Wrapped in Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 4)

The thought has a sob ripping from my throat, and I press my palms against Jason’s chest to push him away.

He blinks at me. “What’s wrong?”

I scramble off his lap, sitting sideways on the seat beside him. Shit. What am I doing?

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, reaching for me.

Blowjob Molly. God, I promised myself I wouldn’t be that girl again, but here I am, hooking up with a stranger in a dark parking lot.

Another sob tears out of me. Slut. Easy. Whore.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His eyes are wide. Panicked.

I reach for the door handle and lunge out of the car, spilling onto the gravel lot and rushing away from the car on my hands and knees. Not that girl anymore. I don’t want to be her.

The cold air hits me like a million tiny pinpricks. My dress is down around my waist, my bra exposed.

“Molly?”

I lift my head to see Brayden. His nostrils flare as his gaze shifts from me to Jason, who’s climbing out of his car. I don’t have time to say a word before Brayden takes three long strides forward and swings his fist, connecting with Jason’s jaw and sending him to the ground.

“Stop!” I scream.

“What did you do to her?” I’ve never heard so much menace in Brayden’s voice, and I jump off the ground and grab his arms before he can swing again. He’s stronger than me by miles and could shake me off if he wanted, but he doesn’t.

“What the fuck?” Jason cries, holding the side of his face.

“He didn’t do anything.” I tug Brayden away from the car. He lets me, but his hard glare stays on Jason.

“You’re half undressed, crying, and running away from him. Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Fuck you,” Jason says. “I’m not a fucking rapist. She just flipped out for no reason.”

“Then why was she crying?”

Jason throws up his hands. “Fuck if I know.” He meets my eyes, and guilt washes over me, nearly drowning out the shame of becoming that girl again. “Did I do something that scared you?”

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure who I’m talking to. Maybe everyone. This is such a disaster. I tug up my dress. God, it’s freezing out here, and I have snow all over my bare legs from crawling on my hands and knees through the parking lot. “I just had a bad day and I thought I wanted . . . I’m sorry.”

“She’s obviously trashed, and you took advantage,” Brayden growls.

“I’m fine.” I tug on Brayden’s sleeve. “I’m just drunk and I want to go home.”

“You’re a piece of work, Jackson,” Jason mutters. “I’m going to have to rethink our partnership.”

“That makes two of us,” Brayden says.

Partnership? The cold air zips along my skin, clearing my mind and marginally sobering me.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know how many times I’ve said it, but it’s not enough. I just want this to be over. I want tonight to have never happened. I want to rewind the day and start over so I never listen in on Brayden’s conversation with Ethan.

“Get in the car,” Brayden says without looking at me. “I’ll take you home.”

“Please,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

When some of the coiled tension leaves his shoulders, I release him and climb into the car. Brayden climbs in the driver’s side and starts the engine without looking at me.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Brayden’s jaw twitches, but he still doesn’t look at me. “You were half-naked in the back of his car, and you have to ask me who he is?”

“You know what I mean. Who is he to you? To . . .” I close my eyes, realizing what I should have thought of much sooner. Anyone at that party should have been off-limits, because everyone at that party is affiliated with Jackson Brews. “What’s his connection to Jackson Brews?”

“He’s an investor. He was considering helping us expand our bottling facility.”

I bite my bottom lip. Was. Past tense. Because I screwed it up. Blowjob Molly screwed it up. I can’t blame Brayden for wishing he’d never hired me, can I? “I’ll fix it,” I promise, but I have no idea how.

Brayden drags a hand through his hair. “Did he hurt you or try to—”

“I said he didn’t.”

He flashes me a look that says he still doesn’t believe me. “You were crying.”

I turn away, looking out my window at the pretty lights lining Main Street. “It was a bad day.”

He doesn’t say another word until we pull into the driveway of my rental, and he cuts the engine. “Do you need me to stay and take care of Noah?”

My blood cools, and the shame in my chest flips to indignation. “You think I’m going home to my son like this? That I’d go home drunk to my four-year-old?”

“I didn’t think you’d get trashed at a work event and grind against a potential investor like you’re . . .”