7. Message in a Bottle
SEVEN
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
JACKSON
At Gigi’s house, the moment we approach and I see her wince and shiver, I rip off the yellow police tape draped across her front door. “We’ve got the evidence now—no need for this.” She’s been through so much, and I know I should leave it up, but my urge to protect her eclipses protocol.
Inside, we’re met with the chaos once again. Only this time, I reach for her dining table and chairs and set them upright. “Let’s put your place back together,” I suggest, and somehow, we manage to do it without a quarrel.
Afterwards, Gigi digs through the debris until she locates her laptop. A smile of relief spreads across her face as she clutches it to her chest. I watch as she takes it to the table, sits down, opens it up, and waits for it to boot—while absentmindedly pushing her wild locks to one side, letting the curls cascade over her shoulder. God, she’s gorgeous.
“It’s all good. Everything is here. Whew.” Over her shoulder, I view how she clicks through file after file, then opens email. She’d called her office from my house after we’d left the hospital, giving directions to her staff, conceding she’d be out for a couple of days. “Look at all these emails and messages. I know we want to get to the yacht club, but I need to go through them real quick, so…”
She glances up at me as if seeking guidance—a new behavior. Normally, for this sort of thing, she’d have kicked me out and taken charge. Is this progress?
“Sure, take your time. I need to make a few phone calls, anyway. I’ll just be out here. Holler if you need me.” I exit her sliding glass door that looks out upon her small but tidy back yard, giving us both space.
My first call is to Davis, asking him to swing by my house, pick up a change of clothes, and bring them over so I can look presentable for the fancy club tonight. When he and Belle built a new home together, I took over his place, and he now keeps an eye on it since I’m often away on a mission, so he’d have access to grab clothes for me.
Though the Alexanders have always been among the richest families in Love Beach, my grandparents abandoned their club membership long ago, preferring their private life in their cliff-top mansion overlooking Passion Cove. The club has never been my ideal hangout either.
I settle into a cedar chair on the patio, keeping within view of Gigi, and return a call from my commander. When he answers, I update him on the prints we lifted from her home.
“Now that we know her attacker was from Central America, I can’t deny there might be a connection between the cases,” I conclude, silently cursing that she’s been dragged into my mission.
“Our intel tracked the gunrunners from Belize to Love Beach. It’s too much of a coincidence. And it’s odd her source would have her show up right where you were during the dock stakeout. Press her for the details. Keep on top of her.” Once again, everything my superior officer says regarding Gigi always comes off with a suggestive twist. “Also, have Davis assign someone to trail her, just in case.”
“Yes, sir.” Fuck that. If anyone is following her pretty little ass, it’s me, especially at the fancy club tonight, but I don’t tell him I’m about to chase another lead with her.
“One more thing,” the Commander adds. “Your extension papers are ready. CGIS sent them over today. I realize you only have a few months left, but you’ve become indispensable to our interagency unit. We’d very much like to keep you on board.” Before being reassigned back to Love Beach, we’d discussed extending my contract—a proposal I welcomed then. But now, why am I hesitating?
“Right. Send them over and I’ll have a look,” I say.
“Hopefully, your team can wrap up this beach mission soon. We need you with our team in Belize; it’s a total shit show down there.” He continues his briefing, and by the time I hang up, the decision I need to make about my career—my life—leaves me numb. But I can’t afford to dwell on it now, so I tuck it away in the recesses of my mind.
After the debacle of our run-in with Zephyr, I’m not taking chances. When I had Davis search Mike Knowles through his database at the station, I found the yacht club manager doesn’t have any priors, but I enlist my interagency crew to serve as my eyes in the sky tonight, just in case. Besides, thanks to Gigi, once inside the club, with access to the marina, I can snap some photos of the boats docked there, where the vessel name and registration numbers are always painted on the bow. My crew can run each through our system to see if any tie to our potential gunrunning suspects.
With everything set, I head out front to the street to meet Parker, who was sent by Davis. He shoves a bundle of clothes through his driver’s side window and laughs.
“Yacht club date? Really? You’re clearly going way above and beyond for Gigi, aren’t you?” His tone is laced with mockery. “It’s usually easy for you to get a woman into bed without needing a dinner reservation at the club—especially during spring break when there are extra women trolling the boardwalk right now.”
“Stop joking before you piss me off. You know this is simply part of the mission,” I reply tersely, dismissing his banter. “Wouldn’t you go out of your way for a friend or someone you care about—say, your sister?” I must have touched a nerve because his jaw tightens and clicks.
I know Parker’s been through hell since what happened to his sister in New York. As a public defender, Kelsea Parker had discovered that a client she fought for in court and won actually was the killer. The man attacked her so viciously, she’ll be confined to a wheelchair for life. They caught him though and he rots in prison, while Parker moved her to his house in Love Beach to care for her. I admire him for going above and beyond.
I walk away, but he continues. “I overheard you and Davis talking about Mike. Do you really think he’s running the illegal fishing ring? I’ve known him all the years he’s managed the club. Seems like an upstanding family guy.”
“We’ll have a talk with him and see. Gotta go. Thanks for bringing these.” I head inside and change clothes in the half bath off the living room.
While waiting for Gigi, I distract myself by grabbing a broom and pail from the pantry—there’s shattered glass and broken porcelain from the intruder’s havoc near her built-in bookshelves and fireplace mantel, and I figure I might as well help clean up.
After restacking her books on the shelves, I notice that one of the broken items is actually part of a message in a bottle. A piece of paper, rolled up like a scroll, is lodged in the neck of it; the rest lies in scattered shards on the floor.
