The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“You don’t want to talk to me,” he said, “I guess I can’t blame—”

The window sash fell into place. The dishwater-gray curtain swung back to cover the glass.

He put the bouquet down on the porch. Then he tucked his hands into his back pockets and headed for his car.

And felt a moment of ineffable loss, and wasn’t that ridiculous? He’d apologized. She’d refused the apology. End of—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft but it stopped him in his tracks. He turned and saw her in the open doorway.

His gaze swept over her.

No black silk dress.

No stilettos.

She wore oversize gray sweats. Her feet were bare. Her hair hung loose around her face, a shining curve of darkness.

Something seemed to turn over inside him.

As beautiful as she’d been last night, she was even more beautiful now.

The sight of her made him wish they could start over, even though all they’d have was today.

She cleared her throat.

“I was just going to make some fresh coffee. Would you … would like some, Captain?”

Jake looked at her for what seemed forever.

“It’s Jake,” he said gruffly. “And coffee sounds … it sounds great. Thanks.”

He retrieved the bouquet. She took a step back as he climbed the porch steps. When he reached her, she felt her pulse leap.

“Actually,” she said, “actually, it really won’t be great. The coffee, I mean. The pot I found in the kitchen is—is just about as—as antiquated as the rest of the—the rest of the—”

“Addison.”

The way he spoke her name, the way he was looking at her, told her everything she wanted to know, including the fact that coffee was the last thing on his mind.

Or hers.

“Jacob,” she whispered, and he dropped the flowers as she stepped into his arms.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JAKE KICKED the door shut behind him.

The interior of the house was dark and cool; the silence of the empty rooms was all around them. There was a scent in the air—her scent. The scent of flowers he hadn’t been able to define.

“Addison,” he said softly.

She turned her face up to his. Her eyes filled with him, and a rush of something primitive and possessive swept through him.

“Be sure,” he said in a rough whisper as he tunneled his fingers into the silken darkness of her hair. “Because once we start—”

She rose to him and pressed her lips to his.