“Why’d you get me the job?” he asked again.

“Stop,” she hissed. “You’re like a dog with a bone—”

“Tell me and I’ll let you give me a ride,” he interrupted.

She paused, studying his face.

“The truth, Maddie,” he said.

Her chin lifted. “The Housewives producers want me back. Ratings plummeted after I left, and they know I can bring viewers back in. Especially given all of the…stuff we’ve been through.”

“Stuff like you telling the world I cheated on you.”

She shrugged. “We both made mistakes.”

Jackson stared at her. What the hell had happened to the girl he fell in love with? Had he done this? Had he turned her into this media-seeking diva?

“I see,” he said slowly. “So you’re no longer an athlete’s wife, but being the wife of an assistant coach is close enough.”

“Well, I don’t expect us to mend things right away, but let’s be practical about this. This will get us what we both want. I can get back on the show, you can get back on the field—”

“That’s not what I want.”

The truth rolled over him a few seconds after the words were out.

He didn’t want this. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. Not the job. Not the location. And certainly not the woman. He’d left everything that was right back in New York.

“What?” The sweet façade was completely gone now, leaving her looking tired and a little mean.

He stepped forward, lowering his face closer to hers so there’d be no mistaking his meaning. “I said, that’s not what I want.”

“Of course it is,” she said. “Football’s all you ever wanted.”

He held her gaze. “No. Once I wanted you more than I wanted football.”

“Well, you didn’t do a very good job of showing it,” Madison snapped.

“I know,” he said, holding her gaze. “And I’m sorry about that.”

She blinked, clearly at a loss as to how to respond to his words. Eventually she said, “And I’m sorry about…everything.”

He smiled. “Good. So we’re done, then.”

She smiled back in relief. “Yes. Thank God. Now can we please go to the car? I’ve been here for over an hour, and it stinks in here, and—”

“No, you misunderstood,” he broke in quietly. “We’re done. All the way done.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But you just said—”

Jackson leaned forward and kissed her cheek, knowing that a dozen or more spectators had just captured the moment with their iPhones and not caring. He was done caring.

“Goodbye, Madison.”

She spun around as he started to walk away. “Jackson! The car’s the other way.”

He ignored her. Kept walking.

“Jackson!”

He didn’t stop. Not until he reached the ticket counter.

He waited patiently in line, ignoring the stares and whispers of the people around him. Suddenly he missed New York. Missed the anonymity and the fact that he didn’t have to be Jackson Burke there. He could just be Jackson. Or Burke. He could just be one of the guys—one of the Oxford guys. But more important—most important—he could be Mollie’s.

If she’d have him.

“Next in line,” called a harassed-looking airline employee.

Jackson stepped up to the counter as he pulled out his wallet. “Yes, I’d like a one-way ticket to New York, please.”

Chapter 32

Mollie turned up the music in Jackson’s place as loud as it would go in an attempt to drown out the silence.

Riley had heard through the Oxford/Stiletto grapevine that he was gone for the weekend, so Mollie had headed over to pack up her stuff.

Not that she had a place to move to yet. She was still in Riley’s guest room, still trying to navigate the crazy world of the New York rental market. But at least this way, her stuff would be packed and easy for the movers to pick up once she found a place. And this way she wouldn’t have to see him.

Not that he was trying to see her.

She hadn’t heard from him. Not once.

And though her fingers had itched to text him every single one of the days they’d been apart, she’d resisted.

She’d talk to him again someday. Hell, maybe someday they’d even be friends again. She hoped so. But until her heart healed, she needed distance. And her heart wasn’t even close to healing.

Moving into the closet, Mollie scooped an armful of shirts off the rack and then unceremoniously dropped them into a box on the bed, hangers still attached. She repeated the move with her pants and shoved everything down. Deciding there was room for a few more things, she turned back toward the closet.

Then she saw him and yelped.

“Holy crap, Jackson,” she said, putting a hand over her pounding heart. “You can’t just loiter in the doorway of a woman’s bedroom.”

His brow lifted. “Loitering? I live here.”

She stared at him, and he stared back.

“You’re supposed to be in Texas.”

“I know.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t explain.

He looked good. Better than good. Jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, brown boots. He looked like a Texan. It was a good reminder. A necessary reminder, since she was this close to flinging herself into his arms and begging him to take her with him.