Jonquils for Jax (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #1) - Katy Regnery Page 0,6
around in hers for her phone. “I’ll call my brother to come and get me.”
Without waiting for the man to say anything, she turned her back to him and dialed Jean-Christian’s cell. It rang six times before he answered.
“What?” His voice was breathy, as though he’d just run a mile or just finished—
“Jean-Christian?” she squeaked.
“This better be good, Jax,” he grated out. “I’m with someone.”
She cringed. “I’m at the gardener’s cottage at Haverford Park, just inside the gates. I need you to come and get me. I lost one of my shoes. And it’s dark.”
“Walk. It’s not even a quarter mile, petite sœur.”
“I’m barefoot,” she insisted, her voice almost a whine. She didn’t care if she was breaking up her brother’s tryst. She’d had enough for tonight. She refused to let the gardener walk her home after rejecting her. It was way too humiliating. “Come and get me, peigne-cul.”
“Moi? I’m the asshole? Try again,” he muttered. He sighed long and hard before she heard him say to someone else, “Forgive me, but my idiot sister is stranded down the road and needs my help.” He paused, then said, “Oui! Of course! It was a slice of heaven, chéri. Write down your number. I’ll call you sometime soon.”
“No, he won’t,” said Jax under her breath.
“Tu vas fermer ta putain de gueule,” her brother growled into the phone. “I’ll be there in five. You owe me.”
She grinned. He’d essentially just told her to “shut the fuck up,” but at least he was coming for her. And rather quickly, at that, it occurred to her. Almost like he was…escaping. Hmm.
“Maybe you owe me,” she said saucily, hanging up and turning to look at the man who still stood across the room. “My brother’s coming.”
“I can walk you to the gate.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, lifting her chin a little.
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine.”
Jax stood up, placing her phone back into her pocket before meeting his steady gaze. Even though he’d rejected her offer of a kiss, he’d also saved her from harm, carried her from Westerly to Haverford Park, and bandaged up her cut. She touched the Band-Aid on her temple. “Thank you.”
He didn’t say the conventional and polite “You’re welcome.” Instead, he looked annoyed with her and said, “Maybe find some better company.”
“I told you, he’s not my boyfri—”
“Or enroll yourself in a self-defense class if you’re goin’ to hang out with rapists.”
Jax gulped. “Tripp Stanton is many things, but he’s not—”
He took a step forward, looking at her like she was crazy. “You’re goin’ to defend him now?”
“He was just drunk!”
“That’s no excuse! He had his hands on you! He knocked you to the ground and made you bleed! I should have punched his teeth out! I should have—” His eyes burned with rage for a long moment before he looked down, staring at the floor and fuming.
Jax’s eyes widened, but instead of stepping away from the gardener’s tirade, she stepped closer to him, speaking gently. “He just got drunk and made a mistake.”
His head snapped up, his eyes nailing hers. “You’re goin’ to get hurt.”
“What do you care?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, exhaling a long, deep breath before shaking his head. “Ex-cop. Force of habit…I guess.”
Ex-cop. Huh. Ex-cop. Maybe that’s what she’d somehow sensed…and why she’d trusted him: he wasn’t a predator. He was a protector.
Jax ran her greedy eyes over his muscled arms and the well-defined ridges of his chest under his T-shirt. It made sense to her—the way he’d saved her, the way he’d carried her to safety and seen to her wound. He was the opposite of everything she’d come to fear. An ex-cop. She almost sighed.
“I’ve never met a cop before, let alone an ex-cop.”
The hint of a smile softened his lips. “Not surprised, Duchess. I doubt we’re invited to the same soirees.”
“Why ex?”
He stared at her, then sighed. “None of your business.”
“Jax? Ja-a-a-a-a-x? Où es-tu?”
Her brother was calling from the front side of the cottage. She headed to the door, feeling out of sorts about the way she was leaving things with her unlikely hero…like there was more to be said and she was about to lose her chance to say it.
“Why do all the men in your life yell ‘Ja-a-a-a-a-x’ when they’re lookin’ for you?” he asked softly from behind.
She turned to meet his eyes over her shoulder and shrugged. “They can’t all call me duchess.”
His lips tilted up into a smile, and she felt such a rush of victory—it was a