Page 95

Marlow

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

I nod, not quite composed enough to say all the things I want to. The surprise of seeing him, that boyish smile that knows its time and place, the heat that reaches me across the bench, and the unwavering connection that bonds us. It’s all so much at once.

“How’s he doing?”

I keep the tears at bay and finally breathe through the buildup of the situation. “He’s been taken to surgery.”

“I know it’s scary.”

“It is.”

I look at him. Judging by the dark circles and the wrinkled clothes, I’m thinking he didn’t get much rest on the plane.

He says, “I missed your call. I was in a meeting.”

I want to touch him, hold his hand, or even run my fingers over the scruff that’s thickened on the overnight flight. I want to kiss him and that half-hearted grin from his mouth. It’s unnatural for Jackson to look as though he’s unsure of a situation. He’s unsure of me. I’ve done that to him.

I clasp my hands together to restrain them and bite my lip, feeling a bit unsteady in his presence as well.

The love’s still there, thriving under the skin and rushing my veins, but we shouldn’t fix this, whatever seems to be wrong, with the physical.

We’ve relied on it too long. I ask, “You flew all the way to LA to tell me that? You could have just called.”

“I didn’t want to. I wanted to tell you in person.” His own struggle is playing out before me, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket while his eyes are set on his shoes in front of him.

I wrap my arm over my stomach because as good as it is to see him, the butterflies have changed direction. “What’s going on? I’m nervous. You’re nervous.”

Resting his forearms on his legs, he angles his head to face me. “I didn’t go to work thinking there was anything going on at home that we couldn’t work through.”

No flowers are blooming in this garden despite the unpredictable California weather this time of year.

Just greens and browns. “I’m sorry, Jackson, for not leaving a note or a message, something behind.

I wish I could explain my thoughts when I got the news, but there was no rhyme or reason.

Nothing was done to hurt you or to make you feel abandoned.

I wouldn’t want to do that to you anyway.

But yesterday, you abandoned me. Emotionally, you put miles between us, and I still don’t know why. ”

“I have.”

“Here’s the thing. I’m tired. You must be exhausted.

I’m not thinking clearly. A nurse told me four hours minimum for my dad’s surgery, but it could be upward of eight if there’s more damage than they suspect.

” I stand and hold out my hand because why are we torturing each other?

“I don’t know where you’re staying, but I need more sleep, and you look like you could handle some rest. I’d like to have you come with me .

. .” I leave the offer lingering and stand here long enough for him to know I mean it.

But he reaches for it without question, stands, and wraps his around my hand. Without taking a step, though, he asks, “This has changed, hasn’t it?”

I know what he’s asking, but I’m afraid to tell him the truth. “My love for you hasn’t.”

He nods, accepting what his gut tells him, and we start walking back to the main entrance. “Where’s your suitcase?”

“I rented a car at the airport.”

My eyebrows arch, and I have to lift my jaw off the ground. “You’re such a New Yorker. I didn’t know you knew how to drive.”

Wrapping his arm around me, he says, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, baby.”

The release of tension feels good, even if it is short-lived.

I wait while he pulls the car around to pick me up. I stand from the bench where I’m waiting as soon as I see it. Sleek. Black. Lamborghini. He shifts it into park and comes around to help me in. “I should have guessed you’d rent a luxury sports car.”

“It’s not every day I get to drive one of these babies.” He shuts the door and runs around to the driver’s side and gets back in.

“It’s not every day you get to drive at all. Are you sure you can handle her?” I’m met with a dead-eyed glare. Raising my hands in surrender, I laugh under my breath. “Just saying, if you need me to drive her home?—”

“Settle down. I may be a city kid, but I’ve got this handled.”

He did. He handled the car like a dream . . . until he met rush hour on the 405. After the fourth stall-out, he looks at me and says, “She’s meant for speed, not sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.”

