Page 12 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“For a nap, maybe. Not for an entire night.”
“I’m not the one who crushed his sports car under a tree,” she mutters, smoothing the blanket for the hundredth time. “Besides, you’re the guest.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “A guest you’d rather not have.”
She straightens, pushing a plait away from her face. Even in the midst of our standoff, I can’t help noticing how the candlelight gilds her skin, turning it to burnished copper. The sight does dangerous things to my concentration.
“It’s one night,” she says impatiently. “Take the bed. Say thank you and don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“No.”
Her brows snap together. “No?”
I step forward, closing the gap between us. “I’m not taking your bed, JJ. We’ll share. End of discussion.”
Her mouth opens, but I continue before she gets a word out. “Unless you’re worried about your self-control around me. What we did on the couch suggests it might be a valid concern.
Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. “Fine. But we stay on our respective sides. And you wear clothes.”
“Were you expecting something else?”
Her brows lift before she schools her expression, but the quick flick of her tongue over her lips betrays her composure. By every law of logic, she’s beautiful when she’s flustered.
“Just establishing boundaries.”
“I’ll play along. For now.”
She watches me suspiciously for a moment longer before disappearing into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes. The moment she’s gone, I run a hand through my hair. This woman will be the death of me.
Sharing a bed with JJ while keeping my hands to myself will take more discipline than managing a hostile takeover. In Vegas, she was drunk. Tonight, there’s no alcohol, no excuses.
She called our marriage a drunken mistake, but I wasn’t nearly as drunk as she thinks. I remember how she looked at me, how her voice shook when she said “I do,” how her hand trembled when she signed that marriage certificate.
I could’ve stopped it. I should’ve stopped it. But I didn’t.
I hear the water running in the bathroom and try not to imagine her naked. I’ve never been a man who thrives on restraint.
I force my thoughts elsewhere. It’s a mental discipline I’ve honed since Mom’s passing. Speaking of family—I wonder how my father is managing.
I haven’t seen or spoken to dad in weeks. Our relationship had been strained long before that. I lost my mom to cancer when I was eleven, and in a way, I lost both my parents that day.
The storm outside rattles the windows, and I think of his small, weathered house on the outskirts of town, with the leaky roof he refuses to let me fix. Stubborn old man. Like father, like son, I suppose.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial his number. It rings five times, and I’m about to hang up when he answers.
“Yeah?” His gruff voice is exactly as I remember it. No greeting, no warmth.
“Hey, Dad. It’s Jaxon.”
“Got caller ID.”
Silence stretches for three beats. “Just checking in. It’s pretty bad out there.”
He grunts. I can picture him sitting in his recliner, the one Mom bought him twenty-five years ago, phone pressed against his ear, expression unchanged. Richard Jamison has perfected the art of emotional vacancy.
“Generator’s running.” Another pause. “You need something?” he asks.
“No, just... making sure you’re okay.”
