returned his attention to her face. She looked so sad for him he felt a tug of compassion and tried to shrug it off. “The usual. Another broken heart.”
“And you’re supposed to fix it,” Tracy said.
He grinned with bitter irony. “When she says she needs her Jax Fix, she’s usually talking about a heart overhaul.”
“Lord!” Tracy bent over and bumped her head on the legal pad, a prime theatrical bit. With her face on her desk, she covered the top of her head with her hands. “Now that I’ve heard everything, I might as well croak.”
He looked out of the window again, then back at his partner, so dramatically overwhelmed. “It’s what she needs,” he said quietly.
Tracy rolled to her cheek and frowned at him from her desktop-view. “What about your needs, Jax?” She sat up and lay her hands flat on the desk. “You’ve told me enough that I know it kills you to be with her, yet—not be…”
He appreciated her loyalty and sensitivity and reached over the muffin tin to lay his hand across hers. “You’re a good friend, Trace. And it is hard, but…” How did he put into words the horror that squeezed his heart at the thought of never seeing her again. Being with her was hell, but all the years he’d been without her had been worse. At a loss, he shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
Tracy snorted. “If I had one measly dollar for every time I’ve heard that pruney old cliché from a friend in a one-sided relationship, my household staff would consist of France. ”
He squeezed her fingers and kidded, “Instead you can only afford to employ the population of little old Nebraska.”
She smirked. “Okay, laugh it off. But clearly the matter of our success doesn’t solve life’s problems because you—who could actually afford to employ all of France—look like you just clocked off a gritty, all-night shift in hell.”
He stood up. “Then I’d better go shave.”
“That would be a start, since looking the way you do, you’d scare the hirelings.” She flicked her wrist over to check her gold watch. “Speaking of whom, a few early birds will be arriving very soon.”
He nodded. “Point taken.”
As he walked away, she said, “I worry that she’s using you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Trace.” He left her office and headed toward his.
More than anything in the world, he wished Tracy’s impassioned misconception of Kim were true. If she really were that selfish, using him to salve her ego, he could make quick work of ridding himself of her. But she wasn’t, and deep down Tracy knew it. She knew Jax well enough to know he didn’t suffer fools or false friends easily.
Kim was one of the most giving people he’d ever known. She simply took their closeness for granted, like breathing. If anybody deserved to be blamed, he did. It wasn’t Kim’s fault that he didn’t have the guts or the heart to tell her how much her visits hurt. Being highly sensitive she would be wounded beyond repair to discover that the faintest touch of her hand could bloody his heart.
Kim heard the garage door open and knew Jax was back. That morning she was disappointed to find him gone. She’d hoped they could chat over breakfast. Last night she spent a lot of pent up energy going through his cabinets, planning a breakfast of veggie omelets, whole wheat muffins and her famous strawberry-banana smoothies. Hopefully tomorrow she could coax him to stay later, let her fix him breakfast, since he obviously consumed nothing this morning but coffee. She knew he had a busy life and she didn’t want to impose. Just because she had a little free time and a broken heart was no excuse.
But he was home now and she planned to make herself useful. He was wonderful to let her show up out of the blue, so she wanted to make her time there as pleasant for him as she could. Tonight they’d have taco salads a la Kim. She checked herself in the mirror over the dining room buffet then fluffed her hair and the neck ruffle of her silk blouse. She was almost as excited to see Jax as she had been to see Perry. For different reasons, of course. Jax wasn’t her lover. He was more important than a lover. He was, well, Jax.
She could hear footfalls on the back stairs that led up from his garage. When he came into the kitchen, she positioned herself in front of the kitchen table, arms wide. “Well, give, Jaxon! I’m starved. Lets get going on those taco salads.”
He carried a brown bag in each arm. “It’s good to see you, too,” he said, his smile half-cast.
She plunked her fists on her hips. “Well, naturally it’s good to see you. That goes without saying. I always adore seeing you.” She took one of the bags from his arms and gave him a smooch on the jaw. “Mmm, you smell good. What is that cologne?”
He walked to the stainless steel countertop and set down the other bag. “I think it’s called Badboy.”
She set her sack next to his. “Badboy?” Hadn’t she used that exact description while thinking about him last night? She noticed the wayward curl that gave him such a roguish quality dangling over his forehead. “‘Badboy is very appropriate.”
He’d begun to empty the groceries. When she made the remark he paused, glanced at her. “It is?”
She laughed at his dubious tone. Clearly he’d never thought of himself as a bad boy. She reached up and ran a finger along the errant lock. “That’s the bad boy look I love, right there. Such a deliciously delinquent curl. It makes you seem so…” She stopped, thought about it. “So…” The word “sexy” almost slipped out but she caught it in time and searched for a substitute word.
“So—what?”
Feeling oddly restless she lowered her hand from his hair and looked away, busying herself with the groceries. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. Like a mobster or something.”
“A mobster?” He sounded doubtful. “A la Al Capone?”
She couldn’t help smiling and glanced his way. “Well, maybe a mobster’s accountant.”
He squinted at her, evidently not flattered by the comparison. Could she blame him? But she dared not admit that the misbehaving curl made him look like a sexy pirate. Such a remark would be blatant flirting, and—well, that’s not why she came to Jax.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “If we’re through discussing my hair, why don’t you finish putting this stuff away while I change.”
“Sure.” She avoided eye contact. “Take your time. Even better, let me fix the salads. You relax. You’ve had a long day.”
“No, I said I’d help. I’ll be right down.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He stilled. She couldn’t help looking at him and experienced a tingle of pleasure at the sight. His attempt at erasing the mobster curl had failed. “I have a secret ingredient,” he said. “Therefore you can’t do it alone.”
She cocked her head in playful challenge. “Oh, really?”
He nodded, appearing serious. “Just grate the cheese. Is that understood, woman?”
Clamping
