Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) (10 page)

She shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“Well, you’re well rid of it then. Be more choosy about the parties you attend. And make some real friends. Find people who care about you, who will…anchor you, protect you, make you feel safe.”

She nodded, loving these words,
her
words, falling from his lips. “Yes.”

He continued. “You didn’t like the business of breedin’ horses, but you liked the animals themselves. You didn’t like the family business, but you love your family.”

“Right.” She leaned forward, rapt. “So…?”

“So move to the suburbs, stop partyin’, find some solid friendships, buy a few horses, and make time for your family.”

“Is it that easy?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know why not. World’s your oyster, Duchess.”

Wide-eyed and stunned, she stared at him, breath escaping her throat to utter a single word. “Yes!” A happy giggle bubbled up through her throat “Okay! I will.” She beamed at him. “Then what?”

He furrowed his brow for a moment. “Well, since you loved makin’ a movie…make another.”

Her shoulders deflated. Her hopeful smile inverted into a frown. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because movies are made in LA, and I don’t want that—”

“That life? You don’t have to have
that life
,” he said. He lifted his beer and took a long sip, the muscles in his throat working as Jax stared at him, mesmerized. Finally he lowered the bottle and grinned at her. “Duchess, buildin’ a life is about takin’ the pieces that matter and figurin’ out how to fit them together. You already know what you want. So fit them together.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Is that what you’ve done? By quitting your job and coming here?”

“I didn’t quit.” His eyes, which had been warm and helpful, shuttered closed. When he opened them again, they were significantly cooler. “Anyway, we’re not talkin’ about me.”

“Why not?” asked Jax, whose questions for and about Gardener Pierre Thibodeaux felt endless. “Let’s talk about you.”

Gard stared back at her, uncertain of how to respond, his annoyance quick and hot.

She had stumbled into his life on Saturday night, but since then she’d been like a bad penny, turning up again and again, contriving ways to see him and talk to him and insert herself into his life. Her body distracted him. Her unhappiness bothered him. Her presence shined a light on the shortcomings in his own life, and he didn’t feel like looking at them. And in such moments as these, his first instinct was to tell her to get lost.

But then he remembered how he’d felt right before she’d showed up this evening and realized he didn’t want her to go. He didn’t know what was going on between them—he was definitely attracted to her and he was fairly certain she was attracted to him. He lived ten minutes away from her and had promised to teach her self-defense in very close and private quarters. She said she wanted to be friends, and while he really didn’t know how that would look, he also knew that whether it was Jax Rousseau or someone else, he’d become a hermit if he didn’t open up a little to
someone
. He missed having friends to talk to, and if he didn’t see them anymore, he may as well talk to the pushy neighbor who wouldn’t leave him alone.

So he didn’t tell her to get lost.

But he did stall. He stood up and headed to the kitchen for another beer.

“Want another, Duchess?”

“Sure,” she said. When he turned around, she chugged the bottle in her hand, as though fulfilling a dare he hadn’t actually issued.

He handed her the cold, open bottle and sat back down across from her. “What do you want to know?”

She looked surprised for a moment, like she’d been expecting him to get all pissed off and throw her out, and a sweet little smile played at the delectable corners of her mouth.
Lord, it would be easier to just make out and skip talking about deep things like life and the future.

“Really?”

He shrugged, taking a long sip and trying to look like it didn’t matter to him.

“Okay…,” she said, “you’re from New Orleans. How’d you end up in Philly?”

“I got a full scholarship to St. Joseph’s.”

Jax whistled low. “Wow. That’s great. For what?”

“Sports.” He chuckled softly. “Soccer, actually.”

“Soccer,” she said. She cocked her head to the side. “So why aren’t you watching the game?”

“’Cause I’m talkin’ to you, Duchess.”

A splash of pink appeared on her cheeks as he drawled this line slow and low, and he couldn’t help but admire his handiwork. He liked that he affected her. He liked it too goddamned much.

“So you come to Philly, you attend St. Joe’s, you study…?”

“Double major. English and criminal justice.”

“Of course. And play soccer.”

He nodded. “When I graduated, I decided to stay, so I—”

“Why?” she asked. “Why’d you stay? Why didn’t you go home to Nawlins?”

