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Marlow

I do.

That’s what I would have told myself just over six months ago if someone had asked me if I deserved to have Jackson St. James in my life.

Why wouldn’t I?

I felt deserving of everything I got. That’s what being given possessions instead of love will do to a person. It distorts what’s truly special, making you miss the extraordinary among the ordinary.

But he’s not a possession I can keep. He’s a person worthy of the love he so easily gives to me. And so much more.

Ask me that same question today, and I’ll have a different answer.

No, I don’t feel deserving, but I won’t take him for granted.

Showered.

Dressed.

Makeup on and hair styled.

I feel better than I probably should, considering I expelled the contents of my stomach all over the floor of the cab . . . in the trash bin on the sidewalk outside the building . . . and, as if I had anything left in me, the toilet for an hour.

Am I ashamed?

Utterly mortified.

Will I live?

Yes, with this embarrassment forever. The funny thing is that he still looks at me like the woman he’s in love with.

He even consoled me and told me it happens.

But as I walk into the living room and see him standing in the kitchen smiling like the cat who ate the canary, it doesn’t matter what he’s gotten into or up to.

I just know my heart has never been happier.

Even my mom can’t ruin this. Only I have that ability. And I won’t. I’ll do anything to protect what we’re building.

“What are you doing?” I ask as casually as I can despite the butterflies that have replaced the queasiness that had me praying for relief last night.

“You had a craving.” When I enter the kitchen, he steps aside and presents a counter full of tacos.

I cover my mouth when it flies open. “You did not,” I say, laughing while taking in the biggest display of tacos I’ve ever seen, even in restaurants.

“I did.”

Lowering my hands, I lick my lips. I’m suddenly starving. “Did you buy enough?”

“Wanted to cover anything you’d want.” He points at a corner and chuckles. “I even got fish tacos.”

I shake my head and grab a plate. “There’s everything. Ooh, even avocado.”

“Figured a California girl would like that option.”

Picking one up by the soft tortilla, I place it on my plate and immediately reach for chicken. Although each tortilla already has the toppings packed inside, there’s an impressive salsa bar at the far end. “I do. Very much, but I feel more New York these days.”

Jackson comes closer and kisses my cheek. Holding my hips, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” Before he moves out of reach, I hold him. “I wanted to thank you for all you did. I shouldn’t have drunk what I did, but I appreciate you not judging me.”

“I don’t recommend alcohol to make the pain go away, but sometimes, we need to set the shit aside and just live.” Kissing my head, he adds, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

I set my plate down and embrace him fully, my arms wrapped around his middle and any inch of me that can be pressed to him. “You’re too good.”

“Trust me, plenty of people could argue otherwise.” Pinching my chin between his fingers, he lifts until I’m staring into the deep blue depths of his eyes. “But, with you, it’s different, Marlow. You make being good easy because that’s exactly what I want to be for you—good. Worthy of your love.”

Heat emanates from my chest and spreads quickly.

I smile, realizing he’s the main reason I do these days.

“You’re making me a mushy mess,” I say, looking away to hide the emotions that seem to want to overwhelm me.

That’s what his sweetness does to me. I wipe under my eyes and try to blink away the tears threatening to fall. “Don’t go soft on me, St. James.”

As soon as he laughs, I roll my eyes. “No jokes. Just eat,” I’m quick to add through my own laughter.

I’m squeezed against him, and I love hearing him laugh like I almost didn’t blow it last night.

I hop up on the opposite counter and start eating while he packs a plate full of tacos, some barely on with tortillas hanging over the side.

Setting glasses of water down first, he hops up on the counter next to me and starts chowing down.

Jackson finishes one. Keeping his attention on the tacos, he asks, “Did you check your messages?”

My gaze goes to the clock on the oven. 11:53 AM.

I take another bite and chew, the heaviness that had momentarily disappeared under the beautiful morning.

I finally face what I had conveniently avoided.

“No. I don’t want my mother to text me because I don’t know what to say to her.

But if there’s not a message from her, I’ll feel worse.

I wanted to give her time to make the right decision.

” I take a sip of water, the condensation sliding over my fingers as the topic of conversation threatens my appetite.

“Which is?”

“Choosing me.” I set the glass down and stare out the window. “Choosing to follow through with what she said last night and getting together before she leaves.”

“I don’t think you need backup, but if you want me to go, I will.”

Reaching over, I rub his leg and lean my head on his shoulder.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be okay. It was just so unexpected to see her, to see her flying in to celebrate with friends when I know how many of my birthdays she missed and my graduations—both high school and college.

