“And if you were to look at this lot with a house, what would you see?”
“Well, a ranch style. The lot’s big enough to support it. But with raised sections on either side. One side would be a media room. The other would be the master suite. And there’s a balcony that connects both and looks out over the ocean.”
“I like it. And where’s the kitchen?”
“In the back with a wall of windows. So you can have breakfast outside if you want.”
“And it opens to the pool,” he says.
“Of course. For easy entertaining. And there are three—no four—bedrooms in addition to the master.”
He nods. “Not bad. Pretty close to what I have in mind, actually. I’ll have to make a few tweaks to incorporate your ideas.”
He takes my hand and leads me toward the north edge of the property. “This is where the master will be—upstairs, now. That frees up the space below, which would be perfect for your home office.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Would it? And where’s yours?”
“Right next to yours, of course. With a connecting door.”
“I like this game,” I say. But when I look at his eyes, I’m confused. “Jackson? Is this a game?”
His eyes are warm, with a spark of humor. “I guess that depends. If at the end of a game someone wins, then maybe it is. I’m building this house for you, baby. Your house with a view of the ocean. Even if I have to design it in prison and farm out the construction, I will have a home for my wife and daughter.”
“Oh.” The word is soft. A breath. But despite everything, I feel the stirrings of joy inside me, and I can only nod my head. Because this is right—how could Ronnie and I live anywhere other than a house that Jackson built.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” My voice is thick with emotion. So many I can’t identify them. All I know is that I’m full up. So much so that my fear is almost—almost—overshadowed.
“I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small ring box.
I open it almost tentatively and reveal a diamond solitaire, its fire so magnificent that it sparkles even in the dim light of the moon. The setting is clearly antique, with a pattern of vines etched into the white gold setting.
“It was my grandmother’s. I called Lauren after you fell asleep,” he says, referring to his assistant. “I had her go to the boat and get it out of my desk.”
I nod, realizing that it was Lauren at the hotel door earlier.
He takes the ring from the box and slips it on my finger. Remarkably, it fits. “My mother never got married,” Jackson continues, “so she never wore it. I’d like you to.”
I swallow, my throat almost too full of emotion to speak. Because while we’d worked everything out between us, this symbol truly seals it. I’m Jackson’s. He’s mine. And it really is forever.
I look up, meeting his eyes again. “It’s lovely.”
“If it’s not your style, my feelings won’t be hurt.”
I’ve been staring at the ring, lost in its fire. Now I look up at Jackson, my eyes filled with tears. “No,” I say. “This is perfect.”
twenty-four
Jackson and I spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms in the bed at the Biltmore, swept into sleep by the tug of exhaustion that finally vanquished fear, at least for those few blissful hours.
I’m glad of the sleep. Glad to have had the chance to hold him close for what I dearly hope wasn’t the last time. And now, as we drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, I tell myself that I’m glad we have this moment to share, too.
It’s all a lie, of course. I don’t want just this moment. I want all the moments. I don’t want to have held him close one last time. I want to hold him each and every night.
But my hopes are not running the show here, and so I sit quietly in the car, trying to be brave because right now I think he needs that. Lord knows that I do.
“Stella and Ronnie arrive at two,” he says.
“I know. You told me last night.” Once Damien had agreed to take care of Ronnie, Jackson had started the ball rolling to get her out here. Now, of course, his daughter’s care will fall to me.
I lean over and press my hand on his thigh. “I’ll handle it. I promise.”
He nods, his expression managing to be equal parts sadness and gratitude.
“Jackson—” I stop myself, not certain that this is a conversational door I want to go through.
I should know better than to open my mouth at all. “What?”
I consider simply telling him that I’m scared. It’s true, after all. But I owe him honesty, and so I dive in. “Are you sure you want to bring her here? Now that we know the movie might happen and the press knows all about her . . .”
I trail off, hating that I even have to remind him of all the scandal he’s been so worried about.
“I know,” he says. “And I hate even thinking about it. But we’ve thought about this before, and although it’s not ideal, we can shield her.” He glances sideways at me. “Except I’m not going to be around to help. Do you want me to keep the guardianship with Damien and Nikki? Do you think I should keep her in New Mexico with Betty?”
“No. I want her with me.” The words come automatically even though I’m not at all certain that answer is the truth. But it’s only a lie insofar as I’m scared of my own ability to take care of this little girl. As far as scandal is concerned, I think he’s right. It can be managed. It won’t be fun and it won’t be easy, but it can be done. Celebrities do it every day, and as far as PR manipulation goes, I won’t find better resources than in Los Angeles.
I nod, the motion centering me. “Seriously, it’s fine. Scandal doesn’t scare me.”
He looks at me, then stays silent for just a beat too long before saying gently, “You’re going to make a great mom.”
I feel my cheeks burn with the rising blush. “You see too much when you look at me, Jackson.”
He takes my hand. “I see competence. I see strength. I see you, Sylvia. Really. You’re going to be fine.”
I shake my head, not in protest of his words—although he really has not convinced me—but in astonishment that he is the one comforting me this morning.
Gently, I squeeze his hand. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I’m nine kinds of good. Really.”
I think he’s going to say something, but my phone pings, signaling an email, and when I check it, I also see that I missed a voice mail from last night. I check the log, then curse when I see who it’s from—my dad.
Jackson glances at me. “Are you going to listen?”
“No. Whatever he has to say, I don’t need to hear it.” But even as I’m saying the words, I’m pressing the button to play the message on speaker. I have no idea why. I guess I figure that whatever my dad has to say can’t be any worse than what Jackson and I are doing right now.
“Honey, it’s Dad. I just wanted to say one last time that I love you, and that I’m sorry. I won’t call you anymore. I just hope—well, I hope that someday we can talk again.”
And then the call ends, and that’s it.
I frown, because I heard genuine pain in my father’s voice, and I do not want to feel pity for that man. Not now. Not ever.
Shit.
I turn so that I’m looking out of the passenger window, not wanting Jackson to see my face. Because, damn me, I don’t want to reveal that something in my father’s voice actually moved me.
After a moment, his hand brushes lightly across my back. “It’s okay, you know.”
“What is?”
“To not completely hate him. That’s not the same as accepting, or even forgiving.”