She snorted. “It’s that bad, then?”

He took a sip of whisky. “Actually, it’s getting better, I think.”

“The job or the city?”

“The job.”

“I read your latest article. It was good, Jackson.”

He snorted. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m just glad you’ve found something. Something besides football.”

Jackson’s head snapped back a little. “This is only a temporary gig, Molls. Until—”

She frowned. “Until what?”

Until I can convince my former boss to give me a coaching job. But he didn’t say it. Wouldn’t say it out loud until he knew he had a chance. But the last email he’d gotten from Jerry had said that while he was damn good at football, there was no chance until Jackson had gotten his public image in order. Which meant…

“I’m thinking of doing an interview with Oxford.”

She frowned. “You mean for Oxford?”

“No, I mean telling my story. To the sports editors there.”

She sat back in her chair. “Wow.”

“You don’t think I should?” he asked, oddly desperate to hear her answer.

She took a sip of wine. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess you should. If Madison hadn’t talked, you could play the whole ‘Please respect our privacy during this difficult time’ card, but she did talk. She went on the offensive, and unless you defend yourself, you look guilty as hell.”

He shook his head. “You can admit that, and yet you and Madison still think I’m going to want to get back together with her?”

“People make mistakes,” Mollie said gently. “Madison knows she made some: going public with your problems, divorcing you when she did.”

“Those aren’t little mistakes. Those are the rip-a-man’s-heart-out-and-pour-salt-in-the-gaping-hole-in-his-chest type of mistakes.”

Something flickered across her face. “So her leaving—it ripped your heart out?”

He groaned and reached for a piece of bread.

“Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “Drop the macho act for thirty seconds, then you can go back to dragging your knuckles.”

He shook his head and dunked the bread in oil. Jackson had never really understood the appeal of Italian food, but he had to admit the Italians did know their way around bread.

“You know, most women like the macho thing,” he said, chewing his bread.

“Yeah, in bed,” Mollie said. “But dinner at a nice place? Well, let’s just say we don’t mind a little beta.”

“Beta?”

“Jackson Burke, are you intentionally trying to avoid answering questions about my sister?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Fine. You want to do this? Sure. Yes, she ripped my heart out. Yes, she left me when I needed her the most, and it fucking hurt. Okay? Even though things were awful between us long before that, when I was in the hospital…well, it would have been nice if she could have waited. Now, are we good, or should we stop on the way home and get me a diary and a soft pink blanket to snuggle?”

Mollie studied him. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. About the other women, I mean.”

He lifted a shoulder. “It was almost a year ago. And your sister told you I was a man whore, so…”

She reached across the table. “You’re my friend. I should have ranked that higher than I did.”

Jackson was a little shocked at just how much her apology meant, and surprised them both by flipping his hand over so that they were palm to palm.

She jolted a little at the contact but didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.

He told himself it was just a friendly touch—a thank-you for being there. For being Mollie.

But there was nothing friendly about the way touching her made his pulse quicken and his cock harden. When she’d walked out of her bedroom tonight in that damn red dress…hell. He’d just barely stopped having nightly fantasies about taking that dress off her after the last time he saw her in it. Now he was going to have to start all over again, remembering that under no circumstances would he be fulfilling his fantasy of pulling it off her, seeing what was underneath, setting his mouth against her smooth skin, and…

“How are we doing? Ready to place entree orders yet?” their waitress asked, appearing out of nowhere.

Mollie jerked her hand back so quickly she nearly knocked over her water glass, but Jackson could have hugged their server for preventing him from saying or doing something fantastically stupid.

The waitress disappeared again after taking their order, and Mollie’s usual bright, friendly smile was back in place. “Okay, so about this interview. You know you could get anyone, right? The Today show. Oprah. Anyone.”

He gave a grim smile. “Yeah, but with Oxford I might actually have a chance of coming out ahead.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…they’re friends. Sort of. Or they could be if—” He stopped.

“If what?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink.

“Jackson, do you want these people to like you?”

He swallowed, refusing to answer out loud, but looked across the table at her, willing her to understand. He saw it the minute that she did.

She leaned back and tapped her fingers against the table, as though struck with a brilliant idea. “We should have a party.”