Page 31 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
And I hate it. But I don’t take it back.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “We’re not compatible. The woman sitting before me now is a liar and I don’t want any associations with liars.”
“Don’t do this, Jaxon.”
“Do what? Ask for honesty?” His eyes bore into mine. “I told you how I feel about you, and you want to continue to pretend there isn’t a connection between us. A connection that’s always been there, under everything else. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
“What I feel is the need for my freedom,” I say firmly, gathering my resolve. “My life is exactly how I want it. Independent. Uncomplicated.”
“And lonely?”
“Being alone isn’t the same as being lonely,” I counter, ignoring the voice in my head asking if I believe that. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
His jaw tightens as he studies me, eyes darkening with something that looks like hurt.
“Message received,” he says, as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion. The warmth of his body leaves mine, and the sudden absence feels more significant than it should.
I remain seated on the floor, fingers idly spinning a game piece as I watch him gather his things from around my apartment. His movements are efficient and quick.
“The weather report says the roads should be clear by morning,” he comments. “I’ll be out of your hair first thing.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because if I do, I might ask him to stay. And that would just delay my heartbreak.
Jaxon
The tow truck driverfinishes hooking up my car and tightening the chains. The early morning air is crisp, but my body is warm with the slow burn of frustration simmering beneath my skin.
“She’s good to go,” the driver says, giving the chains one last tug before straightening. “We’ll drop it at the shop.”
“Fine.”
He waits a beat, maybe expecting more, but I’m not in the mood for small talk. After a moment, he shrugs, climbing into the truck. The engine rumbles to life as he pulls away with my car in tow.
I glance up at her forth-floor apartment window, curtains still drawn. She’s probably still curled under those flannel sheets, knees tucked to her chest.
I hadn’t bothered waking her. What was there to say that hadn’t been said last night?
“I have no interest in a relationship at this point in my life, and you’re the last man I’d want a relationship with.”
I exhale harshly, my breath fogging in the cold air. I’m done chasing a woman who doesn’t want to be caught.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I climb into the rented SUV and pull away from the parking lot of her building.
I step into my penthouse at 7:00 AM as the security system chimes its welcome. It greets me with climate-controlled perfection and the hushed reverence of expensive emptiness. Everything is as I left it.
“Lights, sixty percent,” I command, and the apartment responds immediately. Unlike some people, technology at least does what I tell it to do.
I toe off my boots, and the silence presses immediately. No soft laughter from the other room. No scent of that jasmine lotion she applies after showering. No lingering warmth from a woman who swore she didn’t want me, even as she trembled in my arms.
My footsteps echo across the marble floor as I move through the living room. The Italian leather furniture is precisely arranged, the art pieces perfectly aligned and the glass surfaces spotless. The cleaning service came yesterday, as scheduled.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against my chest. It’s fine. This is how I like it—quiet.
But the lie settles uncomfortably in my gut.
My phone buzzes. A message from Antonio. I should respond and review the quarterly projections. Instead, I head to the home gym. The need to move, to release the restless energy inside me is overwhelming.
