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Marlow

“Marlow?”

“In here,” I reply, spraying my hair and patting down the flyaways.

The past month has been fairly quiet at work as I iron out the details of the next exhibit.

And it’s been blissfully peaceful in my personal life.

Living with Jackson has been a dream, so hearing him stomp down the hall and through the bedroom has me worried.

That can’t be good.

As soon as he stalks into the bathroom where I’m getting ready for the night, our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. Taking a hard stance, he crosses his arms over his chest as a scowl digs into his handsome face.

I turn around, and ask, “What is it?”

“Why the fuck is some guy picking you up for a date?”

“What are you talking about?”

Moving closer, he lowers his voice. “Some fuck is at the door waiting for you.”

I rub my hand over his chest. “I don’t have a date, Jackson. You know I have a business dinner. That’s it. But also,” I say, my shoulders rising, “how would anyone even know this address for me?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, but it’s Friday night, and he’s standing in the hall waiting for you.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Other than fucker?”

I give him a pointed look and try not to laugh.

“Casteleone.”

“Oh, no.” Panic sets in, and I scramble back to the mirror. “He’s here?”

Even in the reflection, I see the moment his heart sinks, and his blue eyes turn cloudy as if I lied to him. “So he is here for a date?”

“No. It’s not a date.” I shake my head and start applying my lipstick. “That’s my dinner date.” Damn. I shouldn’t have said that. “Not date. Business. Only business. You can even come with me if you want. Mr. Casteleone is the art collector helping me secure the Kyoto exhibit.”

The tension ticking in Jackson’s jaw finally eases. I turn around and then go to him. “It’s not a date, Jackson, and I’m not sure why he’s here. We were supposed to meet at the restaurant. If you don’t want to come with us, then what do you say about me introducing him to my boyfriend.”

He officially has me with that lady-killer grin, making it so much harder to leave because I know what’s waiting for me at home. He kisses me and says, “You go. I’ll get some work done and then meet you in that bed right out there later. What do you say?”

“I say I can’t wait.” I kiss him and then nod toward the front of the apartment. “He’s actually a really nice guy. I think you’ll like him.”

After meeting him, officially, Jackson doesn’t like him . . . well, not so much dislikes, but more doesn’t trust him from what I’m gathering. Discussing the situation in the office, he says, “He’s way too old for you.”

“He’s forty-five, Jackson. Way smaller gap than Billy Joel and my mom.”

“I’m being serious. And I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“How he looks at me doesn’t matter. It’s business. He’s the owner of the collection. You know what it means to me to get this project.” I untangle his crossed arms and lift. Just before I kiss him, I whisper, “We can’t lose trust in each other. Promise me, we’ll do everything to keep that intact.”

As his eyes search mine, he takes my hand between us and then raises it to his mouth. Kissing my palm, he then says, “I trust you.” When he lowers it, he leans close to my ear, the scruff on his chin scraping across my earlobe. “I promise you can always trust me, Marlow.”

A delicious shiver runs through me, and I close my eyes, letting his words and this closeness sink in. It’s not just his proximity. It’s us becoming so enmeshed together that it would be easy to lose sight of myself.

For the first time in my life, I don’t have any inclination to run.

No, I step right into this fire, willing to burn along with Jackson. “Hey?” The word is so soft that I’m not even sure I voiced it.

His heart beats strong in his chest under my hand, and I’m sure he can feel my heart racing as well. I’m so close, so close to telling him my deepest secret. “I?—”

“We’re going to miss our reservation if we don’t leave, Ms. Marché,” Mr. Casteleone calls from the living room.

I squeeze my eyes shut and release a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Catching me by the hand, he says, “Wait.”

Turning back, I feel the moment slipping out from under us. “Yes?”

Our eyes stay locked on each other’s as if we’re both waiting for the other to say something first. I take a stuttering breath, and then say, “I need to go.”

He straightens his shoulders and releases my hand. “Have a good night.”

I nod, looking back once more before I round the corner into the hallway. Plastering on that fake smile I learned in LA, I say, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Mr. Casteleone says, “I hear this restaurant has a yearlong waiting list.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the same. It’s amazing you got a reservation.” I grab my clutch from the entry table and lead him to the door.

“Connections get you everywhere in this world.”

