“And if you were to look at this lot with a house, what would you see?”
“Well, a ranch style. The lot’s big enough to support it. But with raised sections on either side. One side would be a media room. The other would be the master suite. And there’s a balcony that connects both and looks out over the ocean.”
“I like it. And where’s the kitchen?”
“In the back with a wall of windows. So you can have breakfast outside if you want.”
“And it opens to the pool,” he says.
“Of course. For easy entertaining. And there are three—no four—bedrooms in addition to the master.”
He nods. “Not bad. Pretty close to what I have in mind, actually. I’ll have to make a few tweaks to incorporate your ideas.”
He takes my hand and leads me toward the north edge of the property. “This is where the master will be—upstairs, now. That frees up the space below, which would be perfect for your home office.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Would it? And where’s yours?”
“Right next to yours, of course. With a connecting door.”
“I like this game,” I say. But when I look at his eyes, I’m confused. “Jackson? Is this a game?”
His eyes are warm, with a spark of humor. “I guess that depends. If at the end of a game someone wins, then maybe it is. I’m building this house for you, baby. Your house with a view of the ocean. Even if I have to design it in prison and farm out the construction, I will have a home for my wife and daughter.”
“Oh.” The word is soft. A breath. But despite everything, I feel the stirrings of joy inside me, and I can only nod my head. Because this is right—how could Ronnie and I live anywhere other than a house that Jackson built.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” My voice is thick with emotion. So many I can’t identify them. All I know is that I’m full up. So much so that my fear is almost—almost—overshadowed.
“I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small ring box.
I open it almost tentatively and reveal a diamond solitaire, its fire so magnificent that it sparkles even in the dim light of the moon. The setting is clearly antique, with a pattern of vines etched into the white gold setting.
“It was my grandmother’s. I called Lauren after you fell asleep,” he says, referring to his assistant. “I had her go to the boat and get it out of my desk.”
I nod, realizing that it was Lauren at the hotel door earlier.
He takes the ring from the box and slips it on my finger. Remarkably, it fits. “My mother never got married,” Jackson continues, “so she never wore it. I’d like you to.”
I swallow, my throat almost too full of emotion to speak. Because while we’d worked everything out between us, this symbol truly seals it. I’m Jackson’s. He’s mine. And it really is forever.
I look up, meeting his eyes again. “It’s lovely.”
“If it’s not your style, my feelings won’t be hurt.”
I’ve been staring at the ring, lost in its fire. Now I look up at Jackson, my eyes filled with tears. “No,” I say. “This is perfect.”
twenty-four
Jackson and I spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms in the bed at the Biltmore, swept into sleep by the tug of exhaustion that finally vanquished fear, at least for those few blissful hours.
I’m glad of the sleep. Glad to have had the chance to hold him close for what I dearly hope wasn’t the last time. And now, as we drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, I tell myself that I’m glad we have this moment to share, too.
It’s all a lie, of course. I don’t want just this moment. I want all the moments. I don’t want to have held him close one last time. I want to hold him each and every night.
But my hopes are not running the show here, and so I sit quietly in the car, trying to be brave because right now I think he needs that. Lord knows that I do.
“Stella and Ronnie arrive at two,” he says.
“I know. You told me last night.” Once Damien had agreed to take care of Ronnie, Jackson had started the ball rolling to get her out here. Now, of course, his daughter’s care will fall to me.
I lean over and press my hand on his thigh. “I’ll handle it. I promise.”
He nods, his expression managing to be equal parts sadness and gratitude.
“Jackson—” I stop myself, not certain that this is a conversational door I want to go through.
