Page 87 of Wait for Him

Carefully, I slip out from beneath his arm without waking him, dress in the quiet and head to the kitchen to start coffee.

I'm numb now, which is merciful.

I've successfully packed the rest of last night away too. James's face. Those gray eyes that look too much like mine. The streak in his hair. The sound of his voice, deepening now but still carrying the slightest hitch of the little boy he was not long ago. The way his palm met mine in that stupid high five and how something so small somehow managed to tear open fourteen years of work. The subsequent mental fucking breakdown and whatever other dignity-related offenses I committed before Jackson got me into bed.

All of it goes into the box.

Lid on. Move on.

Yep.

That's pretty much my motto.

Possibly my family crest.

The coffee starts dripping, and I lean against the counter waiting for enough caffeine to make pretending normal slightly less ambitious.

“Good morning.”

I take a breath before turning around.

Jackson is standing in the kitchen in his boxers, hair flattened on one side and absolutely no respect for the cardiovascular health of women closing in on their forties.

“Good morning.” I lift my cup toward him. “Coffee?”

Eyes above the neck, Rosalie. Eyes above the goddamn neck.

“How are you feeling?” He crosses the kitchen toward me with that easy, barefoot confidence men should not be allowed to possess before nine in the morning.

“Better. Thank you.”

I turn toward the coffee pot and reach for another mug, mostly because my hands need employment. “And I'm sorry about last night.”

“Rose.”

I close my eyes briefly.

Here we go.

“I'm fine, Jackson. Honest. I'd had a lot to drink, and...”

I have a son I love from afar, and it is slowly killing me.

The sentence makes it as far as my throat before I kill it.

“...I'm sorry for putting you in that position.”

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he takes both coffee cups from my hands, sets them on the counter and pulls me into his arms.

“What happened last night?” he asks quietly. “Talk to me.”

His chest is warm against my cheek, and normally I would melt straight into him without thinking. That's the problem. Jackson has spent so many years being the place I soften that my body starts doing it automatically now, long before my brain can remind it that we're supposed to have boundaries.

Boundaries with armed gates and snipers, preferably. Maybe a moat. I'm not ruling anything out.

So I don't let myself.

I put my hands against his chest, fuck, he has a nice chest, and ease backward. “It's late, Jackson. We need to get downstairs.”