4. JACKSON
JACKSON
The restaurant has cloth napkins and candles on every table.
Real candles, not the fake ones that flicker on a timer.
The hostess led us to a corner booth with leather seats that probably cost more than my truck payment, and Jamie's eyes went wide when she saw the place.
Not nervous wide. Impressed wide. The kind of look that says she's never been somewhere like this but she wants to take it all in.
Worth every penny of the reservation I called in a favor to get.
She sits across from me now, menu open, scanning the options.
Her hair catches the candlelight when she tilts her head, and she's wearing a dress I watched her put on an hour ago—navy blue, something simple that fits her exactly right.
When she walked out of the bedroom wearing it, I had to remind myself we had dinner plans.
"The duck sounds amazing," she says, not looking up from the menu. "But so does the short rib. And they have this butternut squash risotto that's calling my name."
"Order all three."
She looks up. "I'm not going to order three entrees."
"Why not?"
"Because that's insane?" But she's smiling when she says it, the kind of smile that makes her whole face light up. "What are you getting?"
"Steak. Medium rare. Whatever comes with it."
She shakes her head. "You didn't even look at the menu."
"Don't need to. Every place like this has steak."
"But what if they have something better? What if they have this incredible braised lamb shank with pomegranate molasses that could change your entire perspective on dinner?"
"Then I'll still order the steak."
That earns me a laugh—bright and genuine, the kind of sound that makes something settle in my chest. I don't make people laugh often. Mostly because I don't try to. But Jamie laughs like she means it, and I find myself wanting to hear it again.
The waiter appears. Jamie orders the risotto after another minute of deliberation. I order the steak. The waiter asks how I'd like it cooked, even though I already told Jamie, and I repeat myself without looking at him. My attention stays on the woman across from me.
"So," Jamie says when we're alone again, "what made you choose the military?"
"Family tradition." I reach for my water glass. "My father served. His father before him. Seemed like the logical next step."
"That's it? Family tradition?"
"That's it."
She waits, like she expects more. When I don't give it to her, she leans forward. "Come on. There has to be more to it than that. What about wanting to serve your country? Or the adventure? The travel?"
"It's a job. I'm good at it."
"But you must have wanted something else when you were younger. Every kid has dreams."
"I wanted to be bigger than my dad."
The words come out before I think them through. Jamie's eyebrows rise, and I realize how that sounded.
"Taller," I clarify. "He's six-five. I wanted to be taller than him."
"Mission accomplished." Her smile turns teasing. "What else?"
"What else what?"
"What other childhood dreams? Come on, Jackson. Give me something."
The way she says my name—like she's testing how it feels in her mouth—does something to me I don't examine too closely. "You first."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why pastry?"
Her face changes immediately. The teasing drops away, replaced by something more serious, more focused. She sits back in the booth and her hands start moving while she talks—gestures that punctuate her words like she's conducting an orchestra.
"I love the precision of it," she says. "Baking is chemistry. You can't fake your way through a croissant or charm your way past a failed soufflé. The dough doesn't care if you're having a bad day or if you're tired or if you measured wrong because you were distracted. It just fails."
She's animated now, leaning forward again, her eyes bright in the candlelight.
"But when you get it right—when you nail the lamination and the butter stays cold and the layers puff exactly the way they're supposed to—it's like magic. Except it's not magic. It's science. It's technique and temperature and timing, and you made it happen."
I watch her talk. The way her hands move. The way she gets lost in the explanation, like she's forgotten we're in a restaurant and she's just thinking out loud about something that matters to her.
Just a few hours ago, this woman was shaking in my bathroom, broken down and terrified. Tonight she's describing butter layers like they're the most important thing in the world.
The transformation hits me somewhere I don't expect.
"You're good at it," I say.
"How do you know?"
"You talk about it like you understand it."
She tilts her head. "That's a very Jackson way of putting it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Direct. No unnecessary words." She grins. "I like it. Most people would say something like 'you're passionate about it' or 'you really light up when you talk about baking.' You just cut straight to the point."
"Passion doesn't mean competence."
"No, but understanding does." She props her chin on her hand. "Okay, your turn. Tell me something real about the military. Not just 'it's a job.'"
