Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Jackson knows all about the beginning and the end. He knows what it feels like to be above the law and how getting tangled in that life destroys one’s chance at having … a life.
“Can I get you a sandwich? I have some leftover roast. I put ketchup on mine, but you might be more sophisticated. Mustard?”
Jackson grins. “I’m living in your garage. I’m not sure that makes me sophisticated.”
“You have a grand piano in my garage.” She eyes him with a smirk.
“Fair enough. How about a little ketchup and mustard?”
“You got it.” Eloise disappears into the house, and his phone vibrates.
It’s a notification from his surveillance cameras, the ones in the garage. He didn’t lock the door. And Frankie has entered without permission. She strolls around the space, leaving her fingerprints everywhere as she feels the need to drag her hand along his car, sofa, punching bag, and piano keys. She inspects the wood that she tried to decimate. Then she sits on the bench, closes her eyes, and plays. His phone’s volume is muted, so he can’t hear the notes, but it’s no less mesmerizing.
She plays like he plays—blindly, body swaying, a pained expression on her face.
Jackson stands just as Eloise returns.
“Did you change your mind?”
He takes the plate with the sandwich. “I forgot I have a call to make. Is it okay if I return the plate later?”
She gives him her flirty smile. “Of course.”
“Thanks for the sandwich.” He holds up his beer bottle on the way down the deck stairs. “And the beer.”
“You’re always welcome, Jack.”
He takes his dinner to the garage and waits outside for a minute or so.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mumbles.
Frankie’s playing “Scarbo” from Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit. One of the most challenging piano pieces ever written. Way out of Jack’s league.
He doesn’t subscribe to psycho bullshit about the universe bringing people together. No fate. No Karma. Just chance and dumb luck or lack thereof. Yet, there’s something about Francesca that’s made its way under his skin, latched on with razor claws, and won’t let go.
Ravel isn’t helping his situation.
Jackson opens the door.
Francesca doesn’t miss a note.
He closes the door.
She freezes. The song dies on the pads of her idle fingers.
“You’re trespassing.”
“The door wasn’t locked.” She swings her legs around the bench to face him.
He shrugs. “The door doesn’t have to be locked to trespass. A locked door might be more along the lines of breaking and entering. Both are illegal.”
“So call the police.”
He takes a swig of his beer. “I deal with things in-house.”
Frankie wets her lips and nods several times. “So what are you going to do to me?”
Jackson doesn’t need her attitude. Or her hands on his property. Or her tongue making a seductive swipe along her red lips.
“I’m not sure if entering uninvited is the greater offense or if playing the piano you tried to destroy requires the biggest balls.”
Frankie stands. She’s a small pint like his sister, yet, also like his sister, he doesn’t trust her one bit.
“I had a shitty afternoon. I needed to release some stress. You weren’t here, so I borrowed your piano. Neighbors borrow things from each other, right?” Frankie wraps her hand over his and brings the beer bottle to her lips, but she doesn’t take a sip. She sniffs it, wrinkles her nose, and releases his hand.
“You need to learn boundaries,” he murmurs.
Her gaze shifts from the bottle to his narrowed eyes. “Is this about the dean’s husband again?” She plucks the sandwich from his plate and takes a bite.
Jackson’s jaw grinds while he sets the plate and beer on the workbench he uses for a table. Then he turns and grabs her wrist as she brings the sandwich to her mouth for another bite. “Get your fucking hands off my dinner.”
After pausing to swallow, she relinquishes the sandwich. “You’re a terrible host.”
“Then leave.” He frowns at the ketchup and mustard dripping onto the floor since she squeezed the sandwich so hard.
“Is that really what you want?” Frankie strolls around the garage again, stopping at his punching bag.
“Why did you have a shitty day?” He deposits the messy sandwich onto the plate and wipes his hands on a rag before approaching her.
She draws in a slow breath as if she senses him behind her. “Because I’m human.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Sometimes.” She reaches behind her, taking his right hand and bringing it to her breast.
Jackson’s dick twitches, and he tries to will it to show some self-control.
Her other hand reaches for his, guiding it between her legs. His chest pushes out with a deep breath he can barely control.
Jackson’s dick has gone beyond a twitch; it’s fully erect, and it’s taking a lot of control not to move his pelvis into her.
Not squeeze her breast.
Not bend his fingers to feel the heat between her legs.