hit their mark. Seeing this side of him creates a whirlwind of regret. His tone cuts deep. Up until this moment, I didn’t realize how far gone I was with this man. But the way he dismisses me so easily as if I were nothing, reveals that he’s only in this for exactly what we agreed on. “Which you can cancel. I sure as hell won’t be eating shit with you.”