He had to hand it to her: her accent wasn’t half bad.

“Because of a girl,” he said, seeing no good reason to lie. She’d trusted him with her truth; the least he could do was trust her with his.

He leaned forward to grab his beer, and if he hadn’t looked up when he did, he would almost have missed it: the slight narrowing of her eyes and pursing of her lips. Jealousy. He’d stake his life on it. He grinned at her. “Don’t worry. Didn’t work out, Duchess.”

“I’m
not
worried,” she said, lifting her chin and wrinkling her nose.

The hell you’re not
, he thought, feeling unaccountably pleased that he’d made her jealous.

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What was her name?”

“Doesn’t—”

“—matter. Right.” She frowned at him but finally let it go. “So it didn’t work out with
whatshername,
but you…?”

“I was already livin’ here, already workin’ here. Movin’ up in the department. Had friends. So I stayed.”

“Didn’t you miss your family?”

“They have their own lives.”

She frowned. “Do you go home to visit?”

Gard took a deep breath and sighed. His father, Lord bless him, had passed away three years ago, leaving an aching place in Gard’s heart. He’d loved and admired his father, and they’d been good friends. Sure, he loved his mother and sisters, but he didn’t have the camaraderie with any of them that he’d had with his dad.

His mother was involved in her ladies’ card groups and charities. His sisters were both married with children. He hadn’t kept up with his high school friends, and besides, he’d been in a weird social place growing up: his father made enough money that they were considered wealthy, but Cadogan Thibodeaux made his money dirtying his hands with soil and mulch while most of the fathers of his peers in private Catholic school made their money in finance or law. Gard’s childhood home had been big and showy, putting off the working-class, scholarship kids, but he was new money, and his parents reeked of it, which had put off the upper-class kids, like Jax’s kind. He’d grown up in no man’s land. Moving to Philadelphia, where he could just be himself, had been a relief. There were things about New Orleans he’d always love, but going home permanently had never been part of his plan. And anyway, he felt his dad’s loss a hell of a lot more there than here.

Do you go home to visit?

“At Christmas.”

“You have friends at home?”

“Not really.”

“Here?”

He shrugged.

“Sort of a loner, huh?”

He considered this for a second. In high school, yes, he’d been somewhat of a loner for the reasons he’d already recalled, but that had changed little by little in college, and for good when he’d become a cop. He’d had lots of friends in the department with whom he worked and played in a weekend soccer league sponsored by the city. But since the accident, he hadn’t sought out those friends—for one thing, he couldn’t see worth a damn, so he wasn’t any use on the soccer field anymore. But more importantly, being around those guys made him think of Gil, which made him feel guilty, made him feel bad and angry, made him feel so damned resentful of everything he’d lost.

“Wasn’t always,” he finally answered.

Jax took a sip of her beer, then set it down on the table in front of her with a
plunk
. “
Merde!
Getting answers out of you is like pulling teeth.”

“And here I thought I was bein’ downright chatty.”

“No,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re being infuriating.”

“How’s that?” he asked, confused, wondering why the hell she’d gotten so mad so fast.

“Every little tiny answer leads to ten more questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like…why aren’t you closer to your family? Do you still play soccer? Why aren’t you a cop anymore? Do you or do you not have friends? And what happened with the girl?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re not good at this!” she said in a huff, standing up.

“At
what
?” he asked, following her lead and standing up across from her, his hands on his hips.

“Being friends! If we’re going to be friends…I mean, friends talk and—and share stuff.”

“Believe it or not, Duchess, I just shared more with you than I have with anyone since…”

“Since…?”

Since my best friend was shot and I lost the lion’s share of my eyesight. Since my whole life changed in the blink of an eye.

“You look tired,” he said calmly, using the tone of voice his father had always employed with great success when one of Gard’s sisters was in a snit. “Let’s call it a night.”

“Ooooo!” she snarled, her emeralds wide and angry. “Maddening! Since
what
? Since
when
?”

He didn’t know what bee flew into her panties, but she was acting like a brat. He pointed a finger at her, feeling his temper rise. “You’re pushy and rude, you know that?”

