Page 41 of Saving Her Heart
"Isn't it? No family, a few wacked-out friends, work is my life?—"
"You have friends. The Bad News Babes would take bullets for you. The Walking Ladies adore you. Hudson and Kate, Grace and Kane—they all care about you." He pauses. "You have me."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
The simple certainty in his voice undoes something inside me. But before I can respond, another text comes through. Unknown number again.
Unknown: Enjoy your last night. Tomorrow everything burns.
Jax reads it over my shoulder, his entire body going rigid. He immediately calls Captain Ramirez, then Declan, then someone from the fire department, I think his name is Chance. Within minutes, there are plans for overnight surveillance on all my properties, increased patrols, and a trace on the phone number.
"We need to go," he says. "Now. I want you out of sight of this asshole."
The drive to our building is tense. Jax checks the mirrors constantly, taking a circuitous route that I know is meant to lose any tail, if we have one. This all seems like a movie I’m stuck in. When we finally arrive, he insists on checking the parking garage, the stairwells, and both our apartments before letting me out of his sight. I just want to pee in peace.
"Clear," he finally says, but his hand stays on his weapon.
We stand in the hallway between our doors, and I realize I have no idea what happens next.
"Pack a bag," he says. "You're staying with me tonight."
"Jax—"
"Someone just threatened to burn everything down tomorrow. You're not staying alone."
I want to argue, but I'm too tired. Too scared. Too overwhelmed by everything that's happened since I woke up this morning expecting a normal day.
I pack mechanically. Clothes, toiletries, laptop, the photo of my grandmother I always take when I travel. When I emerge from my bedroom with my overnight bag, Jax is on the phone again.
"—extra patrols all night. Yes, sir. I understand."
He hangs up and looks at me. "Ready?"
"No."
"Me neither."
His apartment is exactly what I expected—organized, minimal, but with surprising touches of personality. Photos from the Hoopla’s gang on various adventures. A guitar in the corner I didn't know he played. And on the kitchen counter, the coffee maker that's definitely seen better days.
"Still can't make decent coffee?" I ask.
"Some things never change." He sets my bag in the bedroom—his bedroom—then returns. "You can have the bed. I'll take the couch."
"Jax—"
"Shower first. Argue later. You smell like gasoline."
He's right. The acrid smell clings to my clothes, my hair, my skin. I escape to the bathroom, standing under the hot water until it runs cold, trying to wash away the day's horror. When I emerge, wrapped in my fuzzy robe, he's cooking something that smells amazing.
"Pasta," he says without turning around. "Still your comfort food?"
"Yeah."
We eat in comfortable silence, the domesticity of it both foreign and familiar. This could have been our life, if things had been different. If he'd stayed. If I'd forgiven him sooner. If, if, if.
"Stop," he says quietly.
