Chapter 17
Jack
I woke to the sound of Pauline’s breathing—a kind of contentment I could get used to.
The bone-deep sense that the world had finally clicked into place, and I could stop running towards something—because it was here, wrapped around me, her hair tickling my nose and her cold feet somehow finding the warmest part of my legs.
The morning light was doing something to her skin—painting it warm, catching in her curls where they’d dried wild and untamed.
She was wearing my shirt. It had ridden up in her sleep, exposing the curve of her hip, and I had to physically stop myself from running my hand along that skin because waking her up seemed like a crime when she looked this peaceful.
I loved her in my clothes. I felt possessive satisfaction seeing her wrapped in something that was mine. It was primitive and probably ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
This was dangerous. This feeling. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and wanting to jump.
Her eyes opened and caught me staring. Again.
“What?” she mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.
“You talk in your sleep.”
“I do?”
“You do. You were giving very detailed instructions about something. Very… specific instructions.”
“I do not talk in my sleep.”
“You do. You said, and I quote, ‘harder’ and then something about my hands that I’m pretty sure violates several workplace conduct policies.”
Her eyes went wide. Her face went red. “I did not—”
“You absolutely did. Then you made this sound—” I demonstrated, a low hum in the back of my throat. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Jack Specter, I did not say that—” She stopped, mortification washing over her face. “What did I actually say?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see how fast I could make you turn that exact shade of red.”
She shoved my shoulder hard. “You’re the worst.”
I leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head at the last second, and my mouth caught her cheek instead.
“Pauline.”
“We haven’t brushed our teeth.”
I pulled back to look at her. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m very serious. Morning breath is real, Jack.”
“I don’t care about morning breath.”
“That’s because you can’t smell your own.” She was trying not to laugh. “I care about my morning breath. I care about your dignity. This is an act of kindness.”
“An act of—” I stared at her. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m saving you from a biological hazard.”
“I think I can handle your morning breath.”
“Your confidence is admirable and wildly misplaced.” She wriggled out from under me, and I let her go even though every instinct said to pull her back. “Bathroom. Then you can kiss me all you want.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Please do.” She paused at the bathroom door. “You’re coming too, by the way.”
“Am I?”
“Unless you want to test that morning breath theory.” She raised an eyebrow. “In which case, I’ll be happy to prove my point.”
I was up and following her before she finished the sentence.
We stood at the double sinks, her at one, me at the other, but somehow drifting closer—bumping elbows, brushing hips, finding excuses to crowd into each other’s space even though there was plenty of room.
She caught my eye in the mirror and grinned around her toothbrush, and I realized once again that I wanted us. Like this. Every single day.
Ordinary moments that felt extraordinary because she was in them.
“You’re staring again,” she said, rinsing her mouth.
“Can’t help it.”
I finished brushing and turned to her. “Better?”
She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the water droplets still clinging to her chin, the way her eyes had gone darker. “Much better.”
I pulled her to me before we even made it back to the bedroom, her back against the hallway wall, my mouth on hers because waiting another second felt impossible. She tasted like mint and morning and everything I’d been wanting for seven years.
When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing harder, and she was looking at me with an expression that made my chest tight.
“Okay,” she said, slightly breathless. “The toothbrushing was worth it. But I have work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Jack. I’ve been gone for days. Gerald is going to have an aneurysm.”
“I’m your boss. I’m giving you the week off.”
Her gaze widened. “You can’t just—”
“I can. I did. Consider it executive privilege.” I traced the line of her jaw because I couldn’t help myself. “Besides, you’ve earned it. The late nights. You’ve been running yourself into the ground.”
“So you’re rewarding me by forcing me to take a vacation?”
“I’m rewarding you by keeping you in my bed where I can feed you and make sure you sleep and—” I stopped. Regrouped. “Yes. I’m forcing you to take time off.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re being bossy.”
“I’m being your boss. And I’m being selfish. I want you here. I want you more than California Times ever could.”
She swatted my chest, but she was smiling, and when she settled back against me—her head on my shoulder, her hand over my heart.
And this—this felt like coming home.
