Jax (Breaking the Declan Brothers #1)(17)
She looks up at me, and my heart breaks for her. “Was that Slate,” she quietly asks.
I reach out and touch her shoulder. I forget how much she cared about him. They have a history, and no matter what she says, I know she loved that guy with every piece of her heart. “Yeah, it was,” I say but keep the fact that he didn’t seem like he wanted to see or talk to her to myself.
“You’re right.” Rayna’s eyes lower. “I’m sorry, Emmie, this was a bad idea. Lurlene, take us home.”
For a brief moment, I forget about the ass I just made of myself, and I wrap an arm around my friend and hold her all the way home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I stare at my laptop, seeing the words, but I can’t concentrate. I pick up my coffee and look around the café. I’ve been coming here since finding it on the second day of our arrival. It’s the perfect place to work. Nothing like the one I go to in Manhattan—the coffee here is better. I’m not into all that flavored shit. I like my coffee black. That’s it. No fuss.
Setting down my mug, my eyes land on a hot guy sitting across the room. Dark jeans, a black t-shirt, topped with hair that’s a chaotic mess, that sexy kind of messy. He smiles at me, and I smile back, ‘cause that’s what I do. I flirt. Tease. I make them feel like they might actually have a chance. Why? Well, if they’re shallow enough to hit on me on the sole basis that I’m pretty then I enjoy playing with them a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I get you need to be attracted to the person you’re with, but most men are driven by the dick in their pants, and that’s it. So, I like fucking with it without getting my hands dirty.
I hear the bell jingle. I’ve gotten used to that sound whenever someone enters the café. I glance over. Shit! It’s Jax. I slouch down in my chair, trying to hide behind my laptop. I can’t face him after he actually let me think that I had a chance and then fucked with me without getting his hands dirty. And I want his hands, and mouth, fucking with me— in the worse way.
“Too late, princess, I saw you through the window.” He chuckles.
Dammit. I sit up as he slides into the booth across from me. “Jax,” I say with a tight smile. Why! Why does the man have to be so gorgeous all the time? His short hair is messy, just like hot guy across the room. But like the rest of Jax, it’s a perfect messy. His white t-shirt grips every muscle beneath it as if the material knows that shit needs to be held firmly. I’m jealous of that damn shirt. I want so badly to hold him firmly there, too.
“Whatchya doin'?” He motions his chin at my laptop.
“I’m working so if you don’t mind…” I cross my arms over my chest with a tight smile. Really, I don’t want him to leave, but it’d be easier than dealing with another rejection. The last one didn’t hit hard until the next morning when I was sober. And, as predicted, the aspirin didn’t help. It was a double whammy, hangover with a shot of leftover shame.
“Working? Huh.” He sets his forearms on the table, clasping those capable looking hands together. Oh, how I want those hands, as warned, making me flush all over. God, in the worse way, I want him to mark my body with his touch. “So, what does a retired beauty queen do for a living anyway?”
I glare at his smug grin, wanting to swipe it off his beautiful face. But instead of granting myself the satisfaction, I reach down under the table fish my hand through my bag and slap a book on the table. His eyes drift to it. He picks it up, a crease feathering across his forehead.
He lifts the book. “Are you trying to tell me,” he glances at the cover, “you’re Olive Knight?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Open it, the second page.”
He does as I say and flips the page. “Huh, no shit,” he says, a smile breaking across his full lips. “Editor, E. Rue.” He stares at the page for a moment longer, sets it back on the table, and looks up at me. “I like the E. Rue.”
“Yeah,” I grab the book and drop it back in my bag. “When I worked for an editing company, they thought it sounded better then Emmie Rue. More professional, I guess. I freelance now, but by the time I went out on my own, my name was already established. So I stuck with it.”
“I never knew you wanted to be an author,” he says, falling prey to the same notion as others. But not every editor wants to be an author.
“I don’t. It’s not about that. When I get a manuscript from an author, I’m usually the first person to see it. They’ve poured their heart and soul into this creation, and knowing they trust me with it.” I shrug. “I don’t know, it’s just I get to take this beautiful thing and sort of be its make-up. I add a little blush here, highlight there,” I trail off realizing how much of an idiot I must sound like. I just compared myself to make-up, for Christ’s sake.