Chapter 22
Jackson
Jackson watches from the perimeter, drink in hand, as Ben wades through the crowd.
He’s better at this than he lets on, maybe even to himself.
He remembers names. Spouses. Which cousin just had surgery.
He knows everyone from executives to floor managers to seasonal workers.
Every time someone approaches, their whole face lights up to see him, and Ben lights up right back.
He’s a natural leader. Not in the showy alpha male sense that people usually mean when they say that. He wants everyone to succeed and he creates those conditions.
Which, of course, only makes Jackson angrier.
Someone in this room had set him up. Someone smiled at that sweet, earnest face and handed him a ticking bomb.
Jackson circulates too, multitasking on his own agenda: hitting the bar again, thumb-typing edits into the speech doc on his phone, snagging a goat cheese canapé every time a tray gets within striking distance.
He clocks the guests, the conversations, cataloging faces and waiting for something to click into place.
Most of them he doesn’t know. A few, he does.
Lou, the big guy who came to Ben’s defense at Salty’s, wedged into a navy suit that looks like it only gets pulled out of the closet for weddings, funerals, and this one specific holiday party.
Tom McKenna, posted up at the buffet, hunched over the seafood platter like it’s his final meal.
Jackson watches him pile shrimp high and hopes, sincerely and without remorse, that they haven’t been deveined. He’s earned a mouthful of shit.
It doesn’t take Jackson long to notice he’s also being watched.
A redhead. Styled out of a boutique lookbook, four feet ten inches of judgment staring him down like she’s already picked out the weapon she’ll use to take him apart if need be.
He places her instantly from the photo on Ben’s office corkboard.
He doesn’t make a move until the vodka soda’s in play. Then he slides up beside her at the bar, casual as anything, like this isn’t the most important social gamble of his evening.
“Jackson James,” he says, tone just this side of deferential.
She doesn’t take his hand. Just squints at him, all scrutiny. “I recognize you. You work for the Gazette. You wrote that piece about my aunt’s pasta lunch program at the elementary school.”
“Of course, ‘Linguini for Literacy,’” Jackson recalls. “She let me sample the meatballs; I swear I saw God. He was holding a parmesan shaker.”
It curls, barely, one corner of her mouth lifting as if testing the air for amusement. “Are you writing about him?” She nods toward Ben, gaze gentling even as her voice stays sharp. It’s funny, in a way. Two iron-willed pugilists orbiting the softest man in the room.
Jackson takes a sip of his drink. “Only if he breaks my heart. Then it’s a tell-all memoir.”
That earns him a smile. She extends her hand. “Pina Catteano.”
Any chance of a reply drowns beneath the DJ’s voice, less announcement, more sonic assault. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he foghorns, “put your fins together for Silver Shoals’ favorite local catch and tonight’s host, Ben Whitaker.”
Beside him, Pina tenses. Jackson feels it too, that protective, bracing unease.
There’s a death row quality to the way Ben approaches the podium, counting the steps to his own execution. Then his eyes drop to his phone, to the speech he hasn’t so much as skimmed, and something eases in the lines of his shoulders. He trusts it. He trusts Jackson.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight. To celebrate the holidays, yes, and Whitaker Seafood, of course. But more than that, to share in what this plant, this community, means to all of us, now and in the future.”
Ben’s voice is a touch quiet, a little stiff, but steady. It’s growing warmer, gaining ground with every word.
“We’re not always built for change. But sometimes it finds us anyway. And when it does, what matters most is how we meet it: what we hold on to, and what we’re brave enough to grow into.
“Legacy isn’t just what we inherit. It’s what we choose to protect. What we carry forward, on purpose, with care. My father built this place to be something lasting. I’m here because I believe in that mission. I believe in continuing what he started, and shaping what comes next. Together.”
Jackson glances around the room; people are listening. Even Tom McKenna is silent, mouth hanging open over a shrimp skewer. But Jackson’s not watching them. Not really. He’s watching Ben.
“The future of this plant isn’t measured in margins or pounds of product.
It’s written in our people. The ones who clock in before dawn, and the ones who stay late to make sure every last crate is right.
It’s in the partners, the kids, the families who taste that work at their kitchen tables and know it came from us.
“And if we’re building something really good here, and I think we are, it’s not just because of what we do. It’s who we do it with. It’s because we all show up. Not for glory, but to make things easier for each other, because we want the path we are on to feel like promise and not a risk.”
