Wrapped in Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 4)

My phone buzzes, and I lunge for it.

Molly: It was a mistake. I’m so sorry.

I put my phone down and sit on the side of the bed, cradling my head in my hands. A mistake. If she was a mistake, she’s the only mistake I’ve ever wanted to make.

Molly

Seven months later . . .

Top Three Reasons Not to Sleep with Your Boss:

Reason 1: Because no matter how good he looks in his business suit, you will always—always—be thinking about how good he looked sprawled out in the middle of that massive bed in his fancy hotel, one strong leg tangled in the sheets, his hot eyes never leaving you as you unhooked your bra.

Reason 2: When he’s all serious about business and gets that intense look in his eyes, you’ll imagine he’s recounting that ill-advised night or brooding about how much he wants you. In reality, you killed that opportunity the minute you snuck out of his hotel room, and drove another nail into the coffin of your would-be affair when, in a desperate attempt to keep him at a distance, you accused him of only hiring you to get you in bed. Real smooth.

Reason 3 (as if there needs to be another): You’re around him a lot, and though you’re absolutely strong enough to resist the intense pull of sexual attraction, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to resist him. The way he values family above everything else. The way he rarely smiles, but when he does, it lights up his face first, then the whole damn room. The way he treats your little boy as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. The way he makes you want things you believed you were okay with never having.

“Are you even listening to me?” Brayden asks, but I’m so hung up on Reason 1 and memories of his tanned skin against white sheets that I’m really not listening. At all.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and nod, digging through my mind to recall what made him approach my table at the back of Jackson Brews. “You don’t like the shirts,” I say, but I’m still so sucked in by the memory of his mouth on my neck that the words come out like a purr.

Brayden frowns. “You’re not in trouble, Molly.”

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it and more than a little grateful that he mistook my turned-on voice for insecurity. Reluctantly, I pull my gaze off Brayden and to the new Jackson Brews shirts on display at the far end of the bar—or what’s left of them. They’ve been selling fast. “Levi approved them.”

“Why did I think it was a good idea to let him do the marketing?” He glances around the bar, his eyes landing on each of the half-dozen staff members in their brand-new T-shirts. The Jackson Brews logo is on the front, and on the back, the new tagline my friends and I came up with while drinking on our last girls’ night.

Jackson Brews

The bar. The beer. And . . . oh, Lord . . . the BROTHERS.

Levi thought it was hilarious. Jake just smirked and shrugged. Ethan rolled his eyes, and Carter grinned and gave me a little once-over that seemed to say, “You know it.” I didn’t think Brayden would love the design, but he tends to stay out of it when he disagrees with my executive decisions. Not this time.

“How do you think that shirt is going to make Nic and Ava feel?” he asks.

I snort. It’s almost adorable that he thinks his brothers’ significant others wouldn’t like the shirts. As if they aren’t proud as fuck of their hot Jackson men. “Who do you think helped me come up with the idea? They claimed the first shirts. Even Ellie got one.” Ellie, who’s currently not with Levi Jackson but is clearly in love with him. We all know they’ll be back together for good any day now.

Brayden scowls. “You’re kidding me.”

I laugh. “It’ll be okay.” Then I make a rookie mistake—I reach out and squeeze his arm.

Christ. His biceps bunch beneath my hand. My life would be so much easier if this man weren’t so dedicated to his morning workouts. It’s just not fair. He runs a brewery, for heaven’s sake.

When I worked for Brayden as his northeast territory sales manager, I put on ten pounds in the first two months. Everyone thinks it’s the coolest job in the world—working for a growing craft brewery—but the reality is driving around to bars, drinking beer, and subsisting on greasy bar food while you try to get buyers to put Jackson Brews beer on their tap lists.

Somehow the Jackson brothers defy all odds. I think they have a genetic mutation that transforms beer into muscle mass. It’s the only explanation.