He was watching me, his head tilted slightly, like he was trying to read something in my face. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Six-fifteen.” I poured coffee into two mugs, added sugar to his, and carried both to the nightstand. “You’ve got time.”
He took the mug with a nod of thanks, his fingers brushing mine in a way that shouldn’t have sent heat up my arm but did.“You meeting someone?” he asked, the question casual in a way that didn’t match the careful way he was watching me.
“I’ve got a flight,” I said, which was true but not the whole truth. “At ten.”
He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “Billings to where?”
“Frankfurt,” I said, then added, because I couldn’t help myself, “then Minsk.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I said, the word automatic. Sterling had been clear: this was off the books, deniable, the kind of operation that happened in the gray spaces between what was legal and what was necessary. The kind of thing I didn’t talk about, not even to Jackson.
He must have heard something in my voice, because he nodded again and changed the subject. “Smells good,” he said, nodding toward the covered plates on the small table by the window.
We ate in relative silence, Jackson working his way through eggs and toast while I picked at fruit and drank coffee. I watched him across the rim of my cup, tracking the moment he registered that I was holding something back and decided, with visible relief, not to push for it.
That relief hit me wrong—a twist in my chest that made it hard to breathe for a second. Part of me wanted him to push. Wanted him to demand answers, to insist on knowing where I was going and why and when I’d be back.
Wanted him to care enough to make it difficult.
But that wasn’t the deal we’d made. We’d agreed on no questions, no expectations, no messy feelings to sort through. We showed up, we fucked, we went our separate ways. Simple. Clean. The kind of arrangement two grown men could manage without complications.
Except I was already complicating it.
I set down my coffee and reached for my bag, pulling out the small velvet pouch I’d tucked into the side pocket. Jackson was watching me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, curiosity written across his face.
“I got you something,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended. I slid the pouch across the table, watching as he set down his fork and picked it up.
“What’s this?” he asked, already working the drawstring open.
“Just open it,” I said, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
He upended the pouch into his palm, and the silver bracelet slid out, catching the light from the window. It was simple—a flat band about half an inch wide, polished to a soft shine—but the design etched into the surface was anything but.
I’d spent weeks tracking down a jeweler who could recreate the label from the bottle of wine Jackson had made me try the second time we’d met—the one with his name on it, the one he’d been working on for years.
Jackson’s fingers traced the pattern—the stylized “J” that stood for Jaxon, the name he used for his wine. His expression shifted, suspicion giving way to something softer as he read the engraving.
“Jaxon,” he said, his voice quiet. “You had this made?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I’d had “mi amor” engraved on the other side, but I hadn’t turned it that way. Jackson wasn’t there yet—might never be—and I wasn’t willing to watch him flinch at the words.
He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist, the metal bright against his skin. “It’s perfect,” he said, and the way he was looking at me—like I’d given him something he hadn’t known he wanted—made my chest tight.
“There’s more,” I said, reaching for my bag again. This time I pulled out the wooden box—small, polished to a warm glow, thekind of thing that looked like it belonged in a museum. “From Belize,” I added, my voice deliberately casual. “Thought you might like it.”
He took the box with careful hands, turning it over to examine the carving on the lid—a vine pattern that had caught my eye the moment I’d seen it. “What’s in it?” he asked.
“Open it,” I said again.
He did, working the small brass clasp with his thumbnail. The box opened on silent hinges, revealing the packet of seeds nestled inside—tiny, dark, each one no bigger than the head of a pin.
Jackson’s breath caught. “These are—“
“Merlot seeds,” I finished for him. “From the vineyard outside San Ignacio. The ones you mentioned.”
