Chapter Three
~ Cruz ~
I woke before him, the way I always did. Five-thirty, the room was still dark except for the thin line of gray light cutting between the curtains. Jackson was solid against my side, one arm flung across my chest, his breathing slow and even.
I didn’t move. Didn’t want to risk waking him when we’d finally fallen asleep sometime after two, his head on my chest, my hand still in his hair.
I’d gotten better at staying still in bed.
Six months ago, I would have been up the moment my eyes opened—body in motion before my brain caught up, the product of too many years sleeping in places where stillness meant death.
But something about having Jackson beside me made it easier to lie there, watching the light change, memorizing details I’d carry with me when I left.
The sharp line of his jaw, even in sleep.
The small scar at his temple I’d noticed the first night and traced with my tongue the second.
The way his hair fell across his forehead when he slept on his back, how it curled just slightly at the ends when it was damp from the shower.
The weight of him, solid muscle that relaxed completely when he finally let go.
The silver bracelet already sitting on the nightstand where I’d placed it the night before, because I’d learned early that he couldn’t sleep with anything on his wrists.
I’d memorized all of it—the physical details, the way he took his coffee, the exact moment his expression shifted when he was thinking instead of just reacting.
I’d filed it all away, the same way I’d memorized room layouts and exit strategies and the safe combination to an arms dealer’s office in Damascus. Habit, maybe. Or something else I wasn’t ready to name.
When I was sure he was deep enough in sleep that the mattress shifting wouldn’t wake him, I eased away from his side, keeping my movements slow and controlled. He stirred, one hand reaching for me in the space I’d left, but didn’t wake.
The room was cold—I’d turned the heat down before we fell asleep, the two of us generating enough body heat to keep the bed plenty warm—and I grabbed the sweatpants I’d left on the chair, pulling them on without turning on a light. I’d gotten good at navigating unfamiliar spaces in the dark.
The desk phone was where I’d left it the night before. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number for room service I’d memorized from the hotel directory, keeping my voice low when they answered.
“Room 412. I’d like to order breakfast.” I rattled off the order—eggs, toast, coffee, fruit—without looking at the menu. I’d already decided what Jackson would want based on the three hotel breakfasts we’d shared before.
“Twenty minutes,” the voice on the other end said, and I hung up, glancing at the bed to make sure Jackson was still asleep.
He was, one arm now stretched across the space where I’d been, his face turned toward the empty side of the bed. Something in my chest twisted at the sight, a feeling I wasn’t going to examine before coffee.
I moved to the bathroom, closing the door behind me before turning on the light.
The mirror showed a man who’d slept maybe four hours—dark circles under my eyes, stubble along my jaw, hair standing up on one side where Jackson’s hand had been.
I looked like I’d been thoroughly fucked, which I had, and like I’d enjoyed it, which I definitely had.
I showered fast—two minutes under hot water, another thirty seconds of cold to shock my system awake—then dried off and dressed in the clothes I’d laid out the night before: jeans, Henley, boots, the same outfit I’d wear if I was heading to the airport or a firefight.
The only difference was the gun I’d normally have strapped to my hip was in the safe in my bag.
Packing took another two minutes—toiletries rolled into the spare shirt at the bottom of the bag, laptop and charger in the padded pocket, the small wooden box wrapped carefully in a T-shirt and placed where it wouldn’t get crushed. I zipped the bag and set it by the door, then checked the time.
Eighteen minutes since I’d called. Room service would be here in two.
Jackson was still sleeping when I slipped back into the bedroom, but he stirred as I moved around, gathering his clothes from where they’d landed the night before and folding them into a neat stack on the chair.
His eyes opened when I set his boots by the door, tracking my movement across the room with the kind of alertness that came from years of sleeping with one eye open.
“You’re dressed,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. He pushed himself up against the headboard, the sheet pooling around his waist, leaving his chest bare.
I nodded, moving to the coffee maker in the corner of the room.
“Food’s ready,” I said, keeping my voice flat, my face neutral.
