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Even in my drunken haze, the venom Bea and Eva spit my way still consumed my thoughts. They filled me with doubt, made me feel insecure, until I convinced myself that Jackson would agree with everything they were saying.
Once again, I should've known better.
* * *
“Are we gonna talk about what happened last night?”
Jackson's careful but direct question has my stomach heaving. Lower the steaming mug of tea in my hand to the bedside table, I twist a piece of still-damp hair around my finger nervously. “Do we have to?”
His mouth says 'no' but his eyes say ‘spill it.’
I avert my gaze to the window, momentarily distracting myself with the stellar view Jackson’s hotel room has. I was pretty ecstatic when he revealed he's only flying home tomorrow, the same as me, so we get to spend the day together. Not that we're doing much besides lazing around, eating, and sleeping.
A lot of the latter. In a bed so comfortable, there’s no way it’s not expensive.
This entire hotel reeks of money. All polished marble and big, fancy plants and ostentatious mirrors. I’ve never felt so out of place than when Jackson ushered me through the lobby, my stunning attire of last night’s outfit with Jackson's hoodie thrown over the top and a bird's nest-style bun piled on top of my head attracting more than one disapproving look.
“Are you sure we're in the right place?” I'd whispered, hugging myself tightly when the receptionist's unimpressed gaze fell on me.
Jackson just gave me a brief nod and a reassuring smile before turning to the bitchy receptionist with that smile turned up to megawatt status. He looked almost as run-down and tired as me, just as messy and raggedy, yet somehow, he fit in. All charm and confidence and control. Honestly, his whole demeanor was hot as fuck. I would’ve jumped him the second we found privacy if I wasn't well aware of my desperate need for a shower. And a toothbrush.
Post-room shower, wrapped in an impossibly fluffy bathrobe, and revived by a gloriously greasy room-service breakfast, I wanted to jump him too. But of course, he wants to talk about last night.
Typical.
Pulling the comforter right up to my chin, I make my best attempt at looking pathetic—not exactly a hard feat, considering my incredibly hungover state—and bat my lashes at the man laying beside me. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Jackson says, and I hate him for it. I hate his gentle understanding and his inability to push boundaries and his easy concession because even though it’s not his intention—maybeespeciallybecause it’s not his intention—I feel guilty. Hiding things from him makes me feel shitty because he’s so fuckingopen.
Which is why, with a huff, I mutter, “The girls said some stuff.”
I’ve mentioned Eva and Bea before, so it’s unsurprising when his face screws up. “What stuff?”
I relay every dig they hit me with. All their little, demeaning comments that chipped away at my confidence, my common sense. Reliving the whole ordeal is no less humiliating than actually experiencing it; I can't even look at Jackson.
I don’t need to, though, to hear him scoff. “They’re full of shit.”
Jackson does not like my unconvinced shrug one bit. Two fingers lift my chin, lifting my gaze until it meets his. “They are full of shit,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly and slowly. “I don't care what label we put on it, I'm yours, you're mine, that's it.”
Yours. Mine. Two little words with so much weight.
“Lu,” he breathes my name softly, his lips so close the word brushes over my own. “I don't know how to make it any clearer that there is no one else I want. I wanted you the first time I saw you in the diner, smiling like butter wouldn't melt. I wanted you when you spilled a drink on me and vomited your guts up yet still looked at me with nothing but confidence. I sure as fuck wanted you when I kissed you for the first time.“ A featherlight touch brushes my lips, barely even a kiss yet it still steals my breath away. “And I especially want you right now.”
“You got a thing for hungover blondes?”
“Nah.” His nose brushes mine as he shakes his head. “It's the robe.”
I snort and roll my eyes, hoping I play off how fucking ooey gooey his words make me feel even if his knowing smile suggests otherwise.
It fades slightly when, after raking his gaze over me in that way that makes me fidget, his expression sobers. “Luna, I really fucking like you.”
Reigning in a grin, I look away because I can't look at him when he's looking at me like that. “You're awfully romantic today.”
“I think you're supposed to be romantic when you're trying to ask someone to be your girlfriend.”
My fidgeting halts, my gaze flying to his. Words get stuck in my throat, choking me momentarily, but I manage to croak out, “What?”
This time, Jackson’s smile is one of utter calm, mimicked in his voice. “I know you wanted to go slow. I know this scares you. But I'm gonna ask you anyway. And if you say no, that's okay. Like I said, labels don't mean shit.”