Something about it seems oddly familiar.
I carefully pick up the translucent green pop bottle, avoiding the jagged edges, and bring it closer to inspect. My name is scrawled on the paper, and suddenly I’m flooded with a vivid memory of an eighth-grade field trip to the beach on boat safety.
For fun, our teachers had each of us bring a glass pop bottle, write a message, roll it up, and seal it inside. We’d glued on a cork and wound twine around the bottle.
“Oh! What are you doing?” Gigi calls from behind me, startling me; I nearly drop the bottle. I turn, about to ask why she has this when all the eighth graders had thrown our bottles into the ocean that day once the boat left the shore. At the sight of her, my heart skips. I haven’t seen her looking this damn sexy since Beau and Addie’s wedding.
“Wow. Gigi, you’re…” I trail off, taking in her appearance. The sleek black pumps elongate her legs, showcasing the results of her running program. Her little black dress ends at mid-thigh, and my hand is tempted to reach out. And that heart-shaped neckline, revealing just the right amount of cleavage—she’s mesmerizing.
She smiles, casually draping her purse and a coat over the back of a chair. “Apparently, I can render the ever-so-cocky Jackson speechless. Interesting.”
“Uh…” To make a certain thing even harder, her fragrance—a blend of wild floral blooms—wafts over from across the room, leaving me utterly tongue-tied and my cock bulging. I clear my throat, nodding toward the bottle in my hand, and manage a single word: “This?”
“Right. Funny story—I actually found your bottle in the bay last year. Well, Tawny found it,” she explains, and I can’t help but grin at the mention of our town dog—a scruffy but beloved golden retriever that no one really owns but everyone adores. Local businesses along Main Street feed her and set out water, and she’s often found at the beach, always ready to fetch a ball. The vet in town looks after her health for free. “I was walking along the shore one evening when she trotted up with it in her mouth. When I saw your name on it, I could hardly believe it.”
I nod, regaining my composure. “Remember that day? We all made wild guesses where our bottles would end up—some said India, others Peru. I joked mine would travel all around the world and finally return to Love Beach.” I’d always dreamed of leaving this small town to see far-off places—the military has provided, to a certain extent.
“Over the years, many of the bottles did wash back ashore, returning to Love Beach, like yours. I kept it because the color of the bottle complements the blues and greens of the painting on my mantel. I figured someday when you came back to Love Beach for good, I‘d give it back,” she explains.
The fact that my bottle landed here and in Gigi’s hands feels pretty damn significant—as if it were some sort of sign, the universe telling me what decision to make regarding the extension of my contract.
I pull the paper out. “Did you ever read what I wrote?” I ask, waving it gently.
“No. It was meant to be secret, remember? We wrote our messages in class and the teacher sealed them in the bottle immediately.”
“You’re not even a little curious?”
“Do you recall what you wrote?”
“Yep. Something about leaving Love Beach to see the world, but someday I’d come back and marry you.” I confirm by glancing at the paper.
“M-marry? What?” She snorts and steps back, surprised.
I roll the message back up, tucking it into my pocket. “Come on—I was just a kid with a crush.”
“On me? You only ever picked on me.”
“Yeah, G. Why do you think that was? I liked you,” I shrug. “Classic pre-adolescent boy behavior.”
She rests a hip on the couch and sighs. “I used to think you were just a bully.”
“Get real, I wasn’t a bully,” I scoff, though I catch her vulnerable eyes, telling another story. “Damn, G, that hurts that you’d think of me that way.”
“Good.” She retreats into the kitchen, dabbing at her eye with a finger. Did she really mistake my teasing as bullying? I hurry after her.
“G, I had no idea you felt that way. I just thought we teased and taunted each other because that was what we did as friends. I should have been honest with you about how I felt back then.”
“Why couldn’t you? You dated all the pretty girls, but to me, you were relentlessly mean.” She leans her back against the sink, facing me.
“I can hardly recall a single girl from school, but you—I could never forget.”
“Sure. If it weren’t for our friends and family ties, you’d have forgotten me, too.”
“Doubtful. I didn’t date you because… you were better than the rest. And I liked what we had, the constant challenges and competitions. I didn’t want to ruin it by getting soft with you. Back then, I didn’t know how to be in a partnership where we help each other grow in a kind and supportive way. I do now.”
“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.” She launches away from the sink and flounces out of the room. When I follow, I find her fiddling with her coat. I step in to help, holding it up so she can slip her arms in one at a time.
“I’m sorry, Gigi. For all the teasing, er, bullying, as you call it. I never intended to hurt you. I’d take it all back if I could, all the way to the sixth grade dance at Valentine’s. Only instead of mocking you with your hair all up in a twist like a cone, and calling you a conehead, I’d ask you to dance with me.”
She moves away from me and toward the bookshelf. For a moment, she sifts through a stack of albums while I stand there, hands stuffed in pockets and awkward, unsure of our next steps. So much has been unearthed between us.
After a brief search, she returns holding an old photo from that dance. “You mean this one where I really did look like a conehead?” A playful grin lights her face. I take the photo and look it over.
“Yep, that’s the one. A big red, beautiful conehead.” We both laugh, the tension easing. As we pause to catch our breaths, our eyes meet—melting together as if finally bridging the gap that had long separated us.
I feel a surge of yearning to pull her into my arms and kiss her fiercely. “Gigi…” I begin, my tone soft and pleading, but her mood shifts.
“We should go. It’s getting late.” She quickly gathers her things and heads for the door. I get the sense that while she met me halfway today, there’s still a long way to go before we fully close that divide.