The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“Endless work hours. Ruthless clients. Demanding partners. Lots and lots of money but no chance to spend it. Give it time, my dear, and you’ll see I’m right.”

“You were right, Charlie,” she said softly, as she put his framed photo into her briefcase.

“Sorry? Did you say something, Ms. McDowell?”

Addison looked at the HR person.

“I said,” Addison told her politely, “give me those papers so I can sign them and get the hell out of here.”

Once she was home, if you could say that of a one-bedroom condo with a nosebleed mortgage, high above a street jammed with more people than existed in all of Wilde’s Crossing, she dumped her briefcase on the floor in the foyer, kicked off her shoes and started peeling off her legal-eagle summer-weight wool suit even as she headed for the bedroom.

What was with her today? Thinking about the ranch. The house. The town she never wanted to so much as hear about again …

The man who’d broken her heart.

Addison took a quick shower, pulled her wet hair into a low ponytail, put on a ratty T-shirt she’d had since college and a pair of scruffy cotton sweatpants, and went into the kitchen.

Dinner?

She opened the fridge, peered inside. The usual suspects were there. Yogurt. Lettuce. Some fruit. Cottage cheese. Tofu.

No real food? whispered a teasing male voice inside her head. Not even the fixings for a fried cheese sandwich?

She slammed the door shut.

This was ridiculous.

She had not thought about Texas or Jacob Wilde in months.

Okay. In weeks.

She sighed, pulled one of the stools from the stone kitchen counter and sank into it.

“In at least three days,” she muttered.

Or maybe two.

The truth was, she couldn’t stop thinking about Texas. The foolish little town. The falling-down ranch house.

Jacob.

He was in her head, her dreams, he was with her all the time. And she didn’t want him there. She’d put all of that behind her.

They’d spent a few days together. It had been exciting.

But that was all.

She had not loved him.

She’d been drawn to his complexity. His pain. She’d once found a sad-looking goldfish in a bowl on the stoop outside her very first New York apartment.

She didn’t like fish, except broiled. As pets, they left a lot to be desired. Still, when the poor thing was still there an hour later, she’d taken it in.

Would she have turned her back on a man who’d been wounded?

“No,” she said aloud, as she stood and went searching for her stash of take-out menus, “I wouldn’t.”

She did hope he’d gotten help. Found peace of mind. She didn’t hate him for the things he’d said, that what they’d shared had been fun, that she’d known he was going to leave.