“I can’t give you speed since they’re residential roads, but I can show you a detour if you get off at the next exit.” The pace is slower, but there’s more time to reflect on my feelings that returning to seeing my dad has evoked, and even the visit with my mom before that.

Driving down the palm tree–lined street, Jackson shifts gears, and says, “I don’t know if you remember, but my dad had a heart attack a few years back.”

I sit up, adjusting my seat belt. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t remember.”

“He had it while selling the business. The stress of negotiations finally got to him. My mom had also been begging him for years to retire. That retirement and the life he worked so hard for was almost taken away. He’s fine now. Best shape of his life, but we know we’re lucky to have him.”

“I can only hope my dad has the same outcome.”

He reaches over and gently squeezes my leg. We haven’t felt ourselves, but that gesture gives me comfort. “He’ll pull through better than ever.”

Leaning my head back, I feel like I can finally breathe again. “Promise?” I turn to him and smile.

“Promise.”

When we reach the driveway, I give Jackson the code to punch in, and the gates open. Pulling up to the house, he says, “Beverly Hills is always exactly like what you see in the movies. I don’t know why that always surprises me.”

“It’s like that on purpose. It’s all a Hollywood facade.”

Jackson thinks I don’t know much about him, but there are certain things I do know—he was raised by his parents, who are still happily married and in the seat of wealth.

He’s from newish money compared to some in Manhattan.

He comes from a respected and reputable last name.

He knows money. He’s just not pretentious.

I give him the quick tour, which means I take him directly to my room because I do not have the energy to walk him around the estate. “My dad’s chef might be here if you’re hungry. There’s a menu in the top drawer of the nightstand.”

“A menu? Like room service?”

Why do I feel embarrassed? He knows that’s all my dad since my personal financial situation hangs by a thread.

I have no room to brag. But then I remember what my dad said.

I didn’t get a chance to enjoy the news of the trust fund under that circumstance, but now .

. . No, I still can’t. The money feels different now.

“Yeah. I’m not going to eat. I just need to sleep.

” I brush my teeth to rid myself of my coffee breath and then kick off the flip-flops I found in the closet.

When I slip on my pajamas again, the shorts are skintight and ride up, but I can’t think about that right now.

I tug on the T-shirt that doesn’t quite reach my belly button and return to the bedroom.

From the chair closest to the closet, Jackson’s eyes take me in as soon as I leave the bathroom. If we were home, we’d soothe any troubled waters with great sex. No one can ever say we aren’t pure chemistry, but I’m craving a different connection with him.

When I bend over to grab my scrunchie from the suitcase where I dumped it early this morning, I hear a chuckle. “Spoiled?”

I pop back up, having already forgotten what’s written across the back of the shorts. “It used to be something I laughed about in high school, not even realizing how true it was. Now I cringe.” I crawl back into the bed I never made before I left.

“Cringing is the last thing on my mind when I see your ass.”

Normally, my body would react instantaneously to him, but now I’m the one keeping secrets, so where does that leave us?

He senses the games we usually play aren’t in motion and goes into the bathroom. I close my eyes, not wanting to hear my mother’s last words, but they’re stuck in my head and staking red flags. “We all end up alone, so don’t end up with nothing.”

I squeeze my lids tighter, wanting the words of warning to disappear, even if only for a little while.

The door to the bathroom opens, and I hear him pad across the Berber carpet.

The bed dips, but all movement ceases after that.

It’s so tempting to open my eyes and try to give comfort while seeking the same in his arms. I can’t do that, though, not right now.

So I stay on my side of the mattress, not breaching the middle until he’s lying beside me doing the same.

Our breathing keeps us company until he whispers, “We’re breaking up, aren’t we?”

I open my eyes. His tone isn’t sad. It isn’t much of anything I can put my finger on, except maybe acceptance, which seems to own the look in his eyes as well. I think that hurts more. I’m not sure what happened between the gesture in the car and here in bed, but I know we both feel the difference.

I can’t lie to him, but my heart still feels intact. “I didn’t say that.”

