Page 20

It’s everything I need, and the world around us fades away.
He spends the rest of dinner sharing food from his plate. Feeding me seems to please him, and I enjoy pleasing him. We engage in easy, intimate conversation, and I find myself wishing he wasn’t married and I wasn’t on the rebound.
Who am I kidding? I’m an escort, and no man wants to date an escort.
Later, when I’m in bed, I’ll allow myself to fantasize about a life where I’m free to date someone as attentive and engaging as Ethan Blackwood.
I’m about to decline another bite of chocolate mousse when a familiar, raspy voice seizes my attention. My heart pounds and my pulse skyrockets. Ethan and I turn in unison to find Jackson O’Reilly standing at the head of our table in a perfectly tailored designer suit.
Sandy-blond hair, brilliant green eyes, golden-tanned skin, and effortless sex appeal.
Unfortunately, the impressive outside doesn’t match the chaotic inside. Reputation and public persona aside, Jackson is a mess.
I’m too conflicted with emotions to think. My anxious brain stalls out with a measly “Hi.”
I haven’t seen Jackson in over two months, and every impulse tells me to rush into his arms.
He’s right there. Do it.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can sense the phantom weight of his body on mine, smell his heady cologne, hear his never-ending promises…
He was the best I ever had—perhaps the best I’ll ever have—and a total dick.
“Hi.” Jackson scans my body from head to toe then appraises Ethan, his expression hardening. “Jackson O’Reilly.”
Ethan reclines and not-so-casually drapes an arm over the back of the booth behind me. “Ethan Blackwood.” His tone is devoid of emotion, his aloof, annoyed vibe back in full force.
My face is on fire. I wouldn’t protest if the ground cracked open and swallowed me whole.
Jackson clenches his jaw. “How’s your grandmother, Aurora?”
My bruised heart beats violently against my rib cage, and I swallow the dry lump in my throat. “She’s doing better, thank you.”
I glance at Ethan, mortified at what he must think. He calmly sips his dark-amber liquor, his piercing gaze on Jackson. His protectiveness embraces me, loosening the tightness in my chest.
“Actually, can we talk?” Jackson glares in Ethan’s direction. “Alone.”
I cringe at his sharp tone. “Jackson…” I have no idea how to refuse him. I want to, but I’m accustomed to appeasing him, and I’m scared he’ll make a scene. “We can talk later.”
Emotionally, I was prepared to see him from a distance. But this unexpected confrontation leaves me grappling for composure and consumed with unresolved feelings for him.
Waves of panic threaten to pull me under. I thought for sure he’d be over our relationship, even if I secretly wasn’t. He was the one who ghosted me, taking a vacation after my grandfather died and my grandmother had a stroke.
Andnowhe wants to talk?
Ethan scoffs. “It’s fine. I’ll head to the bar to give you two a minute.”
Jackson sneers, his jealousy transparent. “You do that.” He watches Ethan walk away then slides into the booth beside me.
I brace myself for the nightmare that’s about to be unleashed.
He shoves Ethan’s plate aside with disgust. “You’re taking clients? You blow through all the money I gave you already?”
Yeah, on medical bills, a nursing home, and fucking rent.
I don’t say that, though. I smell the alcohol on his breath—vodka tonic, double, no lemon.
My hands tremble, and my face heats with embarrassment. “You know I have to work. Please, don’t do this here, Jax.” My eyes plead with him, my words tinged with fear. “I can’t take care of my grandmother without this job.”