Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) (7 page)

“I’m
nothing
like Paris. I didn’t
ask
for that attention! I didn’t go on TV and open up my life to speculation by starring in a reality show! I never made a sex tape that was”—she put her fingers over her lips in an exaggerated gesture of surprise—“oops! leaked onto the Internet.” She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose in a huff. “I love movies. I just wanted to produce one. Did you know it was filmed here? On location? I just wanted to remake my favorite movie, to see Le Chateau on the big screen. I didn’t know I’d lose every ounce of privacy, that I’d be stalked like an animal—”

Her eyes filled with tears and she stopped abruptly, lowering her eyes and swallowing. And suddenly, she didn’t look like a duchess or a femme fatale or even the heiress that she was. She looked like a girl who felt lost and alone…and his heart ached for her because Gard understood lost and he understood alone. He’d lived equal parts lost and alone every day of his life since the accident.

Reaching out, he slipped his fingers under her chin and raised it gently until she met his gaze. She was so beautiful, her expression so vulnerable and naked, his breath caught and he held it, his lungs burning as she stared back at him, her misery betrayed in the tremble of her lips and the glisten in her eyes.

“First rule of self-defense…”

Near his fingers, the pulse in her throat leapt wildly, matching the fierce beating of his heart. Regardless of the intimacy that seemed to grow like a warm, living thing between them…regardless of the slippery slope that was his unwanted attraction for this virtual stranger…and regardless of the imminent danger of slipping, of sliding, of falling into whatever ill-advised chasm lay between them, he held her eyes captive with his.

“First rule,
Jacqueline
,” he repeated softly, his throat dry, his voice husky. “No matter what…Don’t ever look away.”

It was jarring and intimate to hold eye contact for so long, but Jax dug deep inside for the strength not to look away.

As the seconds ticked by, locked in his gaze, it surprised her to feel something galvanize within her. Broken pieces of something shattered started pulling back together as though they were fitted with magnets, like lost puzzle pieces seeking out their scattered mates, wanting to be whole again. It made her feel different—excited or energetic or hopeful, somehow—and after several months of feeling disillusioned, different felt…well,
good
.

After staring at each other for a solid minute without speaking, she somehow managed to compose herself and open the door to the gym, turning away from him and into the mirror-walled workout room. Gardener, who stood in the doorway behind her, whistled low, taking in the space, which housed an elliptical machine, a stationary bike, a treadmill, a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, a ballet bar, a full rack of dumbbells, two benches, and a home gym with arm, chest, and back press functions. In the far-left corner of the room was a door that led to a sauna, and a door in the far-right corner led to a bathroom, complete with a rainforest shower and Jacuzzi tub.

“You weren’t kiddin’ when you said you had a gym,” he said.

She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “You assumed I was?”

He squinted as he looked around the room. “Duchess, the only
home gyms
I’ve ever seen lately had a stationary bike stuck in a basement…maybe with a crappy black-and-white TV on a table nearby. This is…”

From a cabinet just inside the door, she plucked a remote control and pressed a button that made a bracket in the ceiling open. A small television set descended to the perfect viewing height in front of the stationary bike.

“
Voila
,” she said. “Bike and TV.”

From behind her, he chuckled softly, and it made her smile, but she didn’t look at him, because instinct told her that if she did, he’d stop laughing and frown at her, and she liked the sound of his laugher way too much to imperil it. She savored the brief sound, finally turning to face him when he was silent again.

“Well? Shall we get started?”

His squinting eyes, still searching the room, cut to her face and focused. “Yeah. Okay.” He shrugged his shoulder and the duffel bag he was carrying slid down his arm. He caught the strap and lowered the bag the rest of the way to the ground.

“What’s in there?”

“Stuff we don’t need.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve got everythin’ I need right here.”

She knew that he was talking about gym equipment. She knew that. But she couldn’t seem to keep herself from taking his words out of context for just a moment and trying them out in a different way in her head:

…you’ve got everything I need right here.

“Oh,
merde
,” she whispered, sighing softly.

