Jack & Kayla (Imperfect Love Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Green Eyes

  Chapter Two - Hot and Cold

  Chapter Three - Space

  Chapter Four - Lap Dancer

  Chapter Five - Empty

  Chapter Six - Hardcore

  Chapter Seven - Party Games

  Chapter Eight - Rhinoceros

  Chapter Nine - Cleaner

  Chapter Ten - Life Story

  Chapter Eleven - I Like You

  Chapter Twelve - Buckle your Seatbelt

  Chapter Thirteen - Two Weeks

  Chapter Fourteen - Dinner, Candles & Single Beds

  Chapter Fifteen - Love & Molly

  Chapter Sixteen - Lies

  Chapter Seventeen - Cut

  Chapter Eighteen - Lenox

  Chapter Nineteen - Intrusion

  Chapter Twenty - Changes

  Chapter Twenty-One - Truth

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Sea Washed Glass

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Helpless

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Specks

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Where’d You Go?

  JACK AND KAYLA

  by

  Ruby Molloy

  Chapter One

  Green Eyes

  KAYLA

  Jack Boyd is six-feet-two and he’s currently striding towards me with unknown intent. Actually, that’s an overstatement. He has a full-leg cast on his right leg and he’s walking with the aid of crutches so he can’t exactly stride. Also, guys built like Boyd, they saunter.

  He comes to a standstill two feet away, towering over me despite the fact that I’m five feet eight. He might be big and beautiful, with a buzz cut that shows off his striking green eyes, and he might be looming over me, but this doesn’t deter me from unleashing my fiery temper. “Que te folle un pez!” I yell at him.

  “In English, Kayla.” His voice is the opposite of mine. It’s cold and indifferent, though his eyes tell another story. They threaten all kinds of retribution.

  I translate, but only because I hate wasting a good insult. “I hope you get fucked by a fish!”

  My accent is thicker than usual. It always is when I’m angry. My temper stems from my mixed ancestry. You can’t mix Spanish and Irish blood and expect a placid individual. And no-one would describe me as placid, least of all Jack Boyd. We barely know each other and yet he’s already experienced the full scale of my temper.

  Within five minutes of our very first meeting I had him pinned against the wall, giving him a verbal dress down. He deserved it. What kind of guy hits on a girl by saying, ‘Fuck, look at that arse?’

  Jack Boyd, that’s who.

  His crutches move silently on the kitchen floor as he backs me into a corner. “You should do something about that dirty mouth of yours, Kayla.”

  “If it’s bothering you, Boyd, just say the word and I’ll be out the door before you know it.”

  He narrows his eyes and leans in a little further. “If you can’t hack the job, just say the word and I’ll find someone else.”

  He’s deliberately pushing me again, trying to get a rise. “Job! This is not a job! Cooking meals and being your skivvy does not pay my bills. And FYI, any boss who acted the way you do would be in front of a tribunal faster than a ... a ferret in a rain pipe!”

  “Rat! Rat up a drainpipe! If you’re going to use an analogy at least get it right. And FYI, if you can’t figure out the portion sizes for my meals I’ll get someone who can. You might survive on salad and baby-sized portions, but I have an appetite.” Of course he has to do the whole double entendre thing, his gaze falling to my mouth when he says this.

  See! That’s what I’m talking about. Jack Boyd does not act like a regular boss.

  Aside from the fact that he looks scary as hell, he’s foul-mouthed and his eyes wander where they have no right wandering. And his temper is not like mine. His is quiet and understated and when he unleashes it, it’s like being caught in a snowstorm without a coat.

  I lied about the pay not covering my bills, by the way. It does, but only because I’m flat-sharing with Frankie. She has the largest room and therefore pays the biggest share of rent. And with regards to this job ... Well, that’s really the crux of the matter. I should have asked Boyd for a clearer definition of my duties. So far I’ve cleaned his apartment, cooked his dinners, been grocery shopping, taken care of his laundry, and shopped for his mother’s birthday present.

  I bought her a hand blown vase from a high-end store, a swirl of greys and blues that reminded me of a brewing storm. Boyd said it looked like something I’d reclaimed from a skip and told me to take it back. I refused. Needless to say this did not go down well, but his mother loved the vase and so that was a win on my part. Oh, and once I had to go in search of knitting needles when his leg started itching beneath his cast. I chose pink ones.

