Page 15 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)

I pace the polished Italian marble floors of my penthouse condo, phone in hand, trying JJ’s number again. The late afternoon sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, splashing golden light across the minimalist furniture.

The call goes straight to voicemail. The sound of her voice on the recording twists something in my gut every time. I’m not used to being ignored.

Control isn’t just something I’m used to—it’s the foundation of my success. People don’t ignore my calls. They wait for them. They chase them. They need them.

Every obstacle in my life has eventually yielded to my careful planning and strategic execution. Business rivals, market challenges, technical hurdles—I’ve overcome them all by identifying the variables and manipulating them to my advantage.

It is a system that has never failed me. Until now. Until JJ.

I walk to the window where the city sprawls below. The swirling snow catches the sun’s golden rays like glittering confetti. My tired eyes, disheveled hair, designer suit wrinkled from the long flight home reflect back at me through the glass.

In the month since Vegas, I’ve been throwing myself into work, traveling across Europe with Antonio to scout locations for our new office. Board meetings, market analyzes, property viewings, but none of it keeps JJ from my thoughts.

Her defiant chin tilt when she’s gearing up for a fight haunts me across continents. I should have been focused on mergers and market trends. Instead, I was in meetings, wondering if she was thinking about me with the same restless urgency.

My fingers trace the cool glass of the window, leaving a momentary print against the backdrop of the snow globe world outside. JAK Innovations is thriving, our latest game release breaking sales records. We are on track to triple our revenue this year.

Yet here I stand in my multi-million-dollar condo, feeling completely powerless because one elementary school teacher won’t take my calls. Success means nothing if I can’t have her.

What good is conquering the world if she isn’t mine to share it with?

After years of watching from afar, of suppressing my feelings because of her brother’s friendship and my respect for her parents, JJ is legally mine. The thought stuns me sometimes.

The wild-haired girl who once put superglue on my gaming controller.

The sharp-tongued teenager who called me an “egotistical asshat” at my graduation party.

The stunning woman who married with me in Vegas, her body pressed against mine, looking up with those dark eyes that have haunted me since I was twelve years old was finally mine.

My wife.

The word sinks into my bones, a claim as real as the ink on our marriage certificate. She is mine. Mine on paper, but not yet where it matters.

I didn’t take advantage of her on our wedding night in Vegas.

JJ deserves more than a drunken encounter.

When I finally have her, she won’t be drunk.

She won’t be caught up in alcohol-laced laughter and impulsive decisions.

She will be fully aware, fully present. Sober enough to feel everything and to know it is me making her fall apart.

I intend to transform this Vegas union into the relationship I’ve wanted since before I even understood what wanting her meant. I will make JJ my wife in every sense of the word.

Running a hand through my hair, I steel myself for the confrontation ahead. Outside, snow continues to fall, transforming the city into something softer.

I didn’t build JAK Innovations from a dorm room project into a billion-dollar company by backing down from challenges. And JJ has always been my most intriguing provocation.

Tonight, my usual rituals fail to comfort me. The hot shower does nothing to clear my head. Neither does the shave. I pull on a cashmere sweater and tailored pants, but the tension in my body remains.

JJ is still ignoring me. That ends tonight.

By the time I pull into her apartment building, the snow is falling harder, accumulating on the car’s sleek black surface. The building is one of those modest red-brick walkups you find all over Winter Bay.

As I scan the parking lot, a fresh wave of frustration hits me. The Mercedes Benz Kamal gifted JJ on her birthday isn’t here.

I check my watch, then lean back against the headrest and exhale slowly, pulling out my phone. Emails, market reports and an acquisition proposal wait for my attention. If I’m going to wait, I’ll at least use the time productively.

An hour later, headlights cut through the storm, pulling my attention away from my screen.

I straighten in my seat as her car glides into an open space. JJ steps out and I forget everything else.

She’s a walking contradiction. Soft but sharp, delicate but untouchable. Snowflakes catch in her thick curls, the dark coils framing her face and making her look deceptively angelic for a woman who’s spent the better part of a decade driving me insane.

Her brown skin glows against the cold, her cheeks flushed from the wind, and her full lips—lips I’ve spent too many nights jerking off to—are pressed into an irritated line as she navigates opening her trunk.

My body moves on instinct, and I’m out of the car before I even make the conscious decision to approach her.

“I’ve got it,” I state, taking the bags from her trunk before she can protest.

“Jaxon!” Her voice cuts through the howling wind. “You’re stalking me now?”

“Me? Never,” I reply easily, adjusting my grip on the paper bags already dampening from the heavy, wet flakes.

“What are you doing here?”

She pulls her light, inadequate spring jacket tighter around herself and shivers visibly, snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes and melting on her cheeks.

God help me, I want to kiss her just to shut her up.

“Well, I did try calling,” I explain, my breath forming clouds between us, “but I think your phone doesn’t work. I’m here to do a welfare check and to drop off a new device.”

JJ rolls her eyes, her brown skin flushed and her small button nose tinged pink from the cold. A particularly strong gust of wind whips her coils across her face, and she impatiently tucks them back. She glances down at the bags in my hands and makes a move to grab them. I take a step back.

“Give me my bags.” Her voice rises to compete with the wind. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying them.”

