Page 30 of Wrapped Up

If we have anything at all.

My forehead rests against the cool glass, my breath fogging up the pane. I close my eyes, remembering the way Jennifer looked at me during dinner. There was a moment, just a fleeting second, when our eyes met across the table. The candlelight flickered in her hazel eyes, and I saw a mix of emotions there—anger, hurt, but also a hint of longing. It was like she was fighting against herself, wanting to believe in me but too scared to take the risk.

The memory shifts.

Suddenly I'm back in Anna and Peter's garden, the cool night air nipping at my skin. Jennifer's voice, soft and vulnerable, echoes in my mind:

“I'm scared,” she had whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I'm scared of letting someone in again, of being vulnerable. What if I'm wrong about you?”

The raw honesty in her voice had hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, to promise her that I'd never hurt her. But I knew that words alone wouldn't be enough. Not for Jennifer.

I open my eyes, the weight of her fear settling on my shoulders. I understand her hesitation, her need to protect herself. Hell, I've been there myself.

We're both walking wounded, carrying the scars of past betrayals. But where I see a chance for healing, for something real and lasting, Jennifer sees a risk. A threat to the careful life she's rebuilt.

I run a hand through my hair, frustration and determination warring within me. I need to find a way to show her that what we have is worth the risk—that I’m not Felix, or any other man who’s hurt her in the past. That I’m here, I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.

But how do I prove this to her?

I push away from the window, my fingers raking through my hair for the umpteenth time tonight. I'm sure I look a mess, but who's here to see?

I stride across the room, past the sleek kitchen island and the unused dining table, my fingers itching to grab my phone from where it sits on the brushed metal coffee table. To call Peter and beg for her number. Just to hear her voice, to know she's okay.

But I promised her space and time. I've got to let her come to me when she's ready.

But what if she's never ready?

A sharp knock on the door jolts me from my spiral, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.

Who could it be?

The sharp rap on the door comes again, more insistent this time.

“Coming, coming,” I mutter, running a hand through my disheveled hair. It's probably Honey, to complain about her latest boy drama. As much as I love my stepsister, I'm not in the mood for her antics tonight.

I reach for the doorknob, already preparing my lecture. “Honey, I swear to God if you're here to—”

The words die on my lips as I yank the door open.

Chapter10

Jennifer

The door swings open, and Jack's voice fills the air before his eyes even find me. “Honey, I swear to God if you're here to—”

He freezes, mouth agape, eyes widening in shock. I drink him in, my body humming at the sight. He's barefoot, wearing well-worn jeans that hang low on his hips and a soft gray t-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair is deliciously mussed, like he's been running his fingers through it. For a moment, we're both frozen, the air between us crackling with electricity and unspoken words.

I swallow hard, willing my voice not to shake. “I heard you were being all broody and noble,” I quip, aiming for nonchalance. “Thought I'd come see if the rumors were true.”

My heart pounds, waiting for his reaction. He hasn't slammed the door in my face. That's something, right?

Jack blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face. He quirks an eyebrow, his voice low and rough. “Want to come in and find out?”

After a nod, I step inside and find his space is sleek and modern, with clean lines and muted tones, but the touches of rustic charm—a worn leather armchair, a weathered wood coffee table—lend an air of lived-in comfort.

The sound of the door clicking shut startles me, causing my heart to race. I turn to face him, and I can't help but take in every subtle change in his expression: the tension in his jaw, the restless tapping of his fingers against his dark denim jeans.

My mind wanders, picturing his confident hands on my bare skin and his smooth voice whispering dirty promises into my ear.

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