  It’s surprising how intimately you get to know a guy when you run his chores. I’ve discovered that Boyd has no idea how to clean up after himself. And it’s not because he can’t. I saw his apartment the morning he arrived back from hospital. It was a mess. Clothes heaped in piles on the grey bedroom carpet, dishes and pans piled up in the sink, books on every surface.

  I’ve also gotten to know his family, including his younger sister, Hailey, who’s kind of his opposite in that she’s bags of fun. I’ve met his friends too and though I won’t admit this to his face he has good taste in friends. I already know Mason. He’s dating my friend, Frankie. And I kind of knew Tag, but not as well as I do now.

  I might only have been working for Boyd for a few days, but already I know that he likes black coffee, big dinners, surprisingly highbrow books and sport with a capital S. Unfortunately, it’s not the watching of sport he likes so much as the playing. And the fact that he can’t play at the moment means he’s going stir crazy. I’m trying to make allowances, really I am, but the guy is driving me nuts.

  “Are you listening to me?” He’s glowering down at me, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

  I fold my arms and glare back. “Bigger portions―I heard you. From now on I’ll be sure to make enough food to feed a family of four.”

  Boyd manoeuvres his crutches until he’s as close as he can be, while I’m backed up against the kitchen counter. I may be at a disadvantage, but it doesn’t stop me from taunting him. “You’re awfully trusting Boyd. I could have you toppling to the floor with just one push.” As if to demonstrate I raise my hand to his chest. Boyd says nothing, simply stares at my hand as if it’s a step too far on my part. I grow uncomfortable and I don’t want to withdraw it because he’ll know I’m uncomfortable and ... God! Stupid move, Kayla. I snatch back my hand, cradling it with my other as if it’s been burned.

  “How long?” Boyd asks.

  I don’t follow.

  Everything we’ve said in the past five minutes has been erased. I’m staring at his mouth and Boyd’s eyes are on my mouth and ... He’s asking about dinner, idiot!

  “Five minutes,” I say.

  His gaze is still on my mouth. “Good. I’m hungry.”

  Sometimes it’s not the words themselves that impact, so much as the way they’re spoken. I swallow and Boyd hovers for a few more seconds before clumsily turning and making his way back to his chair. I inhale a deep, slow breath through my nose, hold it for three seconds and exhale slowly through my mouth. I do this repeatedly while envisioning the sole of my foot planted against Boyd’s backside.

  I set to work on dinner, aware of Boyd’s presence in the background. His apartment is open plan. Aside from the bedrooms and bathroom everything shares the same wide, open space. The floor in the living and dining areas is dark wood, varnished and glossy. The windows run from floor
to ceiling, with the exception of those above the kitchen counter, and the walls are white. In this stark and clinical space there’s no escaping one another. Living here twenty-four-seven means the atmosphere is claustrophobic, the silences long.

  Since Boyd can’t work while his leg is in plaster he spends much of his time sitting with his laptop balanced on his thighs, engrossed in whatever it is he’s working on. I’m not sure exactly what this is―I haven’t bothered to ask―but whatever he’s doing, I’m glad it keeps him occupied. Anything’s better than him shouting at me because I forgot to buy his favourite beer. Or me shouting at him because he didn’t tell me he wanted beer and I’m not psychic!

  I dish up his enormous dinner, ladling spoon after spoon of rice, chicken and beans, all spiced with jerk seasoning that’s hot enough to have him breaking out in a sweat. His plate is already overflowing, but I add a slice of crusty bread so he can mop up the sauce. All of this I place on a tray with a glass of water to combat the inevitable heat.

  Carrying it to where he’s sitting with his leg propped on a black leather footrest, I stoop to place the tray on his lap. I pretend I’m not invading his personal space or that my head isn’t close enough to pick up his scent. It’s woodsy, by the way, with a hint of musk. I hate that I like it.

  I straighten quickly. Too quickly. My neckline while bending was probably low enough to give him a shot of my chest and Boyd’s gaze is still on my cleavage. “Are you staring at my boobs?”

