CHAPTER 7: JAX IS DIFFICULT TO KEEP UP WITH

MILA'S POV

Jax Kingston is difficult to keep up with.

Literally.

He's firmly ignoring my stream of questions as he walks ahead of me down the darkening city street, hands deep in the pockets of his black jacket. His dark hair is loose today, falling past his shoulders, and the wind catches it, making him look like some kind of brooding rock star.

His pace is fast. He's about a foot taller than me, and he's not wearing heels that make it hard to walk faster than an office appropriate trot.

"Earth to Jax," I call after him. "Seriously, where are we going? Because I've been in these heels all day and I'd love to sit down. I mean, it's okay if we're walking more, but I...."

He spins around, and I nearly crash into his chest.

His tattoos peek out from his collar, dark ink swirling up his neck. I catch a glimpse of waves, a lighthouse.

"Enough. Jesus, 007." He stares down at me, his emerald eyes dark in the fading light. "Do you ever stop talking?"

"007?"

What kind of nickname is that?

"Yeah. 007. You're an agent, and I think you're going to be the death of me."

He points his forefinger, miming shooting me through the heart.

I try not to let my mouth twist into a smile. "Hilarious. And yes, I do stop talking sometimes. But only when people ask nicely, which you haven't. So, let me ask again. Where are we going?"

Without breaking eye contact, Jax reaches above my head to push open the door we've stopped in front of, okay, to be fair, he did time that pretty well and I follow him inside.

I'm mostly just grateful to be out of the cold.

...until I glance around. "Seriously?"

It's a dimly lit townie dive bar called The Rusty Anchor. Faded polaroids of bar patrons line the walls. All the chairs are mismatched. A few old men look up from the bar to stare at us.

I shrug off my jacket and chase after Jax as he leads us to a table in the corner, warmth slowly creeping back into my hands. "You want to have this business meeting in a dive bar? The cafe I chose was really nice. It was clean. There were no sticky carpets or hundred-year-old men drinking Coors Light."

He shrugs. "This is one of my favorite bars in Boston."

I glance around. "This? As someone with access to your contract paperwork, I know you make enough to afford drinks somewhere that wasn't around when the Boston Tea Party went down."

"Sorry they don't do espresso martinis or whatever the hell. Here, no hockey fans bother me. If anyone gives me shit, Betty ejects them."

He nods at the bartender. She's a gray-haired older woman with a full sleeve of tattoos, who certainly looks like she could single-handedly kick a whole hockey team out of her bar.

I sense I've lost this battle.

I retrieve the folder from my bag, placing it onto the sticky table. I know Jax is trying to mess with me. But despite my optimism, I'm not afraid to put up a fight.

"All right. We're here, so we might as well make the most of it. Let me buy you a drink. You strike me as a beer or liquor kind of man."

"You're not buying me a drink."

"Think of it as a peace offering." I insist. "Plus, I'm just going to expense it to Rick's account."

"Fine," he sighs. "I'll take a non-alcoholic beer."

I feel a soft blip of surprise. In my experience, most hockey players accept alcohol if someone's offering. I try very hard not to think about the fact that I know he used to drink.

"You don't drink?" I ask lightly.

"Nope. Haven't in years. It can be hard on the body, and I want my career to be as long as possible. And yes, I've caused all these issues for my public image even without the use of booze."

"Noted." Huh. Jax Kingston is still surprising me. "Okay, then. One non-alcoholic beer coming right up."

At the bar, I order for Jax and then pick the most sugary-sounding cocktail I can find on the plastic menu. It's called a Cape Cod Colada. It comes with a maraschino cherry on top and a tiny pink umbrella.

Back at the table, Jax stares at it with obvious disdain. "What the hell is that?"

"I'm not taking judgement on my choice of cocktail from a guy who doesn't even drink."

"I don't need to have a real beer in my hand to see that's a ridiculous-looking drink. It looks like someone melted down a Barbie."

"I have a sweet tooth," I mutter.

I close my lips around the scarlet cherry, plucking it from the stem. Sweetness fills my mouth. It tastes like summer, far away from New England's approaching winter.

Jax's eyes drop to my lips, and his dark eyebrows twitch, his jaw clenching like he's pissed off about something. My stomach swoops. I quickly swallow the cherry and take a long sip of my cocktail.

"So," I say, quickly pivoting, "now we're at the sticky dive bar, will you sign the document and agree to the plan?"

He takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. "Maybe I'll think more clearly at a different bar. There's a good one in Southie I used to hang out at."

"Jax, I'm not bar-hopping with you all night," I say, exasperated. "Stop messing with me."

"I thought that was the deal." He rises to his feet, his full height towering over me. "Where I go, you follow."

"That is the deal, technically."

His eyes drift across the bar and land on the pool table in the corner. "Fine, we'll stay. But you have to shoot some pool with me. Then maybe I'll consider signing your little document."

"Fine."