” I snap my fingers. “But when a friend calls, she’s there in a heartbeat. ”

He’s gone quiet after the second taco. I glance at him and ask, “Already stuffed?”

“No.” Setting his plate aside, he hops down and comes to settle between my legs. The air changes like his mood, the laughter gone along with his smile.

“What’s wrong?” I set my plate beside me, that queasiness returning.

He runs his fingers over the top of my hand, not looking at me. When he does, it’s as if he’s steeling himself. “You should check your messages.”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Digging my fingers into the denim covering my thighs, I brace myself the best I can. “Why?”

His hesitancy only makes this worse. I slide to the right of him and land on my feet. “Where’s my phone?”

“It’s still plugged in over there.”

Though dread fills each step, I reach for it and pull the cord from the bottom. The screen lights up, and I just catch the name when it flashes before going dark again. Amelia. I whip back to look at Jackson. “My boss.”

“When did the message come?”

“I was getting water last night?—”

“Last night?” Panic infiltrates my tone as I finally get the nerve to touch the screen to brighten it again.

My chest was empty, but my sunken heart with the dwindling beats dwelling in the bottom of my gut finally ceases.

My hand starts shaking. “I’m fired?” My tone not doing any better, I look at Jackson, needing any ounce of hope he musters to help me through this.

He's there, picking me up before the words sink in and carrying me into the living room. I wrap my arms and legs around him, and when he sits, I stay the same, wrapped around and completely wrapped up in him.

I take a deep breath. It’s filled with the scent of his soap and the cologne he wears on the weekends. I start to laugh that he has weekday and weekend scents. When I tip my head back, my stomach begins to ache from the belly laugh.

Tears fall, but they’re not sad.

“Are you okay?” he asks, smiling at me, but I see the concern in his eyes.

“No . . . I’m not.” I slide off his lap and stand.

With my back to him, I put my hands on my hips as I catch my breath from the delirium that surfaced, making me feel at a loss of control of my own emotions.

I stand, staring into the distance at the building across the four lanes of traffic twelve floors below.

His hands cover my shoulders, his warmth exchanged. I feel weak. Jackson catches me before I sink to the couch. Resting against him, I am secure in his arms. He kisses behind my ear and then whispers, “You’re not alone. We’ll figure it out together.”

Turning in his arms, I look at him and wonder how his good intentions flow so sweetly from his lips without a second thought. “I lost my job, Jackson. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that job . . . and I’m fired. For what?”

“Fuck them. Find a place where they appreciate you.”

I stare at him as if he’s speaking an alien language.

“Fuck them? I have the money from selling the bags, but nothing else. I still have bills. Expenses.” I back out of his reach and start pacing, my thoughts spinning faster than my feet.

“I can’t live here forever. I’ll have to put down deposits and?—”

“Slow down, Marlow. I understand this is another hit coming at you, but you’ll be okay. You can stay here as long as you like. Maybe you never have to?—”

“And live off you?” Shaking my head, I say, “No. No. No. I can’t do that.” I hit him with a look. “I can’t do that.”

He holds my glare, silently staring back, but he’s better than I am. He always was. He refrains from allowing any judgment to color his expression and sits down. I lose sight of his eyes and thoughts, wanting to hear him talk sense into me.

He doesn’t.

In fact, he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, letting my worry spiral out of my hands.

“Jackson?”

Looking back at me, he says, “You probably won’t remember discussing this last night, but I told you we’re not going to fight.

You have a lot of pent-up anger, as you should.

You have every right to feel like you do.

” Waggling his finger between us, he continues, “But it’s not going to flow in my direction.

” He stands back to his full height. “These are the times that determine if we make it.”

“Make what?”

“If we survive each other when one is thrown a punch. You tell me who threw it, where to find them, and when we go to fight, I’ll fight. But not with you. Do you understand me?”

His tone is abrasive and unkind, but not toward me.

He’s standing his ground not for himself, but for us.

“I understand.” I walk toward the hallway, knowing I need to talk to my boss.

Before I leave the living room, I turn back and say, “We ride at dawn. Dawn being one in the afternoon in this circumstance.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I head for the bedroom but then stop. Habits are hard to break, but if there’s anyone worth breaking them for, it’s Jackson. I turn back, and as soon as I see him, I run, flying into his arms, and I kiss his neck. “Thank you.”

“For what? I only did what any good boyfriend would do.”

“You’re not just a good boyfriend. You’re extraordinary.”