“You haven’t said much of anything.”

“I haven’t cried either.” I suck in a staggering breath. “I’m doing the best I can to hold myself together.”

Offense colors his expression. “That’s not your job. It’s mine.”

“No,” I say, already shaking my head. “That’s what I used to need. That’s not your job anymore. You once said you’re not going to save me. I am going to save myself. I believed you, and more than that, I know you’re right. Please never doubt how much I love you, though.”

“Your dad had a heart attack, and you left. I had to find out both of those major pieces of information from Tealey.”

Slipping my hands under my cheek, I say, “I called. Twice.”

“You didn’t call when you landed. Isn’t that something you do for someone you love?”

“It was late, three hours later in New York.”

A humorless chuckle rustles through his chest. “Did you actually think I’d come home to an empty apartment and go to bed like you weren’t supposed to be lying next to me?

” He glances at the canopy, but then his gaze lowers again, and he says, “Let me rephrase that. Did you think I’d carry on in life like my heart hadn’t gone missing? ”

I hate myself for doing it, but even more for saying it out loud, but the truth has a basis for my actions. “I didn’t think about the consequences.”

“You didn’t think about me.”

“No. I was thinking about my dad and hoping he’d survive long enough for me to take a five-hour flight across the country just so I could tell him that I love him.

” I look down, shame filling my entire being.

“I’m supposed to be mad at him, and I still am.

I’m still so hurt by what he did to me. But he’s my dad and the only one I have. ”

Reaching over, he rubs my cheek and then moves closer to pull me into his arms. “You’re on shaky ground and feeling big emotions. I understand that it’s complicated?—”

“Complicated?” I tilt my head back to see him. “My love for you shouldn’t be in question.”

“It’s not.” His voice is calm despite the conversation.

He stares straight at me, making me want to look away under the intensity.

I don’t. I look at him and take it because however we leave this bed, together or broken up, I need to feel every second of what gets us there.

“I don’t doubt your love for me. I don’t doubt your loyalty or commitment. I know you feel those things for me.”

“Then what do you doubt, Jackson?”

“That you feel as strongly as I do.” He rolls away and onto his back, draping his forearm over his head.

“You didn’t want a relationship, and I pushed it.

You didn’t want to move in, and I insisted.

You wanted to stand on your own two feet .

. . Fuck.” He looks at me through the corners of his eyes. “I fucked it all up.”

“No, you didn’t.” I lift on my elbow, anchoring it into the mattress.

His arm lowers again. “Like I said, I don’t question your love for me. I question the timing. There’s a natural progression, a timeline of how things should be.”

Panic starts burning in my chest, so I say, “I wasn’t where you were, but I got there.”

The smallest of smiles is noticed, but then something else washes through him. “I need to tell you why I was mad yesterday.”

I fist the sheet to brace myself. I can’t lose him, or I’ll have nothing left.

Sitting up with his back to my padded headboard, he says, “I’m in?—”

My phone buzzes across the nightstand, causing me to look back over my shoulder. “It’s the hospital.” I glance back at him. “I need to take this.”

I’m not asking, but I appreciate his patience. I grab the phone and press it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. Marché?”

I sit up, feeling sick to my stomach. He didn’t go into surgery that long ago, not quite two hours. Is this standard procedure to give an update at this stage? “Yes?”

“This is Nurse Wilcox. Are you close to the hospital?”

“No. I’m at home.” Using that word for this house makes me wince when it leaves my tongue. I look back once more at Jackson to catch a wave of pain rippling across his face. Dammit.

The nurse says, “You need to get here right away.”

I bolt to my feet. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Jackson’s already getting dressed when I pull the same pair of pants that I had just taken off right over my fitted shorts and slip on the flip-flops again.

As soon as we’re in the car, I say, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Your dad needs to be your priority right now.” He glances over at me once more, and I notice the difference in the hue of his irises—a darker shade of blue that’s mislaid the light.

I’m losing him.