Page 4 of His Secret Obsession

And yet, he never breathed a word about any of it to Luke.

Why?

Honestly, I don’t like to think about that night any more than I have to. And up until recently, with me and Luke living in Crestwood Heights, that hasn’t been too much of a problem. But it’s going to be hard to avoid him now that we’ll be under his roof.

“Home sweet home,” Luke mutters dryly.

I peer out the window as the car turns into a gravel driveway next to a sign that readsParker’s Automotive Care. The words are painted in red on the green, wooden sign that is slightly slanted. Next to it sits a monster-sized tire with an assortment of daisies sprouting from the ground inside it. Within a few seconds, the four-stall garage with its attached lobby comes into view. Since today is Sunday, it’s completely deserted.

Our car slowly makes its way up the long, winding driveway, and my pulse begins to thump at the base of my neck. Dread curls inside my gut as the house comes into view.

At least it’s a large house, so it’ll be easy enough to avoid each other.

And—coming from someone with a background in interior design—it’s not a bad house to look at. It’s a spacious, creamy white building with slate-gray shutters and a wooden porch that gives it curbside appeal. There’s a garage attached to the house, and the car stops just outside of it. Luke turns the motor off and there’s an awkward silence.

I clear my throat. “You’re right. It won’t be that bad, and this is our best option. Staying here until we can save up to afford a nicer place of our own.”

Luke nods thoughtfully, his gaze sliding over to the house. Then he sighs, turning towards me with a lopsided grin. “Let’s get this over with. The sooner we get settled, the sooner we can break in the new mattress.”

I roll my eyes, biting down on the smile that wants to spread across my face. A pleasant warmth settles in my chest, but I try not to get my hopes up. I still remember the early days of our relationship when Luke couldn’t keep his hands off me. Lately, it feels like we are both simply going through the motions, and I miss the days when we would actively look for any excuse to slip off to the bedroom.

Luke reaches forward and places a soft kiss on my lips before pulling away and slipping out of the car. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I roll my shoulders and open the car door. While Luke walks around the back of the vehicle to open the trunk where our suitcases are, I can’t help but want to bask in the warmth of the sun. Something about the hot rays hitting my skin makes my brain feel like it’s being given feel-good endorphins that loosen all the tension from my shoulders. Tipping my head back towards the yellow glow, I close my eyes and give myself a minute to feel the warmth on my face. A smile tugs at my lips.

Until the thump of a suitcase hitting the ground reaches my ears, and I open my eyes again.

And there he is, those emerald eyes locked on me.

My heart flips over in my chest, and I swallow.

Jax Parker stands on the porch, just as good-looking and surly as I remember. His navy-blue shirt is molded to his broad chest, and he wears a pair of Wranglers that accentuate his muscular thighs and, like usual, a pair of work boots. His black hair is short with a patchwork of stubble trailing down his square jaw. My eyes land on his right eyebrow—the scarred one that he got from a fishing accident when he was younger.

His gaze is pensive as it flits over to Luke before coming back to me with a clenched jaw. Even after all these years, his obvious disdain for me puts a sinking sensation in my stomach. I don’t want to be this affected by him, but I’ve never been able to shake it.

“Thought you guys were going to be here for breakfast.” He draws the words out slowly in that velvety, smooth voice. Luke gathers up his suitcase, shooting him an exasperated look as he walks past him up the porch steps. Jax stares right back, not even blinking. We actuallyweresupposed to be here for breakfast, but Luke managed to sleep through all of his alarm clocks and only grumbled at me when I tried to wake him up.

I grimace before turning back to my own suitcase, wishing I hadn’t packed so much shit into it. All the bedrooms are upstairs, and I can already feel the way the straps will dig into my shoulders the entire way up. I reach down and pull it toward me, trying to keep the tremble out of my arms as I heft it up.

Only for a familiar large hand to yank it out of my grasp. I almost jump back in surprise, my jaw going slack as Jax slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing—because it probably does to that giant of a man—and stalks away. I quickly trail afterhim, trying to keep up with his long strides. His boots thump onto the porch with each step up.

“I can get that,” I protest. My hands reach out to take it back, but he’s already walking through the front door.

“Mmm.”

That’s his only reply.

Here’s the thing about Jax: I’ve never been able to get a good read on him. Maybe because of the distance we force between us. But I can’t tell if he’s just trying to be nice, if he’s only going through the motions because that’s how he was taught to act by his father, or if he just thinks I’m completely incapable.

I don’t allow myself to be annoyed because let’s face it: that suitcase is way overpacked and heavy as shit.

I pause in the doorway, my mouth open as I take in the living room. It’s been over a year since the one and only time I’ve been inside this house. Last time, it screamed bachelor pad. Today it looks…well, it looks like the way I would decorate my own home. The house has an open-floor concept, and there’s a large, dark-gray sectional in the living room. The wooden coffee table in front of it complements the fireplace on the far wall. Above that hangs a large TV. And behind the couch, against the wall that supports the staircase, hangs a massive painting. It’s a mountain range that looks pretty similar to the ones that surround this valley, with vibrant hues of orange and yellow.

Did he hire someone to decorate this place, or did he do it himself?

Shit, there’s even a chunky, white-knit throw hanging over the back of the couch. And candles—there are candles on the coffee table. It looks welcoming. Cozy, even.

Was I expecting his home to look like a dungeon?

The murmuring of voices draws my attention away, and I quickly dart up the stairs. Rounding the corner, I follow the sound to the last bedroom on the left.

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