That line isn’t for the crowd. Jackson wrote it for Ben. Ben pauses and smiles slightly, his bright eyes finding Jackson, before continuing on.
God, Jackson’s in so much trouble.
“We process fish here. It’s hard to make that sound romantic, but it is hard not to look at the work you all do and feel inspired.
Never feel like you can’t be proud of what you’ve done.
Never misplace the importance of kindness, of persistence, of being here and just taking the time to care.
Even in the coldest seasons, there are people who make this place feel impossibly warm.
“So let’s celebrate that tonight. With the food, the music, the holiday spirit, each other’s company...and of course, the open bar.”
The room erupts at that. Cheers. Laughter. Someone whistles. (It might be Jackson.) Ben steps away from the mic, pink-cheeked and shell-shocked like he can’t quite believe he survived it. But he did. He nailed it.
Pina leans toward Jackson. “That was you who did that?”
He’s not sure whether she means the speech or the open bar or the part where Ben looks steadier than he has all week. But Jackson claims his part in all of it. “Yeah.”
She clinks her glass to his, eyes soft now. “Nice work.”
The DJ cues something familiar, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’ Christmas Everyday. Guitars over electric organ, a little too much for the setting but just right for Jackson’s mood.
He excuses himself, slips through the crowd, and finds Ben still just a few steps from the podium. His tie’s a touch crooked. His eyes are glassy from the applause. He’s never looked better.
Jackson slides two fingers along Ben’s cuff. “Dance with me?”
Ben looks up, and for a second, Jackson sees every version of him: the anxious host, the reluctant heir, the boy who thought he had to carry everything alone. Ben’s hand finds Jackson’s like they’re magnetized.
They move to the margin of the dance floor where the hardwood catches halos of colored light. Jackson draws him in, and Ben fits there, sudden and sure, like he was built to be held exactly this way. Right hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Left hand splayed over Jackson’s heart.
His exhale is tremulous, almost shy. A little shaky from adrenaline, maybe, or maybe just the unguarded moment. Jackson gathers him in a little tighter, feels the shape of Ben against him, every line, every place they touch.
Around them, the party blurs. The rest of the world holds nothing Jackson needs at this moment.
“You’re lucky I’m still speaking to you,” Ben mutters, lips near Jackson’s collar. “Do you know what an open bar costs for a guest list this size? My dad’s going to have an aneurysm.”
“It was a strategic move, and he can afford it,” Jackson says shamelessly.
Ben makes a quiet huff and melts a little more, letting Jackson guide him gently across the floor. “We’re going to run out of ride vouchers. I need to make sure we post the cab company number by the bar.”
“Stop worrying for two seconds and trust me.” Jackson smiles against Ben’s hairline, presses a kiss there, light as a match strike. “Drunk party guests are honest party guests. Statistically, someone’s gonna confess to at least a misdemeanor by the end of the night. You should thank me.”
“I should have you escorted off the premises,” Ben grouses, but there’s laughter in it now, pulled loose and low in his throat.
“Hey, you gave the speech, Fish Prince.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve decided to blame you if anything goes wrong. You’ve taught me to abuse my authority.”
That earns him a twirl. Jackson coaxes Ben into a spin, not for the choreography but for the view, for the softness of him, flushed and tousled, and for the ease with which his body falls back into Jackson’s arms like it never wanted to be anywhere else.
“You are—”
“A shit disturber, a romantic, your problem now, et cetera, et cetera,” Jackson offers, mock-wounded. “But also: is the bottom line on the bar tab really all you took away from that speech?”
Ben tilts his head, looks up at him through his lashes. “You know it isn’t.” His hand curls in the fabric of Jackson’s lapel, voice rough with pleased embarrassment. “You wrote about Whitaker Seafood like it was a person. Like it was… someone you cared about.”
“I did.” He lets his hand drift up Ben’s spine, feels how relaxed he is now, how easily he lets himself be held.
“It was nice.”
“‘Nice’?” Jackson teases, husky and low.
He kisses Ben’s temple. The shell of his ear.
The hollow behind it just because it’s there.
He’s not showing off. He’s just helpless in the gravity of this man.
“I slip a heartfelt declaration right in the middle of your annual seafood address and all you can say is ‘nice’?”
“It was beautiful,” Ben admits, burying his face in Jackson’s collar, all mortified and rosy. “You’re a very good writer.”
That’s it. That’s what undoes him.