We’d gone to see Margaret yesterday afternoon. The doctors said she was improving—vitals stronger, responding well to treatment. When we walked into her room, she’d been sitting up in bed with a crossword puzzle, looking annoyed at whoever had designed it.
“Finally,” she’d said when she saw us. “Seventeen across. Five letters. ‘Eternal.’ Starts with T.”
“Timeless,” Pauline had said immediately, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.
“Of course it is.” Margaret had written it in with a sluggish but determined movements, then Pauline’s aunt, Callista, set the puzzle aside.
Both women’s gazes were me, then at Pauline, then at our hands—which were, admittedly, clasped together in a way that probably gave everything away.
Margaret’s face had lit up—not with surprise, but with satisfaction.
“Well,” she’d said, as Callista settled her back against her pillows. “It’s about time you two figured it out.”
Pauline had laughed, that slightly embarrassed laugh, and I’d felt my ears go warm.
Margaret had waved off Pauline’s attempt at explanation. “Don’t bother. I could see it seven years ago. You were just too stubborn to admit it.” She’d looked at me then, direct and sharp as ever. “You’re going to take care of my girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Because she’s the best thing you’ll ever have, and if you’re smart, you already know that.”
“I do.”
She’d nodded, satisfied, and reached for both our hands—her grip weaker than it used to be but still firm. “I’m happy,” she’d said simply. “Seeing you two like this. That’s all I wanted.”
We’d stayed for an hour. She’d told embarrassing stories about Pauline as a teenager. She’d asked about work, about my family, about whether we were eating properly. Normal grandmother things. But when we’d left, she’d held onto Pauline’s hand a moment longer, “I hope you’re happy baby girl,”
Pauline smiled, covering Margaret’s hand with hers, “Yes, nana. I feel like the happiest person in the word,”
In the elevator down, Pauline had been quiet.
“She really likes you,” she’d said finally.
“I really like her.”
She’d squeezed my hand, and we’d driven home, and I’d thought about how good it felt to have Margaret’s approval. How right it felt to be walking into that hospital room together, to be introduced as something permanent instead of something temporary.
Over the next few days, I found myself looking at rings online.
I started Tuesday night after Pauline fell asleep.
Opened my laptop in the dark living room and typed “engagement rings” into the search bar like I was researching a new acquisition.
Which, in a way, I was. Except this acquisition was permanent, non-negotiable, and came with a lifetime return policy I had no intention of using.
I clicked through collections, she had elegant fingers. Long. She talked with her hands—gestures that punctuated everything she said—and whatever I put on her finger would catch light every time she made a point. Every time she argued with me. Every time she touched my face.
By Wednesday afternoon, I’d narrowed it down to three options and was second-guessing all of them.
“What are you looking at?”
I slammed the laptop shut.
Pauline stood in the doorway wearing just a towel, damp from shower. She was looking at me like I’d just been caught doing something illegal.
“Work,” I said, too fast.
“Work.” She walked closer. “You just closed that laptop like you were hiding a body.”
“Financial reports. Very boring.”
“You looked extremely focused for something boring. You’re acting suspicious.” She stopped in front of the desk. “What were you really looking at?”
“Revenue forecasts.”
“Jack.”
“Quarterly projections.”
“You’re the worst liar. Your ears turn red when you lie to me.”
Damn it. Did they? They probably did.
She reached for the laptop. I caught her wrist—not hard, just enough to redirect her trajectory—and pulled her toward me instead.
“Nice distraction technique,” she said. But she wasn’t pulling away, and when I tugged her into my lap, she came willingly. Her curves wrapped in just a towel made my brain stutter. “You’re still not answering.” She added.
“Maybe I was shopping for your birthday.”
“My birthday’s in March.”
“I plan ahead.”
“It’s October.”
“Six-month lead time is very reasonable for—” I lost my train of thought when she shifted in my lap and apparently my ability to form coherent sentences had limits.
“For what?” She was smirking now. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“For whatever I was hypothetically planning to buy you.”
I kissed her before she could make another grab for the laptop. Pulled her closer, one hand in her hair, the other on her hip, and kissed her until she stopped asking questions.
When I pulled back, she was flushed and breathing harder, her eyes darker than they’d been a minute ago.
“You better not be hiding anything that concerns me,” she murmured.