“Duchess?” he prompted.

“Hmm?” she asked, snapping her head up to look at him. She plastered a smile on her face and pushed her ponytail off her shoulder. “Yes. I’m ready. Let’s get to it!”

He nodded, taking a deep breath and nailing her with a hard glare. “I’m going to teach you about the eyes today. Yours first, then your assailant’s. Now…what’s the first rule?”

“Don’t ever look away.”

“Right. Why not?”

He had his feet spread apart and his hands on his hips. His sweat pants were a little big, but his plain white T-shirt was a little snug, fitting over his chest like a glove and highlighting the ridiculously defined ridges of muscle.

Umm
, she thought,
we don’t look away
because what we see is so hot?

“
Jacqueline
?”

And the way he said her name…it turned her insides to warm honey. She hid a whimper by clearing her throat. “Because…”

“Because awareness is the first rule of avoidance. And avoidance is the name of the game.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“You understand what I mean?”

“I assume you mean that if you don’t put yourself into dangerous situations, you won’t need to defend yourself.”

“Exactly,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “No checkin’ out Facebook on your phone in a parkin’ lot. No wearin’ headphones unless you’re safe at home in your bed. Make eye contact to show you’re unafraid. Be aware of your surroundin’s. Anyone who’s within three feet of your person is too close.”

“Three feet,” she said, nodding.

“Do you know how much that is?” he asked, uncrossing his arms.

“From you to me?”

“No. We’re five feet away from each other.” He took a step toward her. “Now we’re three feet apart. Extend your arm.” She did as he asked, her fingertips brushing his chest. “Your arm is approximately three feet long. Does that help you gauge things?”

“I can’t go around with my arms spread wide all the time.”

“Of course not. But look at me. Look at my eyes. Look how far apart we are. Remember this distance.”

She looked into his eyes—
again
—but she was slightly more relaxed this time and paid closer attention.
How funny
, she thought.
They’re asymmetrical, one slightly higher than the other.
Stepping forward—approximately two feet from his person, which was, by his own definition, too close—she further noted that there was scar tissue on his face that she hadn’t noticed before. It looked like he’d had extremely bad acne concentrated around his eyes or had picked a bunch of chicken pox sores that had left small craters around his eyes and on his forehead, though something intuitive told her that neither of those reasons was right.

“What happened?” she whispered, still staring deeply into his dark-brown eyes, cataloguing the strange asymmetry and the battered, pockmarked skin.

He flinched, turning away from her. “Nothin’.”

But if his body language told her anything, it told her that the marks meant something to him.

“You won’t tell me?”

With his head still down, he shrugged. “Nothin’ to tell.”

“Gardener,” she said, taking one more step toward him. Gently, she tried to coax him to talk. “
Jardinier
…”

“Please,” he muttered, as though asking for mercy. When he looked up, his expression was shrouded, troubled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

But Jax wanted to talk about it. Suddenly she realized that she wanted to talk to him very much. She wanted to
know
this man who spoke French and planted moonlight gardens and used to “serve and protect.” He had rescued her from danger and carried her like a doll in his arms on Saturday night, even though she was positive she annoyed him. He’d tenderly bandaged her wound and, despite his initial protests, he’d agreed to teach her how to defend herself. Not to mention he was one of a very few people on Blueberry Lane young enough to be her peer, to be her friend, to maybe—possibly—help thwart her loneliness.

Yes, she wanted to talk to him. Very much. Very badly.

Mustering her fragile courage, she said, “We could—we could be friends, you know. I only live two houses away…and you’re going to be teaching me how to defend myself. I mean…we might as well be—”

He took a step back. “I don’t think so, Duchess.”

She grimaced, her feelings hurt. “Why not?”

He was scowling at her again, clenching his jaw tightly, his eyebrows knitted together in consternation. Finally he dropped her eyes, gesturing to the gym. “We can’t be friends. We come from different worlds.”

“Who cares?”

His head shot up, his eyes finding hers, searching them. “Don’t
you
?”

“No.”

