And as for me?
All I can do is make certain that is never a choice that he will have to make.
All I can do is take a tentative step toward the role of Mommy, and hope that I never have to play that role alone.
But am I taking that step because I love Jackson?
Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of losing him if I don’t?
fifteen
The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. “That smells amazing,” I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.
We’d come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn’t on the boat and had gone home to sleep—or to the Tower to camp out.
Now we’re getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.
Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I assume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. “I’m going to go check our position. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, then focus on my culinary task until he returns.
“Getting close,” he says. “Ten more minutes and I’ll take her off autopilot. But it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s take these up to the deck.”
Since that’s a brilliant idea, I don’t argue. He takes the rolls and I grab some orange juice, plates, and cups, then follow him up.
He’s right. It is a gorgeous day, and I silently decree that today there will be no talk of murder or jail. There will be no worries about Ronnie. No fear that I will be raising that little girl alone.
There will be only work and the island and Jackson and me.
Today, I’m holding tight to normalcy, and these moments at sea are a damn fine start.
The sky is a crystalline blue, and there isn’t a cloud to be seen. The ocean ahead is smooth, the surface only rippled by a soft wind. We’re close enough to both Catalina Island and Santa Cortez for seagulls to be flying overhead, and I watch as a few dive-bomb the water for their breakfast. I toss out a piece of my cinnamon roll and watch the closest one rocket toward it.
“Hey,” Jackson says. “I slaved over those. Took them out of a box and everything.”
“You picked a good box. They’re great.”
We’re sitting on the main deck on a bench on the port side just over from the captain’s chair. It’s cushioned and the back of the bench is also the side of the boat. I’ve poured us both juice and we have the cups tucked into built-in holders. The pitcher is jammed into the center of a life preserver to keep it steady.
I’ve put the rolls between us, and Jackson makes a grab for his third. He takes a bite and grins at me, a tiny bit of white icing stuck to the corner of his mouth. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, then put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.
And all the while my eyes never leave his.
“Very naughty, Ms. Brooks.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Steele.”
He stands, then pulls me up as well. “I’m talking about the fact that your island is right over there.” He points to Santa Cortez, growing larger by the minute. “And the fact that I need to take the boat off autopilot.” He traces his fingertip over my lips, and I draw him in, then suck and tease his finger with my tongue.
He groans. “I’m talking,” he says as he tugs his finger free, “about the fact that we don’t have time for me to fuck you the way I want to fuck you right now. But soon,” he adds as he slides his hand down to cup my crotch through my shorts. He slides lower to my thigh, then back up the inside of the leg. And then his brow lifts as his fingers find me not only bare, but hot and slick and very, very wet.
I bite my lower lip in response to his low groan of masculine satisfaction.
“Good girl,” he says.
I look up, innocently meeting his eyes. “What were you saying about fucking me?”
He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. “Soon,” he promises. “Very soon.”
I sigh with disappointment when he steps away, leaving me longing and so sensitive that every brush of the canvas against my cunt is like a sensual torment.
For just a moment, his gaze lingers on me, hot and heavy, and then he turns and heads for the captain’s chair to guide the boat in. And I’m left to my fantasies of what’s still to come.
While he does his captain thing, I take our breakfast stuff back downstairs. I’m covering the leftover rolls with plastic wrap when Jackson calls me, his voice hard and sharp. “Syl. Get up here!”