Page 7 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“It’s Miss Smith,” she snaps. “And unlike you, I don’t have endless hours to sit around counting my millions. Some of us have real jobs.”
She crosses her arms, tilting her chin up like she’s daring me to challenge her.
The jab is so quintessentially JJ that I almost laugh. She knows better. She saw me, Kamal, and Antonio build JAK from scratch, witnessed the all-nighters and the failures before the success. But JJ’s always had this talent for finding exactly what will get under my skin, whether she believes it or not.
“Right. Fifth-grade spelling tests definitely outweigh a legally binding marriage.”
I step closer, deliberately crowding her. “And for the record, it’s billions, not millions.”
She rolls her eyes, an expression I’ve seen directed at me countless times over the years. “Whatever. I don’t care about your net worth.”
“You should. It’s partially yours now.”
That stops her cold. “What?”
“Our State is a community property state,” I explain, enjoying her momentary speechlessness. “Anything acquired during the marriage is considered joint property. Technically, you own half of whatever I’ve earned since Vegas.”
Her face pales, then flushes. “That’s—I don’t want your money, Jaxon.”
“I know.” And I do know. JJ has never been impressed by wealth. It’s one of the things that has always fascinated me about her. “But it’s a complication we need to address, along with several others.”
“Please, let’s not discuss this here.”
“That’s fair,” I concede, masking my satisfaction.
JJ thinks she’s winning this battle. Let her.
I don’t chase victories. I construct them. Brick by brick, until my opponent is standing in the middle of the empire I built around them, realizing they were mine all along.
When we reach the fourth floor, she leads the way down the carpeted hallway. At her apartment door, she hesitates. I see the debate playing across her expressive face. She is trying to formulate a plan to get rid of me.
Her shoulders finally slump in defeat as she unlocks the door. “Come in,” she says. “The kitchen is that way.” She points toward an archway to the right. “You can put the bags down in there.”
She locks the door behind us and arms her security alarm. I kick off my boots and carry the groceries into the kitchen and set them down, taking in my surroundings. The countertops are pristine quartz, gleaming under pendant lights. A single coffee mug sits in the sink.
Her living area is modern and cozy with neutral colors. The sectional sofa is white leather, inviting despite its sleek design, and a thick cream rug lies in front of it. Photographs of her family and past students adorn the walls. A huge television hangs above an electric fireplace.
“You can have a seat while I put the groceries away,” she says from behind me.
“Do you need any help?” I offer, watching as she unpacks a carton of eggs.
“No,” she replies curtly, not looking up. “Things will move faster if I do it myself.”
The message is clear. She wants distance between us, even in this small way.
I shrug, remove my snow-dampened coat and settle onto her sofa. Through the window, I can see fat flakes swirling in hypnotic patterns against the darkening sky.
About fifteen minutes later—during which I hear every cabinet open and close, every rustle of paper bags being folded—she finally emerges and sits on the opposite end of the sofa, as far from me as possible while still occupying the same piece of furniture.
I watch her closely, taking in every subtle gesture. Her hair is now tied back at her nape, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. She looks as beautiful as ever, possibly more so. She always does. My eyes drift to her lips, full and pursed in thought.
“Ready to talk?” I ask.
Jessa
I fold my legsunderneath me and sigh, feeling the weight of my bad decisions pressing down on me. I am acutely aware of Jaxon’s intense gaze following my every movement.
“Listen,” I begin, keeping my voice reasonable. “What we did was a stupid, drunken mistake. We don’t need to make it a bigger deal than it is.”
