Chapter 129: Jake
It’s been an hour, maybe more, since I sat down next to Madeline, and I haven’t moved once.
People have come and gone — some to say happy birthday, others to shake my hand, a few just to see if the rumors about the “twins of SWMRI” were true. But through all of it, I’ve stayed right here, with her.
And I can tell it’s testing my patience.
Because she’s been getting attention too, all damn night.
Every time she gets up, every time she walks past, every man in this bar turns his head. It’s like some primal reflex — they can’t help it. I get it, I do. There are plenty of beautiful women in Northhaven, but Madeline… she’s something else entirely.
She doesn’t even try. She’s not dressed to seduce, not batting her lashes or playing coy. She’s just her. And somehow that seems to drive men insane.
It sure as hell drives me insane.
She sits on the stool beside me, sipping the drink I ordered her, and her cheeks are flushed — from the heat, maybe, or the proximity, or maybe the alcohol. I don’t know. I just know I like the way it looks on her.
Her dress has ridden up just a little on her thigh, and I have to fight every instinct that tells me to reach out, to run my hand along that smooth, warm skin and see how far she’ll let me go.
Instead, I grip my glass tighter, swirl what’s left of the whiskey, and force myself to keep my expression calm.
Because men keep looking.
Every few minutes, some idiot drifts close — one pretending to order a drink, another pretending to know her name. They take one look at her, then at me. I don’t even have to say anything. I just look.
And whatever they were about to try dies in their throat.
Good.
Across the room, I see Reid talking with a few old friends, his eyes occasionally flicking this way. I know he’s waiting for his turn with her. I know that look.
He wants her too.
And he’ll get his moment. Eventually.
But not yet.
Because right now, she’s here.
She leans forward on her elbows, laughing at something I said, and the sound of it slides down my spine like warm honey. Her dress shifts again, the light catching the soft curve of her shoulder, the faint freckles scattered across her skin from the sun.
I take a slow sip of my drink and let my gaze rest on her.
And I can’t help the small, dark smile that pulls at my mouth.
Let them look all they want.
Let them ache for her the way I do.
Because for now, I’m the one sitting close enough to feel the heat of her body.
I’m the one making her smile like that.
And until Reid takes his turn — until the world demands I share again — I’m going to enjoy every damn second of having her to myself.
She’s been talking for a while now — something about the first time she ever tagged a whale, or maybe it was the time her old lab flooded and she had to save data drives from floating away. I honestly stopped listening to the words five minutes ago.
It’s not that what she’s saying isn’t interesting — it’s that I’m too focused on her. The way her eyes light up when she tells a story, the way her hand moves through the air like she’s painting the scene for me. Every movement of her lips, the tilt of her head, the tiny crease between her brows when she’s trying to remember a detail. I could watch her like this for hours.
Hell, I am watching her like this for hours.
And I don’t want to stop.
Then a loud voice cuts through the music.
“Jake! Jake, man, you gotta come see this!”
My jaw tightens. I glance over my shoulder — my friends from earlier, all half-drunk and way too loud. One of them waves me over with a stupid grin, and I’m this close to telling him to fuck right off when I feel a light touch on my arm.
Her hand.
Small, soft, fingers curling gently around my forearm.
It hits me harder than it should.
She gives me that smile — the one that melts every ounce of tension I’ve got. “Go,” she says softly. “You’ve been sitting here with me for ages. Go have fun with everyone else. I’ll be fine.”
I shake my head, meaning to tell her that I don’t want to go, that I’d rather sit here and listen to her voice for the rest of the night — but she laughs, that warm little giggle that feels like sunlight, and says, “Seriously, Jake. Go. I’ll go see what Charlie’s up to.”
And somehow, I actually listen.
I sigh, down the last of my whiskey, and push back from the bar.
She’s still sitting on the stool, looking up at me with those wide, sea-glass eyes. I can’t help myself — I reach out, rest my hand on her waist. My thumb brushes the soft fabric of her dress, the heat of her skin right beneath it. Then, without a word, I lift her down from the stool, steadying her as her feet hit the ground.
She smiles up at me, cheeks flushed pink — from the drink, or the touch, or both — and whispers, “Thanks.”
I nod, forcing my hand to fall away even though I don’t want to.
She turns, disappearing into the crowd — a flash of mint-colored fabric and curls and warmth swallowed by the press of people and light.
And I stand there for a second longer, watching her go, fighting the urge to follow.
I find my friend and force a smile into the laughter, but I don’t actually listen to whatever nonsense he’s shouting about. I’ve lost sight of her—no idea where Reid is—and that little fact nags at me like a splinter.
I’m not building out elaborate plans or fantasies; I’m just tight and watchful. I mutter a silent, useless prayer that no one in this room gets bold tonight. If some idiot thinks he can touch her, he won’t walk away thinking it was a good idea. That’s enough to keep me where I am: near the bar, glass in hand, eyes scanning the crowd, jaw set, ready. Simple, practical, dangerous if pushed.