Opening the door, I look back again, my mind still on Jackson and leaving him after such an unfortunate conversation. Those three words, words I’ve never said to another man I’m dating, were on the tip of my tongue.

I hate that this moment was stolen from us. My chest aches to return to him.

There’s no sign of Jackson, but I’m not sure how to make this better anyway. He meets with women in business. I can’t tell him not to, even if I wanted. He goes to dinners, has lunches, even meets over coffee. This is no different, so I’m not sure why he’s upset.

It doesn’t take away that I’ve hurt him or, at a minimum, left him upset. I don’t want to do that. Not to him.

My head wars with my heart.

It took four months, endless emails, and countless calls to score this meeting. I need to keep my mind focused on this exhibit. I’ve worked so hard to get here. Mr. Casteleone can make or break my career. Am I willing to risk it all over a misunderstanding?

While we wait for the elevator to arrive, I look back once more at the closed door. Tapping my foot, I need to clear up something. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”

“I thought we could take care of business first in the car. I’d rather enjoy the company of a beautiful woman over dinner than ruin it with business.”

My stomach drops.

The elevator door opens, and he waits for me to get on. I step forward and turn to face the hallway. That feeling in my stomach grows, dampening all the hope I felt before learning of his intentions. He steps in, and when he’s too close for comfort, I know Jackson was right.

I step off the elevator and turn to face him. Just as the door starts to close, I say, “I can’t have dinner with you.”

“Wait.” He reaches for the button, but it’s too late. And it feels like more than an elevator door opening and closing. What am I doing? This could be career-ending.

He’s a key player in the art world, and I just stood him up for dinner. But I can’t leave the way things were left with Jackson. That could be heart-ending.

I rush back down the hall with my flood of giddiness and hope rolled up in one and unlock the door. He’s not there to greet me physically or even with a hello. Flipping off my heels to move faster, I hurry down the hall to find him sitting in his chair with headphones on.

The scent of his cologne and a long day has me finding a little peace in the chaos, and I inhale, dragging him into my lungs in hopes of breathing easier again.

Since his back is to me, I spin his chair around, grabbing hold of the arms and stopping him when he’s facing me. His hands are fast, but he lowers them when he sees it’s me. “What are you doing?”

“I love you,” I blurt like a feral cat, knowing full well I have no clue what that even means. “I love you,” I repeat, much softer this time.

His brows pinch together, forming a line between them. “What?” Pointing at his headphones, he adds, “Noise-canceling.” He lifts them off and sets them on the desk when he stands. “What are you doing here, Marlow?”

“I’ve lost control because of you, self-sabotaging thoughts telling me not to do this, but I need to. I have to?—”

“Have to what?”

“I love you, Jackson.”

Nothing.

I hear nothing in response to pouring my heart out to this man. Did I make a mistake? Seconds feel like torturous minutes. I can’t take the silence any longer. “I know it’s too soon to admit?—"

“I love you.” My face is caressed, and he leans in, kissing my nose, my lips, each cheek, and my forehead as if I’m the cross he must bear.

Maybe I am, but I don’t care. Nothing makes sense in my life anymore but him.

Only him. “I’ve waited a lifetime to hear those words from you. I never thought I would.”

Holding his wrists as he still caresses my face, I lift on the balls of my feet, needing to feel his lips on mine, the pressure caught between something sweet and something sinful.

When I float back down to earth, I hold him with all of me and my cheek pressed to his chest. “I love you so much that I don’t know how to explain it any better.”

“I love you works.” He kisses my head and then chuckles. “Sweetheart.”

He’s lucky I love him. I look up, my chin set against him. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I love that friggin’ nickname now. Just tell me you’ve never called any of your other girlfriends the same name.”

“I haven’t. I’ve never delved into a relationship deep enough to get to the nickname stage. But no one else has ever driven me as crazy as you have. So there is that as well.”

“I’m okay with that.” I laugh.

When he sits in the chair and brings me onto his lap, he says, “Want to talk about what happened?”

“Over dinner?” I run the tips of my fingers over the rough hair growth blanketing his jaw.

Taking my fingers, he kisses the tips. “Sure. What do you want to order?”

I get up and spin. “I’m all dressed. Let’s go out.”

“All right,” he says, already on his feet. “Where do you want to go?”

“I know just the place.”