Wrapped in Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 4)

“What do you want, Molly?”

I frown at my feet. “Just fresh air. A minute alone.”

He steps forward and takes my chin in his hand, tilting my face up until my eyes meet his. “Liar,” he whispers.

“We’re all liars,” I whisper back.

“So tell me something true. Something real.”

I open my mouth to say something snide and then close it again.

“Do you want me to go first?” he asks softly. When I don’t answer, he goes on. “I like having you at the house.” His hand slides into my hair, and his thumb traces the edge of my jaw. “I didn’t realize how lonely it was there until I knew what it was like to have it filled with your laughter. I like sitting across from you with coffee in the mornings, and watching TV with you when we should both be in bed.” He lowers his face to mine, but when I think he’s going to kiss me, he simply brushes his nose against mine. “I like touching you, and I hate thinking about you leaving. Ever. Whether that’s in January or February or in a year. I want you there. I want you with me.”

I close my eyes, relishing his closeness, the heat of his breath on my lips, the rough strength of his hand along my jaw. And despite the harsh chill in the night air, I feel warm.

He pulls back. “Your turn.”

I hesitate, unsure which of the thousand confessions swimming through my mind I should offer him, weighing the implications of each before finally circling back to what brought me out here to begin with. “I was jealous. Of her.”

“Because she kissed me?”

“Yes.” I shake my head. It’s not that simple. “Because . . . despite everything, she’s better for you than I am.” I meet his eyes, my need to protect my heart at war with my need to offer myself to him. “Because she wanted—wants—the same things you do, and you could have a life with her. A family. A chance at happiness. And I . . .” I can’t find the words, and draw in a ragged breath against the pain of the truth.

“You don’t want to give me those things.”

“It’s not about what I want, Brayden. It’s about who I am. I can’t . . . I’ve never . . .” I tear my gaze away from those knowing eyes, from the tenderness and sympathy in them. I don’t want sympathy. “I don’t even know how to have a real relationship. A boyfriend. I’ve never had one.” He’s so silent that I don’t have a choice but to meet his eyes again, to try to piece together his hidden thoughts from the shadows passing over his features. “Say something, you stubborn, silent ass.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Do you want to be my girlfriend, Molly?”

My cheeks heat. “Don’t mock me.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t. Not about this.” He wraps his arms around my back and draws me against his chest, leading me into a quiet dance to the music of the cars on the street and the icy breeze in the trees. He props his chin on the top of my head and rubs slow, lazy circles on my back. “She kissed me, but I didn’t want her to. This time last year, I’d have given up everything to have her back—for better or worse—but I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in love with someone else.” My feet stop moving, but he continues. “This woman, the one I love? I’m not sure how she feels about me, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t turn off what I feel. I might be a stubborn ass, but I know what I want.” He pulls back to look at me. “That’s never been the problem.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know what you want, Molly.” His thumb is rough across my cheek as he sweeps away a tear I didn’t realize I’d shed.

“I’m scared.”

He nods. “Me too.”

“Sara hurt you,” I whisper.

He nods again. “She did.”

“What if I hurt you too?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Which is new for me, and completely unique to how I feel about you. I didn’t think I wanted to risk that again, but for you it’s not even a choice. It just is.”

I swallow hard. “So what does this mean?”

“I guess that depends. Will you go out with me, Molly McKinley?”

“Like, go steady?” My words are as wobbly as my knees beneath my dress.

“Oh, yeah. With the dates and the kissing and . . . anything else you want.”

“What if it doesn’t work? What if I . . .” I’m not even sure what I’m afraid of, aside from this frazzled skittering of don’t fuck this up running through my blood, not sure what question I can ask, aside from my secret whisper of what if you realize you deserve better?