  I’m too direct, I know, and he has the grace to blush, something I never thought possible. I watch as colour extends across his cheekbones and up towards his temples. I can’t resist mocking his embarrassment. “Oh my God, you blush. How sweet!”

  This is new, this need to lash out.

  I never knew I could be a bitch until I met Boyd. Satisfaction warms my belly when his forehead creases into an almighty scowl and his eyes shine with anger. Yeah, he sure hates being mocked or called sweet.

  “Enjoy this while you can, Kayla. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

  “I’ll be long gone by then, Boyd. Once you’re up and walking you won’t see me for dust.”

  “Here’s hoping.” His words are spoken under his breath, but they’re loud enough for me to hear, deliberately so.

  That part about him not seeing me for dust is true. I’m only here because my dream job―the one I held for precisely four weeks and two days―was snatched away by a cut in funding from local Government. I was an Art Conservator at a city museum. Now I clear up after a jerk, and I spend my spare time applying for jobs that specify experience when I have none.

  I carry my plate to the dining table, which is as far away from Boyd as I can get without eating in my room. The seasoning is beyond hot and I need to refill my glass halfway through. Boyd, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the heat. His glass of water is untouched, his dinner half-demolished already. Jesus, where does he put it?

  This time it’s his turn to catch me watching, though my gaze is on his abs, not his chest. And I don’t blush. I raise my eyebrows and go back to concentrating on my food. My appetite is hearty. I don’t get these curves from eating salads, as Boyd suggested. I have my mother’s shape; curvy hips and breasts, a small waist and long legs that don’t need heels to look good. I also have a rounded arse. Some might say too rounded, but I like it and it fills out my dresses just fine.

  I’ve stopped wearing them around Boyd. The dresses, that is. If he’s distracted by my body now, it’s nothing compared to how he was when I wore my tight black dress or the blue one with the cowl neck. And I like wearing dresses. That’s my style. But it’s not worth the extra attention from Boyd so they’re staying in my closet until my work here is done.

  When my plate is empty I set to clearing the kitchen and washing the black worktops until they’re spotless. Finished, I collect my bag and car keys and ask, “You’ll be okay?”

  Boyd nods. “Do me a favour, tell Mason I hope Frankie’s okay.”

  Boyd may have been released from hospital but my friend, Frankie, is still there courtesy of her crazy ex-boyfriend, Sid. He’s the guy responsible for Boyd’s broken leg. The creep ploughed his car into Boyd before kidnapping Frankie. Chained her up in a trailer in the middle of nowhere, shot her, and left her to die. We were crazy with worry since Sid told the Police he’d killed her, but thankfully that was just another of his sick, twisted games and Frankie was found in the nick of time.

  We hope.

  She has sepsis. It’s not good. In fact, it’s pretty bad. She’s in Intensive Care and only Mason and her gran, Ivy, can visit. I go every night and sit in the waiting room with Nora and Ella. Their boyfriends, Carred and Cooper, sit with them too. Frankie might not know we’re there, but Mason does and he needs all the support we can give.

  Nora and Ella are already there when I arrive, seated in plastic royal blue chairs with angled, black metal legs. The room is half empty, the only distraction a TV on mute that’s set to a news channel. Ticker tape runs along the bottom of the screen, giving the latest updates. It’s a depressing place to be, night after night.

  “Any change?” I ask.

  Ella answers first, the warm cocoa skin on her forehead creasing into a frown beneath her short, platinum-white hair. Dressed in torn jeans and black boots, with an oversized check shirt, Ella’s one of the lucky few who can look good in anything. “Yeah, there’s some good news. Mason just texted Coop to say they removed Frankie’s ventilator this afternoon.”

  “Thank God! I’ve been so scared.”

  “Tell me about it. She’s got a long way to go and Ivy’s still in the Chapel, praying. Wish there was something we could do.”

  Nora leans forward in her chair, her pale hand holding back her red hair. She’s stunning and feisty, and I know how much Frankie means to her. She and Ella shared a house with Frankie when they were at uni. “Swear to God, if I could lay my hands on Sid right now, I’d kill him. Shooting her and leaving her tied up in this heat―he had to know she’d die. I just can’t ...” Anger leaves her fighting for words.

  I help her out. “You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to get a baseball bat and take it to his skull. Or his balls. Yeah, his balls would be good.”

