Page 12 of Jack's Devotion

"Dinner with my brother and his wife. At their house." I tilt her head back, brushing my lips across hers. "Because I said so."

"You can't just…"

"I can." I kiss her again. Fuck, do I really need to work today? "You've been hiding out here for three days, baby. You need to see something other than the blue paint. And they don't live in Silver Spoon Falls, so it'll be fine."

She stares at me with wide eyes, doubt written plainly on her face.

"It'll be fine, baby."

"Says you," she finally mutters. "It's not your life on the line."

"Hey." I force her to look at me. "Do you think I'm going to let anything happen to the mother of my children? Hell no."

"Children?" she splutters. "Jesus, Jack. Maybe you're the one with a concussion. You've moved awfully fast from, "Me man, me tie you to bed" to, "You woman, you have all me babies"."

"It's a logical progression, Madison." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip before reluctantly releasing her. "And it isn't awfully fast. It's been seven goddamn years in the making."

I step away, leaving her gaping at me, the shock evident on her face.

"Yeah, I said what I said. See you after work." I stride for the door, only to pause. "Move your shit into the main house. I left it unlocked for you."

Chapter Four

Madison

Idon't move my stuff into the main house. Instead, I wait for Jack to leave and then quickly get dressed before slipping off the property the same way I've been getting onto it—through the broken fence panel on the back side of the property.

I should probably tell him about that, but it serves my purposes to keep it a secret for now. Within five minutes of leaving the property, I'm in my car, heading toward my company. Unlike the last couple of days, however, my mind isn't on stalking my father.

It's on Jack Whitlock. The man is…well, he's something.

Did he really remember me all this time because he liked me all those years ago? Why didn't he say something?

Do I even need to ask? When we met, I was still six weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. And Jack may be a lot of things, but he isn't a creep. He never would have acted on anything because of my age. Even had I stuck around after my birthday, I doubt he would have made a move. I was too young for him.

I guess he doesn't feel the same way about the decade separating us now.

Which begs the question…how do I feel about it?

Ha. I don't need to ask that question, either. In seven years, I've never forgotten Jack. I've spent more time than I'd like to admit stalking him online, just to see what he's been doing. Or who he's been doing, more likely. In all that time, there hasn't ever been a single photo of him with anyone. He never got married. He's never been linked to anyone. He's always just been…alone.

Because of me?

God, I hope not. As much as the thought of him with anyone else bothers me…the thought of him spending seven years completely alonebecauseof me bothers me more. He deserved happiness. And I've been through enough in my life to know that loneliness can be…honestly, it's one of the worst things in the world.

It's soul crushing in a way little else is.

And it's something people my size understand a little too well. Dating when you're plus size is hard. We're a fetish or a last resort to a lot of men. Or completely undatable to others.

Too many of my friends back in Los Angeles coupled up with the first person willing just so they wouldn't be alone because that's a real fear at our size…being alone forever. Male or female, it's the same story. We choose partners out of fear just so we aren't alone. That's sad to me.

We deserve to choose someone who sees us and loves us, and we deserve to be chosen for the same reasons.

But loneliness is consuming in a way little else is. Anyone who believes people should have to endure years of it to be worthy of love doesn't understand love at all. Love isn't selfish. It isn't cruel. It's far more profound and complicated than that.

Jack deserved happiness, even if it couldn't have been with me.

So did you, a little voice whispers.

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