This kind of weekender fishing boat, decked out like he had it—with an AC and a built-in head/shower combo compartment, kitchen with a fridge, sink, microwave, flat-screen TV over a convertible couch to queen bed—cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $800K new. Even used, these boats held their value.
I could afford several if I wanted, no problem. I’d call Domino and he’d call someone else—my finance lady, I think her name was Mackenzie—and bam, I’d have a boat.
But it wouldn’t be this boat.
Jackson’s hands had repaired everything I could see. All the blood, sweat, and tears had been born out of determination, hard work, dedication, struggle, and probably some fairly unfun times. And now, she was absolutely gorgeous. Stunning. One of a kind.
This boat would last, because he’d built it to last. He’d done the work. No wonder that was the kind of woman—and the kind of relationship—Jackson thought he wanted.
Emotion clogged my throat as I folded the tarp around the tied cardboard boxes and then smoothed my hand over the fresh sheets. Bed made, I shut the upper door. I flipped on the AC. I prepared a snack just in case he might be hungry. I took a shower. I slipped into the bed, naked, and I waited for him.
When he returned, I wanted everything to be just right. I wanted Jackson to be comfortable. I wanted him to be happy. He worked so hard, and he deserved someone to look after him. Someone to take care of him. To work hard beside him, with dedication. To share his burdens—even when they were a struggle, or unfun.
More than anything, I wanted that person to be me.
I woke up surrounded by a sleeping warm man. Jackson.
I smiled. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but that’s what getting up at 4:30 AM will do. Inhaling his scent, I turned carefully and slowly in the bed to face him. His arm tightened around me, but he remained in dreamland as I came to rest on my other side, admiring the lines of his face.
He must’ve returned a while ago and taken a shower. His skin smelled like soap, not lake water, and I kicked myself for missing a Jackson James shower show. Next time.
Damp hair curling on his forehead, I wanted to pet it, and the short beard on his face. My gaze lowered to his lips, and I just barely restrained myself from kissing the bottom one, promising myself I would, just later.
Wait, is this creepy? I frowned, debating the question. Was it creepy to watch someone sleep if you’re in love with that pers—OH MY GOD!
I sucked in a breath, my mind a sudden riot of fear and hope and despair and ohshit ohshit ohshit! I was in love with him?
Yes. You’re in love with him.
But-but-but—how did this happen?
Well, you see, Rae. When a man and a woman really like each other, and are insanely attracted to each other, and respect each other, and treat each other with compassion and kindness, they—
SHUT IT.
I sat up unthinkingly, gripping the sheet to my chest as his arm slid to my hip. My heart pounded, a cold sweat breaking out between my shoulder blades and around my neck. What was I going to do? I’d never been in love.
Jackson has been in love before.
The thought, completely unbidden, sent a spasm of something cold and unpleasant from the base of my spine outward through my entire body, curdling in my stomach. I immediately recognized the sensation as jealousy. Based on the pieces of the Jackson puzzle I’d been able to assemble, he’d been in love twice: once with Ashley (Winston) Runous when they were teenagers, and once with a woman named Zora Leffersbee, to whom he’d been engaged. Neither of these facts had bothered me at any point before right this minute.
His bare leg moved, brushing against mine. I held my breath. When he didn’t move again, I breathed out.
Listen, I knew Jackson wanted me, liked me, respected me, appreciated me, and was with me. He wasn’t with anyone else. Being jealous of relationships that ended years ago was silly. Logically, I knew this. And yet I was jealous.
Now that I’d realized my feelings; now that I’d named this raw, desperate wanting, and fear, and protectiveness; and especially since I didn’t know whether he felt similarly, how was I supposed to behave? Did I tell him and hope for the best? Would that be pressuring him? And if he didn’t reciprocate? How did that work?
Aaaaahhh! Love is stressful and scary. Plato had it right, love is a serious mental disease.
I turned my head, looking over my shoulder at him, my thundering heart stuttering at the sight of his sleeping face. How many people had loved me?
Admittedly, foolishly—before this summer, before watching Sienna with Jethro and their kids, before spending time with Charlotte and her kids, and before irrevocably falling for Jackson—I’d thought the adoration and admiration of my fans was love. It wasn’t, and it isn’t. It can’t be love if you’re always on the receiving end and never on the giving, and vice versa. And you can’t love someone you don’t know.
They didn’t love me.
My mother did when I was younger for sure. I remembered her cuddling me and kissing me. But as I aged and tried to become my own person, I felt that affection diminish by degrees until it had become what it was now: reminders that I was my own person, that I was on my own.
My paternal grandparents had loved me, but my father never had.
Did Harrison ever? Or my high school boyfriend? . . . no. Nor, obviously, had Lina.
I’d never taken stock of my life this way before, not consciously. I’d never measured myself by how or whether others loved me. It made me feel small, enormously sad, and lonely—all the feelings I’d been running away from in LA. Apparently, I hadn’t left them behind on the West Coast but had simply distracted myself with new scenery instead. Same feelings, different geography.
You’re a mess, Rae.
Pressing my lips together, I swallowed several times and blinked the building tears away. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth until the wave passed. Swallowing once more with effort, I closed my eyes and slowly, slowly reclined, giving Jackson my back, acutely aware of everyplace our bodies touched. I needed to . . . chill. Just chill. I needed to figure this out.
So what if no one loved me? So what if I was in love with Jackson? Couldn’t I just decide it didn’t matter? Did being in love with someone really change anything? I didn’t think so. For example, I was fairly certain I loved Charlotte and Sienna—or I was falling for them—and nothing had changed between us because of it. Perhaps I could love Jackson and not say anything. I could pretend—
No. No more pretending.
I cursed quietly, working to ignore the sharp ache in my chest.
“Rae?”
I stiffened at the sound of Jackson’s sleep-roughened voice. But in the next moment, the way he slid his arm to my stomach, pulling me fully against his chest, and lifting his head to kiss the rise of my shoulder, had me melting. The tower of tension I’d been building within me crumbled, mostly, leaving only the foundation and the first floor. Basically, my anxiety lowered to a simmer instead of a boil. I didn’t need to say anything now. I could figure this out later. This wouldn’t be me pretending. This would be me compartmentalizing and setting aside my feelings until they could be addressed at a more convenient time and location at some point in the very distant future.
“Rae, are you up?”
“Yes?” I tried for light and carefree. Instead, the single word sounded like a croak.