“I’d say you
need
a push,” she shot back.

“And you’re just the one to give it to me, huh?”

“Maybe,” she said, flashing her eyes at him.

He steeled his expression, his voice low and serious. “I’m not your project while you’re between gigs, Duchess.”

“I—I never said you were.”

But her voice was weak and her eyes betrayed her.

He was a little.

He’d known it too, but he hadn’t minded it as much when it was unspoken. Now? It pissed him off, in part because he saw her as his project too, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about this unspoken agreement between two injured birds still wishing they could fly. It felt dangerous suddenly, like talking about all this was something that could hurt him or hurt her, like maybe a quick retreat would be a good idea right about now.

“Come on…I’ll walk you home,” he said, hooking his thumb at the door but opting for a gentler tone.

Without arguing, she took a step toward the door and he followed her. But before she walked through, she turned and leaned against it, looking up at him, her arms still crossed over her chest, her breasts heaving over her forearms with the force of her agitated breathing.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, her eyes troubled, her brows furrowed.

He stared at her, raising his eyebrows in frustration. “What
do
you want?”

“Tell me what happened with the girl,” she said quietly, her eyes searching his.

“Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

He shook his head back and forth, annoyed with her and even more annoyed with himself, because when she asked all quiet and serious like that, he found he couldn’t refuse her. “I found her with my partner. My first partner, Brad.”

“
Found
her?”

“In my apartment.
Our
apartment. In
our
bed.”

Her mouth opened to a perfect
O
shape, and to his great surprise, he found he was far more distracted by Jax’s lips than upset by old memories of Tiffany’s betrayal.

He nodded. “Yeah. There you go. Now you know. I hope you’re happy.”

“Oh…no. I’m not. I’m—I’m sorry.”

He winced. Pity. His least favorite emotion. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—stand for it from her. For some reason, pity from the duchess was absolutely unacceptable.

“Time to go,” he muttered.

She flinched. Her eyes were soft in the dim light, bright green and regretful. Vulnerable. Beautiful. God damn it, he didn’t want her fucking pity. He wanted her—

“Gardener,” she whispered, reaching out to flatten her hand on his chest, directly over his heart, her unexpected touch effectively ending his train of thought. “Listen. I’m sorry for asking. For pushing. For being rude. For—for being a bad friend. I said you weren’t good at this and then I…I go ahead and…”

He’d been holding his breath, but now he released it in a low hiss. Fuck. She wasn’t sorry
for him
. She was sorry for her behavior. Half of him wished she’d said, “I’m sorry your girlfriend cheated on you,” because her pity would have made it easy to push her out the door. The fact that she was apologizing for her
own
actions instead of pitying his past, however, made him feel relieved, made him step forward instead of away, his eyes dropping to her lips.

“You were right,” he whispered, inclining his head to hers. “I’m not good at this.”

His lips touched down gently on hers, trapping her top lip and pursing its softness between his. A breathy “ahhh” sound released from the back of her throat made him move his lips again, this time capturing the bottom one for a long moment before releasing it. Her hand moved to his chest, flattening beside the other, her nails curling just slightly into his shirt as he deepened the kiss.

The smell of lemons and rosemary invaded his senses and he closed his eyes, sealing his lips over hers as he pulled her into his arms. She fit easily against him, slipping her hands up his chest and around his neck. Her breasts, crushed against his pecs, made his dick swell against her hips. Tentatively he touched his tongue to hers, and when she moaned into his mouth, he clutched her tighter, sliding his tongue along the length of hers, exploring her mouth, which tasted sweetly of IPA and the pineapple of her lipgloss. He skimmed one hand up her back, over her T-shirt, sliding his fingers into her soft mane of hair and tilting her head back to give his mouth a better, more dominant angle over hers. And she leaned back against the arm still around her waist, submitting to him, letting him ravage her mouth the way he wished he could ravage her sweet body.

“
Duchesse, duchesse, duchesse
,” he murmured, trailing his lips down the hot, throbbing skin of her throat, feeling her beaded nipples pushing against the muscles of his chest. Her pulse beat wildly and her breasts thrust up against him with every shallow breath. She was panting as hard as he was, as turned on, as undone.