Page 10 of His Secret Obsession

People like to use that word when they talk about my parents—like their lives weren’t viciously pulled away from me in the most senseless accident ever.

Guess that’s something Jax and I have in common, knowing what it’s like to live without one or both of our parents.

When my eyes open again, I stare at the piles of blindingly white snow that lay on either side of the road. That’s part of why I didn’t want to come out tonight. I can’t look at the piles of the deceptively calm fluff without fighting back a panic attack. But, for a while, he made me forget.

With his full attention on me, the world felt invincible for a moment.

Like my parents weren’t taken from me by a patch of ice on the road that none of us noticed until it was too late.

My vision blurs with tears I refuse to shed right now.

Instead, I close my eyes and imagine what could have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.

Jax

Present Day

Why does my goddamned heart burn like it’s on fire? Grunting, I absentmindedly rub at my chest while discreetly sneaking another glance towards the staircase. Still no sign of her. With a disgruntled sigh, I flip the frying eggs over in the skillet and reach into a nearby drawer, pulling out a package of antacids and popping one into my mouth.

I knew living under the same roof as her wouldn’t be easy, but I wasn’t expecting it to give me heartburn. Even after all these years, seeing her with my brother still makes my skin itch, butknowing she is down the hall from me in his bed? It feels like the definition of cruel and unusual punishment.

“Where the hell is she?” I mutter. Normally, I would be heading toward the shop right now. It doesn’t open for another hour, but I like to get there early. Even though I have a private office, the walls are thin and do nothing to disguise the noises of the men working in the garage all day. Early morning is the best time of day to work on payroll and budgeting, yet I’m still here.

Just waiting to catch a glimpse of her.

Like I have been for years now.

My heart trips over itself when I hear the creaking of loosened floorboards near the top of the staircase. But I give it a count of five before allowing myself to send a casual glance in that direction. I use that time to slip on my usual mask of cool indifference and force my tone into one of boredom.

“Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” she replies, her voice muffled through a wide yawn. I’m hit with a rush of warmth, and I clamp my lips down so I don’t grin like a fool.

I study her profile out of the corner of my eye as she ambles into the kitchen. My cock twitches with interest like it does every time she walks into a room. It’s not just that she’s pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. It’s her simple, laid-back style that’s classically beautiful. The way her thick, shoulder-length chestnut-colored hair lies against the delicate slope of her neck. It’s the strange contradiction of her tendency to blush like a sweet, shy thing one minute before she’s shooting me a challenging glare with fire in her eyes the next.

Part of me was hoping she would come down in her sleepwear, while another part of me didn’t want to face that temptation. She’s wearing what I assume is her work outfit, reminding me that today is her first day at her new job. She has on black dress pants that hug every inch of her hips with a black shirt tuckedinto the waistband. My eyes travel down her legs, drinking in every mouth-watering inch until I reach her ankles.

And frown.

“You’re wearing high heels.”

Her lips tip down as she reaches for the coffee pot. I watch as she scoops the coffee grounds into the basket and fills the reservoir with water.

“Yup.”

Although our conversations are usually stilted and awkward, I feel a rush of annoyance at the vague response. It’s my own fault she doesn’t want to talk to me—after all, I’ve gone out of my way to interact as little as possible with her. Still, it rankles.

It’s just…hard to talk to the woman who’s supposed to beminewhen she’s not.

But sometimes I’m afraid if I let myself converse with her, I’ll confess to everything. The words will just spew right out. But the day she became my brother’s girl, all of that ceased to matter. If you look up the definition ofoff limits, you’ll see Maddison Raddix’s name right next to it. Which means, unfortunately, that I have to keep my feelings—and dick—away from this woman.

“Why?”

“It’s part of the dress code.” She gives me a sideways glance, her eyebrows furrowing as she reaches for an empty mug.

“That’s a stupid dress code,” I mutter. She chuckles dryly, the steam of the coffee wafting around her face as she pours the black liquid into a dark, orange-speckled mug. As I fill up two plates with food, I try to study the way she makes her coffee—a heaping teaspoon of sugar and a dash of vanilla creamer.

“That’s what Irene makes all the girls wear,” she says. The way her lips purse together tells me she isn’t all that enthused to be wearing high heels for eight hours a day. And honestly, it makes something uncomfortable settle in my chest. I peer down at herfeet again, taking note of how slender her ankles are. They look sodelicate.

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