I’d learned the hard way what happened when I stopped managing my expression around Jackson—how my eyes lingered on the curve of his shoulder, how my mouth softened when he laughed, how something in my chest went tight when he looked at me a certain way.
He was watching me, his head tilted slightly, like he was trying to read something in my face. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Six-fifteen.” I poured coffee into two mugs, added sugar to his, and carried both to the nightstand. “You’ve got time.”
He took the mug with a nod of thanks, his fingers brushing mine in a way that shouldn’t have sent heat up my arm but did. “You meeting someone?” he asked, the question casual in a way that didn’t match the careful way he was watching me.
“I’ve got a flight,” I said, which was true but not the whole truth. “At ten.”
He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “Billings to where?”
“Frankfurt,” I said, then added, because I couldn’t help myself, “then Minsk.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I said, the word automatic. Sterling had been clear: this was off the books, deniable, the kind of operation that happened in the gray spaces between what was legal and what was necessary. The kind of thing I didn’t talk about, not even to Jackson.
He must have heard something in my voice, because he nodded again and changed the subject. “Smells good,” he said, nodding toward the covered plates on the small table by the window.
We ate in relative silence, Jackson working his way through eggs and toast while I picked at fruit and drank coffee. I watched him across the rim of my cup, tracking the moment he registered that I was holding something back and decided, with visible relief, not to push for it.
That relief hit me wrong—a twist in my chest that made it hard to breathe for a second. Part of me wanted him to push. Wanted him to demand answers, to insist on knowing where I was going and why and when I’d be back.
Wanted him to care enough to make it difficult.
But that wasn’t the deal we’d made. We’d agreed on no questions, no expectations, no messy feelings to sort through. We showed up, we fucked, we went our separate ways. Simple. Clean. The kind of arrangement two grown men could manage without complications.
Except I was already complicating it.
I set down my coffee and reached for my bag, pulling out the small velvet pouch I’d tucked into the side pocket. Jackson was watching me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, curiosity written across his face.
“I got you something,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended. I slid the pouch across the table, watching as he set down his fork and picked it up.
“What’s this?” he asked, already working the drawstring open.
“Just open it,” I said, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
He upended the pouch into his palm, and the silver bracelet slid out, catching the light from the window. It was simple—a flat band about half an inch wide, polished to a soft shine—but the design etched into the surface was anything but.
I’d spent weeks tracking down a jeweler who could recreate the label from the bottle of wine Jackson had made me try the second time we’d met—the one with his name on it, the one he’d been working on for years.
Jackson’s fingers traced the pattern—the stylized “J” that stood for Jaxon, the name he used for his wine. His expression shifted, suspicion giving way to something softer as he read the engraving.
“Jaxon,” he said, his voice quiet. “You had this made?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I’d had “mi amor” engraved on the other side, but I hadn’t turned it that way. Jackson wasn’t there yet—might never be—and I wasn’t willing to watch him flinch at the words.
He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist, the metal bright against his skin. “It’s perfect,” he said, and the way he was looking at me—like I’d given him something he hadn’t known he wanted—made my chest tight.
“There’s more,” I said, reaching for my bag again. This time I pulled out the wooden box—small, polished to a warm glow, the kind of thing that looked like it belonged in a museum. “From Belize,” I added, my voice deliberately casual. “Thought you might like it.”
He took the box with careful hands, turning it over to examine the carving on the lid—a vine pattern that had caught my eye the moment I’d seen it. “What’s in it?” he asked.
“Open it,” I said again.
He did, working the small brass clasp with his thumbnail. The box opened on silent hinges, revealing the packet of seeds nestled inside—tiny, dark, each one no bigger than the head of a pin.
Jackson’s breath caught. “These are—“
“Merlot seeds,” I finished for him. “From the vineyard outside San Ignacio. The ones you mentioned.”
He was staring at the seeds, then at me, his expression open with surprise and something close to wonder. “I only mentioned that once,” he said. “Months ago.”