Jonquils for Jax (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #1) - Katy Regnery Page 0,29
probably would have ended up shooting her. The only good that had come out of that horrible day was the fact that Carolina and her two young children had survived.
A sudden memory of Gil’s face, partially blown off by the shotgun blast, flashed through Gard’s mind, and he winced.
Don’t go there, he told himself, his fingers clenched tightly around the plastic bottle. That’s an old chapter in a life that’s over. Don’t think about it. Think about something else. Anything else.
With his eyes still closed, he took a deep breath, catching a whiff of something unexpected on the breeze…lemon, maybe. And a hint of rosemary. Wait a second…
He opened his eyes and there, standing in front of him, just over the railing, with a small grin on her beautiful face, was Jax Rousseau.
He stared at her, surprised by her sudden appearance and dumfounded by her beauty.
“Hi,” she said softly.
He dropped his legs from the porch railing and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the railing and smiling back at her, gratitude for her sudden company welling inside of him like a burst of something very sweet and very bright in a dark, bitter life. Like a jonquil. Like a kiss of bright orange in the middle of quiet white.
She searched his eyes, her soft smile enchanting him. “What?”
“What?” he parroted, grinning back at her.
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“Vous etes si belle que vous regarder est une souffrance,” he whispered. You’re so beautiful, it hurts me to look at you.
“Oh,” she murmured, her lips parting as she gazed back at him. Finally she shrugged—the barest motion of one shoulder grazing the delicate lobe of her ear. “Merci.”
Frissons of excitement and awareness leapt between them, making him sit up straighter, pay attention, drink in the sight of her. She wore her hair down for the first time he could remember—long, silken tresses parted in the middle of her head, falling past her shoulders in dark waves. Her lips were shiny, and a simple black T-shirt covered her breasts. She was as natural as he’d ever seen her, but so lovely, she didn’t seem real.
“Nice night for sitting outside,” she said.
He nodded, staring at her glossy lips and picking up the scent of the gloss she wore. Coconut? No. Pineapple. His mouth watered. “Yep.”
They stared at each other in silence for several seconds before Jax looked down, shifting her weight back and forth. It was a tell, he realized. She was trying to gather her courage to do or say something, and she wasn’t sure how he’d respond. It made him feel a little bad, that, because it meant he’d probably hurt her with a gruff response or two over the last few days. It made him angry at himself, because when he hurt her, her eyes lost a little of their cautious shine, and the more time he spent with her, the more he hated seeing that happen.
“What’s up, Jax?” he asked softly.
“I, uh…” She cleared her throat. “Remember what you said today? About how you’d need to find a friend to watch games with?”
“Uh-huh. Somehow I don’t see you fillin’ that need, Duchess.”
She held up the six-pack of Abita, resting it on the railing about an inch from his nose. “Don’t be so sure.”
His eyes focused on the cardboard box, and he felt a beaming smile pulling at his lips, crinkling his eyes and lightening his heavy heart. “Abita.”
“It’s from Louisiana.”
“You bought Abita.”
She cringed. “Good or bad?”
Gard massaged his bristly chin with his thumb and forefinger, his mouth watering. “Good, Jax. Very, very good.”
“You like it?” she asked, her voice high with an excited squeal.
“Beaucoup.” He took the beer and stood, looking down at her as he gestured to the door with his chin. “You comin’ in?”
She nodded. “If I’m invited.”
“You’re invited, Duchess.”
He opened the door and stepped into the small living room area, setting the six-pack on the coffee table and heading to the kitchen for two glasses. He didn’t know why she was here again, and honestly, he didn’t care. Five minutes before she’d arrived, he’d been alone with his terrible memories. Now he was about to share a bottle of his favorite beer with a gorgeous woman who wanted nothing more complicated than to be his friend. Looked at in the right light—the light that didn’t include the way his heart started racing whenever he locked eyes on her—he was one lucky bastard.
“You want a glass?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll drink it from the bottle.”