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He knew already.
Jackson’s not the kind of guy to be jealous out of nowhere. He sensed it. I should have too, as soon as Casteleone showed up at our door. I won’t trade my integrity for a promotion. It makes me mad that I was put in that position.
Jackson says, “I’m sorry.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
The sound of dishes being gathered and tables cleaned and the low hum of private conversation fill the atrium. It’s airy but small enough to feel invested in the experience. His grip on my hand tightens. “I’m sorry that you’ve worked so hard only to be in a position you felt you needed to protect yourself from.”
“You were right. He said business and then pleasure, and red flags flew up. I didn’t want to be sitting at a restaurant with him when I could be curled up at home with you.”
That smile that wins my heart every time joins the fun, and his hands angle up. “Best of both worlds?”
“I’d say so, charmer. Not sure how you got her to give us the reservation using your own name, but I’m grateful.”
“I didn’t want to lie.”
He may not have wanted to lie, but I drop this little nugget. “She called me Mrs. St. James.”
I’ve never seen him blush, and he doesn’t know, but he does appear a little bashful. Holding two fingers up, he winks. “Okay, a little lie.”
My heart feels bigger, more open wide around him. And he continues to fill me with so much goodness. “I don’t mind.”
The server returns and sets our glasses before us. As soon as we place our order and are alone again, I lift my champagne flute to tap to his glass. “To us.”
“To . . .” He pauses, and then smirks. “I love you.”
Our glasses tap together just as I say, “I love you.”
The liquid just coats my lips when I hear, “Marlow . . . honey?”
When my gaze shifts to the woman heading my way, I spew what little I sipped. “Mom?”
20
Marlow
I’ve never spit in my life, and now I’m wiping dribbling champagne from my chin in the middle of a trendy Manhattan restaurant.
I’d recognize Talia Marché’s voice anywhere—the laid-back California pace mixing with the slightest of accent via France or Italy. It changes on an as-needed basis. But I can’t say I ever expected to run into her in New York City. I stand in a rush, my cloth napkin accidentally falling to the floor before I can catch it. “Mom?” I say again as if my eyes deceive me and my nerves are kicking in.
She walks over with shock embracing her own face. Others might not catch the expression before she rights it into a smile, but I’m the last person she expected to see. Otherwise, she would have sent a text or even a wire to let me know she was in the city.
She embraces me like a daughter she’s close to, a daughter who she hasn’t seen in a long time and whose presence has been missed.
In reality, she hasn’t missed me a single day of my life. Her lifestyle is a testament to her chosen path and my replacement.
I lift my arms, but they’re slow to obey. I’ve been hurt before by her absence. Does her presence make a difference? I hug her. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were in the city?”
“Look at you. So . . . adult-like.” Pulling back, she holds my arms, swinging them wide so she can get a good look at me. I lost the five pounds she used to hound me about, but I’m pretty sure they returned in the last week living with Jackson. Happiness does that, gives one a sense of comfort when someone not only accepts you but loves you for who you are and not just for appearances.
When her eyes linger on my midsection, I yank my arms out of her hands. “That happens when you near thirty.”
“Thirty?” Her head goes back as if she’s going to need smelling salts to continue. “How is it possible that I have a thirty-year-old?”
“Not quite yet. I have a good six months.”
“Right. That’s good. I was starting to feel old. What a dreadful hand to be dealt.”
Jackson stands and says, “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Marché.”
Her entire body angles toward him, and she drops her wrist in front of him. I want to roll my eyes. Good Lord, this is over the top. She should probably take a break from the French Riviera. “Who are you?” she asks, giving him sudden interest.
And my friends always called me over the top. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far in that aspect. I’m tall enough for entry into the runway world of modeling but more muscular in build. My mom said designers would never want to fit clothes on that type of model. It seemed to bother her more than me.
