Jonquils for Jax: The Rousseaus #1 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 12) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Katy Regnery
her luscious red lips flitted through his head, which annoyed him. Stop thinking about her.
He picked up the pile of flats and walked them to the area behind the gardener’s cottage where Felix had instructed him to leave the empties until morning, when they could be taken to the dump. He opened the door of the nearby shed and put the trowel back on the magnetic strip over a wooden table that served as a workbench for plantings. He closed the door securely and locked it, walking the short distance from the shed to his apartment, mumbling the song lyrics “…in other words, in other words…I love you…” as Fly Me to the Moon came to its classic finale.
But despite his admonishment, he couldn’t stop thinking about her as he drank his nightly cup of tea and straightened up the little apartment that he temporarily called home.
Was she hot?
Yes.
Was she intriguing, despite her brassy, sassy ways?
Yes.
Was she the most improbable fucking choice for—for—for anything having to do with him?
Oui , fucking oui .
He needed to forget about her curve-hugging gown, her perfect, highbrow Parisian French, and her stupid, sexy shoes. He needed to forget about her bright eyes and full lips, about the weight of her body in his arms and how it would feel beneath him. He needed to forget about the softness of her skin under the tips of his fingers and the way she said, “I believe you,” as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and trusting.
He plunked his empty mug in the sink, showered, and toweled off, slipping between his sheets naked and staring up at the vague shadows dancing on the ceiling.
She was too young, too rich, too uppity, and way too much trouble for someone like Gardener, who was supposed to be rebuilding his life into a calm, safe, and stable place, none of which would be easily achieved with a distraction like Jacqueline Rousseau.
Forget about her.
It’s for the best.
He closed his weary eyes and rolled to his side, facing the open window and letting another Frank Sinatra ballad lull him to sleep.
Chapter 3
Once Jean-Christian had seen her head and heard what had happened, he’d pledged to kill Tripp Stanton at the earliest possible convenience, but Jax had talked him off the ledge, asking him to please just escort her to her room, where she could take a couple of Advil and go to bed. She didn’t want to waste any more brain power on Tripp.
Nor, she thought, as she lay her weary, aching head on her pillow, listening to the strains of Fly Me to the Moon , did she want to think about the gardener who’d simultaneously taken care of her and rejected her. Best intentions aside, however, she wasn’t able to think about anything but the gardener as she stared at the ceiling, listening to the ambient noise of the party below.
There was something strange, almost mystical, about finding him working in the garden—the way he’d materialized out of shadows and moonlight, the stark contrast between his huge, masculine body and the delicate flowers he was planting so carefully.
Who was he? Someone the Englishes had hired to do some additional landscaping? Why was he an ex -cop? Where did he learn French, and why did she get the feeling that he was as comfortable speaking it as she, though he said he didn’t speak it much anymore? He had raced to her aid, then carried her body in his arms across Westerly, through the hedges, and into Haverford Park to care for her injury. It was so romantic, it made her sigh. Or, at least, she’d thought it was romantic.
But obviously it wasn’t to him. It was just an ex-cop’s instinct. Nothing more.
She punched her pillow twice, huffing softly before lying back down on her uninjured side and closing her eyes.
Her mind played a pre–dream sequence of the night like a movie: her brother’s storybook wedding to Kate, their beautiful reception under a tent with white twinkle lights and roses everywhere, the supertight security that had allowed Jax to actually
He picked up the pile of flats and walked them to the area behind the gardener’s cottage where Felix had instructed him to leave the empties until morning, when they could be taken to the dump. He opened the door of the nearby shed and put the trowel back on the magnetic strip over a wooden table that served as a workbench for plantings. He closed the door securely and locked it, walking the short distance from the shed to his apartment, mumbling the song lyrics “…in other words, in other words…I love you…” as Fly Me to the Moon came to its classic finale.
But despite his admonishment, he couldn’t stop thinking about her as he drank his nightly cup of tea and straightened up the little apartment that he temporarily called home.
Was she hot?
Yes.
Was she intriguing, despite her brassy, sassy ways?
Yes.
Was she the most improbable fucking choice for—for—for anything having to do with him?
Oui , fucking oui .
He needed to forget about her curve-hugging gown, her perfect, highbrow Parisian French, and her stupid, sexy shoes. He needed to forget about her bright eyes and full lips, about the weight of her body in his arms and how it would feel beneath him. He needed to forget about the softness of her skin under the tips of his fingers and the way she said, “I believe you,” as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and trusting.
He plunked his empty mug in the sink, showered, and toweled off, slipping between his sheets naked and staring up at the vague shadows dancing on the ceiling.
She was too young, too rich, too uppity, and way too much trouble for someone like Gardener, who was supposed to be rebuilding his life into a calm, safe, and stable place, none of which would be easily achieved with a distraction like Jacqueline Rousseau.
Forget about her.
It’s for the best.
He closed his weary eyes and rolled to his side, facing the open window and letting another Frank Sinatra ballad lull him to sleep.
Chapter 3
Once Jean-Christian had seen her head and heard what had happened, he’d pledged to kill Tripp Stanton at the earliest possible convenience, but Jax had talked him off the ledge, asking him to please just escort her to her room, where she could take a couple of Advil and go to bed. She didn’t want to waste any more brain power on Tripp.
Nor, she thought, as she lay her weary, aching head on her pillow, listening to the strains of Fly Me to the Moon , did she want to think about the gardener who’d simultaneously taken care of her and rejected her. Best intentions aside, however, she wasn’t able to think about anything but the gardener as she stared at the ceiling, listening to the ambient noise of the party below.
There was something strange, almost mystical, about finding him working in the garden—the way he’d materialized out of shadows and moonlight, the stark contrast between his huge, masculine body and the delicate flowers he was planting so carefully.
Who was he? Someone the Englishes had hired to do some additional landscaping? Why was he an ex -cop? Where did he learn French, and why did she get the feeling that he was as comfortable speaking it as she, though he said he didn’t speak it much anymore? He had raced to her aid, then carried her body in his arms across Westerly, through the hedges, and into Haverford Park to care for her injury. It was so romantic, it made her sigh. Or, at least, she’d thought it was romantic.
But obviously it wasn’t to him. It was just an ex-cop’s instinct. Nothing more.
She punched her pillow twice, huffing softly before lying back down on her uninjured side and closing her eyes.
Her mind played a pre–dream sequence of the night like a movie: her brother’s storybook wedding to Kate, their beautiful reception under a tent with white twinkle lights and roses everywhere, the supertight security that had allowed Jax to actually
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