She lunges, her fingers latching onto the bag with a death grip, her breath coming out in short, frustrated puffs.

I don’t budge. Of course she fights me on this—she fights me on everything.

“Really, JJ?” My voice is calm, amused, but inside I’m aching to pin her against the nearest surface and bury myself inside her.

She glares up at me, breathless, stunningly furious.

“Let go,” she demands.

I take a step closer, forcing her to tilt her chin higher to keep glaring at me.

“No.”

She exhales, muttering something under her breath that sounds a lot like “egotistical jackass.”

“Careful, wife. That almost sounded affectionate.”

She rolls her eyes again, angry but smart enough not to argue further in the worsening weather. Snow is piling up against the parked cars, unusual drifts forming in the corner of the lot.

She closes her trunk with force, but the sound is muffled by the thickening snowfall. After retrieving her purse and computer bag from the back seat, she locks her car with a beep.

Before I can take a step, a sickening crack rips through the air. A split second later, an explosion of snapping wood and crushing metal.

JJ jerks back, eyes wide. I turn in time to see a massive pine tree atop my brand new car, crushing the hood.

“Holy shit!”

“Your car,” JJ breathes.

A chill that has nothing to do with the weather runs through me. If I’d still been sitting in the car waiting for her, I’d be dead right now. The tree had completely flattened the front half of the vehicle.

Fate has a strange way of intervening. If JJ had taken my calls, I wouldn’t be here. If I hadn’t gotten out to help her with the groceries...

“Looks like I’m not going anywhere for a while,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“Perfect,” JJ’s voice comes through the gloom, dripping with sarcasm. “Just perfect.”

Without another word, she turns and marches toward the building’s entrance, her boots leaving distinct impressions in the fresh snow. I follow steadily behind her, grocery bags secure in my grip, watching as she punches the elevator button with unnecessary force.

“So, Mrs. Jamison, why have you been ignoring my calls?” I ask as we step into the elevator.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft ping, sealing us inside. The space feels smaller than it should, the scent of jasmine and stubbornness filling the air.

“It’s Miss Smith,” she snaps. “And unlike you, I don’t have endless hours to sit around counting my millions. Some of us have real jobs.”

She crosses her arms, tilting her chin up like she’s daring me to challenge her.

The jab is so quintessentially JJ that I almost laugh.

She knows better. She saw me, Kamal, and Antonio build JAK from scratch, witnessed the all-nighters and the failures before the success.

But JJ’s always had this talent for finding exactly what will get under my skin, whether she believes it or not.

“Right. Fifth-grade spelling tests definitely outweigh a legally binding marriage.”

I step closer, deliberately crowding her. “And for the record, it’s billions, not millions.”

She rolls her eyes, an expression I’ve seen directed at me countless times over the years. “Whatever. I don’t care about your net worth.”

“You should. It’s partially yours now.”

That stops her cold. “What?”

“Our State is a community property state,” I explain, enjoying her momentary speechlessness. “Anything acquired during the marriage is considered joint property. Technically, you own half of whatever I’ve earned since Vegas.”

Her face pales, then flushes. “That’s—I don’t want your money, Jaxon.”

“I know.” And I do know. JJ has never been impressed by wealth. It’s one of the things that has always fascinated me about her. “But it’s a complication we need to address, along with several others.”

“Please, let’s not discuss this here.”

“That’s fair,” I concede, masking my satisfaction.

JJ thinks she’s winning this battle. Let her.

I don’t chase victories. I construct them. Brick by brick, until my opponent is standing in the middle of the empire I built around them, realizing they were mine all along.

When we reach the fourth floor, she leads the way down the carpeted hallway. At her apartment door, she hesitates. I see the debate playing across her expressive face. She is trying to formulate a plan to get rid of me.

Her shoulders finally slump in defeat as she unlocks the door. “Come in,” she says. “The kitchen is that way.” She points toward an archway to the right. “You can put the bags down in there.”

She locks the door behind us and arms her security alarm. I kick off my boots and carry the groceries into the kitchen and set them down, taking in my surroundings. The countertops are pristine quartz, gleaming under pendant lights. A single coffee mug sits in the sink.

Her living area is modern and cozy with neutral colors. The sectional sofa is white leather, inviting despite its sleek design, and a thick cream rug lies in front of it. Photographs of her family and past students adorn the walls. A huge television hangs above an electric fireplace.

“You can have a seat while I put the groceries away,” she says from behind me.

“Do you need any help?” I offer, watching as she unpacks a carton of eggs.

“No,” she replies curtly, not looking up. “Things will move faster if I do it myself.”

The message is clear. She wants distance between us, even in this small way.

I shrug, remove my snow-dampened coat and settle onto her sofa. Through the window, I can see fat flakes swirling in hypnotic patterns against the darkening sky.

About fifteen minutes later—during which I hear every cabinet open and close, every rustle of paper bags being folded—she finally emerges and sits on the opposite end of the sofa, as far from me as possible while still occupying the same piece of furniture.

I watch her closely, taking in every subtle gesture. Her hair is now tied back at her nape, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. She looks as beautiful as ever, possibly more so. She always does. My eyes drift to her lips, full and pursed in thought.

“Ready to talk?” I ask.