It Started with a Kiss

And then I do what I promised myself I never would. I selfishly put my needs ahead of hers, cupping her face, and begging her, “Stay with me.”

22

Marlow

I do.

That’s what I would have told myself just over six months ago if someone had asked me if I deserved to have Jackson St. James in my life.

Why wouldn’t I?

I felt deserving of everything I got. That’s what being given possessions instead of love will do to a person. It distorts what’s truly special, making you miss the extraordinary among the ordinary.

But he’s not a possession I can keep. He’s a person worthy of the love he so easily gives to me. And so much more.

Ask me that same question today, and I’ll have a different answer.

No, I don’t feel deserving, but I won’t take him for granted.

Showered.

Dressed.

Makeup on and hair styled.

I feel better than I probably should, considering I expelled the contents of my stomach all over the floor of the cab . . . in the trash bin on the sidewalk outside the building . . . and, as if I had anything left in me, the toilet for an hour.

Am I ashamed?

Utterly mortified.

Will I live?

Yes, with this embarrassment forever. The funny thing is that he still looks at me like the woman he’s in love with. He even consoled me and told me it happens. But as I walk into the living room and see him standing in the kitchen smiling like the cat who ate the canary, it doesn’t matter what he’s gotten into or up to. I just know my heart has never been happier.

Even my mom can’t ruin this. Only I have that ability. And I won’t. I’ll do anything to protect what we’re building.

“What are you doing?” I ask as casually as I can despite the butterflies that have replaced the queasiness that had me praying for relief last night.

“You had a craving.” When I enter the kitchen, he steps aside and presents a counter full of tacos.

I cover my mouth when it flies open. “You did not,” I say, laughing while taking in the biggest display of tacos I’ve ever seen, even in restaurants.

“I did.”

Lowering my hands, I lick my lips. I’m suddenly starving. “Did you buy enough?”

“Wanted to cover anything you’d want.” He points at a corner and chuckles. “I even got fish tacos.”

I shake my head and grab a plate. “There’s everything. Ooh, even avocado.”

“Figured a California girl would like that option.”

Picking one up by the soft tortilla, I place it on my plate and immediately reach for chicken. Although each tortilla already has the toppings packed inside, there’s an impressive salsa bar at the far end. “I do. Very much, but I feel more New York these days.”

Jackson comes closer and kisses my cheek. Holding my hips, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” Before he moves out of reach, I hold him. “I wanted to thank you for all you did. I shouldn’t have drunk what I did, but I appreciate you not judging me.”

“I don’t recommend alcohol to make the pain go away, but sometimes, we need to set the shit aside and just live.” Kissing my head, he adds, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

I set my plate down and embrace him fully, my arms wrapped around his middle and any inch of me that can be pressed to him. “You’re too good.”

“Trust me, plenty of people could argue otherwise.” Pinching my chin between his fingers, he lifts until I’m staring into the deep blue depths of his eyes. “But, with you, it’s different, Marlow. You make being good easy because that’s exactly what I want to be for you—good. Worthy of your love.”

Heat emanates from my chest and spreads quickly. I smile, realizing he’s the main reason I do these days. “You’re making me a mushy mess,” I say, looking away to hide the emotions that seem to want to overwhelm me. That’s what his sweetness does to me. I wipe under my eyes and try to blink away the tears threatening to fall. “Don’t go soft on me, St. James.”

As soon as he laughs, I roll my eyes. “No jokes. Just eat,” I’m quick to add through my own laughter.

I’m squeezed against him, and I love hearing him laugh like I almost didn’t blow it last night. I hop up on the opposite counter and start eating while he packs a plate full of tacos, some barely on with tortillas hanging over the side. Setting glasses of water down first, he hops up on the counter next to me and starts chowing down.

Jackson finishes one. Keeping his attention on the tacos, he asks, “Did you check your messages?”

My gaze goes to the clock on the oven. 11:53 AM. I take another bite and chew, the heaviness that had momentarily disappeared under the beautiful morning. I finally face what I had conveniently avoided. “No. I don’t want my mother to text me because I don’t know what to say to her. But if there’s not a message from her, I’ll feel worse. I wanted to give her time to make the right decision.” I take a sip of water, the condensation sliding over my fingers as the topic of conversation threatens my appetite.