Jackson closes his eyes, lets his lips rest just barely in Ben’s hair, drunk on Ben nestled up against him. He’s smitten. Ruined. The ache in his chest is so tender it almost feels fictional.
“Well if you like that,” he says, recovering with effort, “just wait until you read the article that keeps you out of jail.”
Ben whips his head up, horrified. “Wait, what?”
Jackson keeps them moving. A soft dip, a turn. “Oh yeah. It was in the contract. Technically, Whitaker Seafood accepts full liability for MarineSelect’s waste disposal practices. And as the official company representative on the documentation…”
Ben misses a step, barely catches himself. “Are you serious? Why wouldn’t you tell me that?!”
“You had enough on your plate,” Jackson says, light as air.
“I can’t go to jail, Jackson.”
“You’re right,” Jackson agrees solemnly. “We haven’t even had sex yet. No prison until at least after sex. At this point my need to see what you look like when you come might be medical.”
Ben makes a strangled, high-pitched sound, cheeks going redder than the poinsettias. “You can’t just….why do you say things like that?”
“I say things like that,” Jackson says, running his knuckles lightly down the back of Ben’s neck, “because I want you to hear them. And because I really, really like watching your reaction.”
Ben groans quietly, hips pressing forward just enough to be felt, his blush blooming brighter down his throat.
“Besides, it’s irrelevant. Jail isn’t in the cards.” Jackson tips Ben’s head back with a thumb under his chin, teeth grazing lightly on that warm pink border of skin right over Ben’s pulse.
Ben lets out a sigh that sounds like surrender. “Promise?”
“We’re gonna fix it.”
“You better mean that.”
“There’s not a single thing I’ve said to you I didn’t mean,” Jackson breathes, low and hoarse, “and that includes a long list of things I haven’t said yet that are really going to make you blush.”
Ben laughs. His arms wrap tighter, his cheek finding its place against Jackson’s chest. Jackson holds him through it, thumb brushing lazy arcs into the back of Ben’s neck, the two of them rocking in time to a song neither of them is really listening to anymore.
This, right here? This is what every word Jackson’s been trying to write this week has really been about. Not the story. Not the scandal. Not even the redemption. Just this.
Ben is pressed in Jackson’s arms, head tucked beneath his jaw. Jackson turns them lazily through the last verse of the song, content to stay in this moment as long as the world lets them.
But the world doesn’t.
Out of the corner of his eye, half-obscured by an ice sculpture of a leaping fish, Jackson spots him: mid-laugh, mid-martini, the angry drunk from Salty’s. He’s leaned in close beside Tom McKenna, and whatever he’s saying has Tom nodding along, smug and sweaty, still hovering like a shrimp troll.
Jackson taps two fingers lightly against Ben’s spine, casual as he can manage. “That guy doesn’t like you.”
Ben hums, barely lifting his head. “I’m beginning to think he only likes tiny glass dolphins and reclaimed barnwood.”
“Not McKenna,” Jackson says, tilting his chin. “The guy with him. Grey suit. Reindeer tie.”
Ben shifts, leans slightly to look, and then goes very, very still. So still it feels like all the warmth just dropped out of the room.
“…Kent?”
The music plays on, unaware. But the dance is over.
“Could he have forged the paperwork?”
“No. No, that’s… Kent wouldn’t.” Ben’s voice stutters, skipping like a needle on a record.
Jackson watches Kent throw his head back in too-loud laughter, martini sloshing in one hand, the other clapping Tom on the back. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Ben repeats. But his voice is different now, tight, uncertain. “He wouldn’t set me up.”
Jackson gently steers them off the floor, hand steady at Ben’s waist. “Does he have access to the files?”
“I mean, yeah. Technically. He’s got senior clearance; he has access to everything.
But you don’t understand, Jackson, Kent’s known my dad since high school.
They practically built this company together.
He’s like family. He bulldozes me sometimes, sure, but that’s just how he is.
He wants me to succeed. He’s looked out for me here since I was a kid. ”
Jackson’s expression doesn’t shift. But his voice does. It drops, sharp and certain. “That man,” he steps in closer, words tight with urgency, “and I cannot stress this enough, has absolutely no interest in helping you succeed.”
Ben looks back across the dance floor.
Jackson doesn’t look away.
“Ben,” he says. “I think we might’ve just found our guy.”
And across the room, as if hearing it through the crowd, Kent lifts his gaze and meets Jackson’s.
He doesn’t flinch.
He smiles.