“No?” he asked, his face registering genuine surprise. His lips twitched and his expression softened, giving her just enough encouragement to try again.

“I want to be friends,” she answered, chancing a small smile and hoping he wouldn’t crush it with whatever he said next.

He crossed his arms over his chest again, considering her for a long moment. “I don’t have any friends who are women.”

Her eyes widened and she laughed softly. “None?”

“Nope,” he said. “Never tried it. Seemed dangerous.”

It could be
, she thought quickly before shoving the thought aside.

“You’ve dated, though?”

“Sure.”

“And you weren’t friends with any of your girlfriends?”

“I was,” he said slowly, “but I was sleepin’ with them, Duchess.”

Her breath hitched and it felt like all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. As appealing as that idea was, Jax wasn’t the sort of girl who slept with men she barely knew.

“Well, you’re
not
sleeping with me.”

“Yet.”

***

“Wh-what?” she stammered, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Uhhh…”

Putain de merde!
he thought.
What the hell was that? Where did it come from?
And now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back.
God damn it!

“
Yet
?” she squeaked.

“I just mean…”

He scrambled, trying to think of a way to back out of one stupid, tiny word that had just crossed a line he’d been so damn careful to observe up until now.

What
did
he mean? That he’d like to fuck her?

Yes. Of course. What man wouldn’t? She was the perfect combination of pretty and hot—a bona fide knockout.

The problem, however, was that the time for an anonymous, gratuitous fuck had passed. He’d missed his chance on Saturday night when they were still virtual strangers and she’d offered him a kiss. Now? He’d gotten to know her a little: he knew she was vulnerable, hounded by the media, and—from what he could gather—lonely. The airspace for fucking her without any strings attached had already come and gone.

So the implication that they hadn’t fucked…
yet
? It was awkward because it implied they would someday. And while that might sound like a fine idea to his dick, his head knew that it was just about impossible in real life. They were two broken creatures hiding from the world. They had no business making their lives more complicated by getting involved with each other.

He had no idea what to say, still wishing like hell that he could somehow rewind time and swallow his stupid “yet” before it had escaped his lips.

He’d been staring at the floor, but now he raised his eyes to apologize. Her wide green eyes still focused on his face with surprise, but as he stared back at her, he realized that her emeralds were twinkling. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was trying not to laugh.

“
De ne pas coucher avec vos voisines
,” she said, finally letting her smile break forth, accompanied by a soft chuckle.

Because there wasn’t an exact translation in French for “Don’t shit where you eat,” she’d used the closest expression possible, which translated directly to “Don’t sleep with your neighbors,” which, in this particular situation, was so timely and so perfect, it made him throw back his head and laugh. Not smirk. Not chuckle. But really
laugh
…which felt wonderful and weird and foreign, because as he stared at the ceiling listening to a rich bellow break free from his chest, he realized it had been ages since he’d heard the sound of his own laughter.

She joined him, giggling beside him for a moment before straightening, her blush deepening as she gestured awkwardly to the gym.

“Now we’re even,” she said, and he assumed she was referring to Saturday night when he turned her down for a kiss.

“Okay, Duchess. Even.”

“Friends?” she asked, cocking her head to the side and holding out her hand.

Still smiling at her, admiring the way she’d let the whole episode roll off her back with humor, he nodded, pressing his hand to hers and pumping it once.

“Yeah, okay. Friends. You’re cool, Jax,” he said, trying out her nickname for the first time.

“And you barely know me,” she said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder with a sassy grin. “Just wait. I’m going to be the best friend you ever had, Gard.”

Gard, huh? He was Gard now?

He raised his eyebrows, charmed by her and unable, or unwilling, to hide it for the moment. What was the point? They were going to be friends, right? He’d already surrendered.

“Really?”

“Really. After me, you’re
only
going to want to be friends with women.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I promise.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips and raising her pert little chin in challenge.

“Because we can’t sit on a couch together watchin’ a game, drinkin’ beer, and belchin’. I’ll still need a few guy friends for the truly disgustin’ moments of male bondin’.”