The waiter returns with bread and butter. Jamie tears off a piece and examines it like she's taking mental notes. I take a piece too, more to give my hands something to do than because I want it.
"It suits me," I say finally.
"How?"
"Clear chain of command. Defined objectives. You know what's expected and you deliver it or you don't."
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds efficient."
She studies my face while she chews. "Do you have friends? In the military, I mean."
"I have colleagues."
"That's not the same thing."
"No, it's not."
She waits for more. When I don't give it, she doesn't push. Just nods like she filed the information somewhere and moved on. Most people would keep pressing, want to know why I don't have friends or what that says about me. Jamie just accepts it and stays present.
Another thing I file away about her.
"What about before?" she asks. "Before the military. What were you like in high school?"
"Big."
That gets me another laugh, and the sound of it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"I mean personality-wise."
"Still big."
"Jackson." She says my name like a reprimand, but she's still smiling. "I'm trying to get to know you here."
"You are getting to know me."
"I'm getting the Jackson Jones highlight reel. Just the facts, ma'am." She leans back in the booth. "Fine. New approach. What's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?"
"I don't get embarrassed."
"Everyone gets embarrassed."
"I don't."
"Okay, what about scared? What's the scariest thing that's ever happened to you?"
The answer to that one is sitting across from me, but I'm not ready to examine why. "Define scared."
"You know what scared means."
"Physical fear or emotional fear?"
"Either. Both."
I consider this while I finish my bread. Physical fear is easy—combat situations, training exercises gone wrong, the kind of adrenaline spike that comes with immediate danger. But that's not fear, not really. That's just calculation under pressure.
Emotional fear is different. Emotional fear is watching someone small and fragile trust you not to break them. Emotional fear is realizing you want something you never thought you wanted and having no idea how to keep from destroying it.
"This morning," I say.
Her eyebrows rise. "This morning what?"
"When I got your text."
She goes still. The playful energy that's been building between us shifts into something more serious, more careful.
"What about it scared you?"
"Not knowing if I'd be too late."
The words hang in the air between us. Jamie's expression does something I can't read—softens, maybe, or sharpens. Both at once.
"You weren't too late."
"No."
"You were exactly on time."
Before I can respond to that, someone appears at the edge of our table. A woman in a dark suit, blonde hair pulled back. Someone from work. I don't even remember her name.
"Jackson! I thought that was you."
I don't turn toward her. My eyes stay on Jamie's face, watching her expression shift as this woman leans into our space.
"Colonel Jones," the woman continues, her hand landing on my shoulder. "I've been meaning to call you. We should grab drinks this week and discuss next week's meeting."
Jamie's chin lifts slightly. Her eyes narrow just enough that I catch it, and something about that reaction sends heat straight through me.
"I'm on a dinner date," I say, still holding Jamie's gaze. "We can talk about it when I'm back."
"Oh—" The woman's voice hits a different register. "Who are you with?"
"My woman."
The words come out low and certain, and I watch them land on Jamie's face. Her lips part slightly. Color rises in her cheeks. Her fingers tighten around her water glass.
"Oh," the woman says again, this time with a completely different tone. "Well, I'll just—I'll call your office then. Enjoy your evening."
She retreats quickly, reading the room exactly right. I don't watch her go. Jamie's face is more interesting—the way the flush spreads down her neck, the way she bites her lower lip like she's trying not to smile.
"My woman?" she says, voice teasing but with something underneath it that's anything but playful.
"Problem with that?"
"No problem at all."
Her foot finds mine under the table. Slides up from my ankle to my calf, slow and deliberate, while she maintains perfect eye contact above the tablecloth. The contrast—her innocent expression and what she's doing below—makes my jaw tighten.
"Dangerous game," I say.
"I like games."
Her foot moves higher, and I have to work to keep my face neutral. She's testing me, seeing how far she can push before I react. The problem is she doesn't know what my reaction will look like, and neither do I.
The waiter returns with our entrees. Jamie's foot disappears back to her side of the table while he sets down her risotto and my steak. She thanks him with that bright smile, the same one she gave me earlier, and waits until he's gone before sliding her foot back up my leg.