  Carred and Cooper return with coffees. They’ve brought me my favourite, an Americano. I like that they’ve become my friends. Since Jono―my ex―started dating one of my best friends my social circle has kind of shifted. Frankie and I have been tight for a while, but Ella, Nora and their boyfriends, they’re kind of new.

  I scoot over so that Cooper can sit next to Ella. “How’s Jack?” he asks me.

  “He’s a dick,” I tell him. “I mean, he may not complain about his leg but he sure criticises everything else. I work my arse off for him but nothing I do is good enough.”

  “Sexual frustration,” Ella says, interrupting.

  I shoot her a scowl.

  “No, think about it. He’s more or less house-bound and you’re there, with your curves and your sultry brown eyes, not to mention your long brown hair. The guy’s probably permanently hard. ”

  Cooper groans. “You two wanna swap seats?”

  “No, we’re good,” Ella says, smart and sassy. She and Cooper have the whole eye contact thing going on. I feel superfluous. Maybe a little jealous too. Not of them, but what they’ve got. I miss having that. Not with Jono―the guy smoked too much weed―but I miss having someone in my life. And I miss sex.

  But now is not the time to be thinking these thoughts. I sip my Americano and reflect on Mason who’s permanently at Frankie’s bedside, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He won’t leave, except to eat or visit the bathroom. He even sleeps in the hospital chair when he can. I hate to see him suffer, but he’s shown us all just how much he loves Frankie.

  When visiting hours are over and there’s no sign of Mason we say our goodbyes knowing we’ll be back here tomorrow.

  I hope there’s more good news.

  I hope Frankie w
ill be home soon.

  My mood is low on the drive back to Boyd’s apartment. There’s been too much upheaval in my life lately; splitting with Jono, finishing uni, moving to London with Frankie. And now I’m working for Boyd ... Not exactly where I thought my life was headed.

  I park in the car park beneath the apartment block. I’m not sure how, but Boyd managed to swing an additional parking space for me. He lives in an okay part of London, but still, I wouldn’t want to walk alone at night. I know Boyd could do better. He has a tonne of money. I shouldn’t know this, but I do. His bank statement was lying on the table and while I didn’t intend to look, the total was typed in bold, as if to say ‘read me’. I guess Boyd’s one of those guys who live lean. But what do I know or care? I’m only working for him because fate made me jobless when he happened to need a helping hand.

  It’s nine thirty when I let myself into the apartment. The TV’s on and he’s watching football, but he turns it off when he sees I’m back. “How’s Frankie?”

  “Getting there. She’s off the ventilator.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “I know. Finally, some good news.”

  “You see Mace?”

  “No. I don’t think he wanted to leave her, but Ella and Nora were there with Carred and Cooper.”

  “You going again tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I might tag along with you.”

  I’m not sure he’ll be able to sit in one of those plastic chairs for two hours, but I don’t say anything. It’s not my problem.

  I sit on the sofa, the one he’s not occupying. They’re both black leather, both macho in style. I hate them. They’re comfy enough and they might be Boyd’s idea of cool, but they’re my worst nightmare. His black glass dining table and matching black chairs are no better, cold and austere in a room that’s already lacking warmth. Boyd says I don’t need to clean the table every time I use it, but the glass gets smeared and I have to polish the hell out of it to get it glossy again.

  It’s only been a few days since I began looking after Boyd, but I’ve learned I wasn’t put on this planet to take care of a guy. I guess it’s only to be expected, having a mum who’s a lawyer specialising in Human Rights. Work is her life and I don’t get too see her too often. She’s based in Liverpool. It’s perfect, flight-wise, for commuting between Ireland, her country of birth, and my dad’s home in Spain. Barcelona, to be precise. That’s where I lived until I was fourteen. Weirdly, their divorce saved their relationship. What can I say? Part-time works for them, though my grandma Sophia can never get her head round their arrangement. Dad’s a sculptor. His medium’s wood and he creates human sculptures that are too perfect and beautiful to describe. My brother, Matias, has inherited my mother’s brain. He’s training to be a doctor. He’s only eleven months older than me, but he acts as if it’s five years. One thing I’ve learned is that it’s not important that we’re not together. We’re still a close family, just not geographically.