Chapter Twenty-Two
Rose
I stare out at the city lights, take a chug from the bottle of champagne I swiped during my quick getaway from the church, and swing my legs in the pool.
Bennet and Joe escorted Jackson back through the door they'd come in through, to the groom's room, I assume.
I told Jade to stay and enjoy the reception, and then I bolted like the coward I am.
Because what exactly was I supposed to say?
Sorry you got jilted at the altar. How about that shagging we've been needing?
Fuck. I think I'm a little tipsy.
I take another chug and consider the fact that I may also be a horrible human being, because I'm sitting here happy that Jackson's heart got broken today.
What kind of person is that? What kind of woman watches a bride walk out on the man she loves and has to fight down something that feels obscenely like relief?
Except, and I make myself examine this honestly because that's the bullshit deal I have with myself now, I don't think it's his pain I'm happy about. Watching his face when she pressed that ring into his hand actually hurt. I felt it from the fifth row and wanted to go to him immediately.
It's the door.
I put on my nicest dress and walked into that cathedral to watch a door close forever, and instead I watched a woman I barely know refuse to hold it shut for me.
Which doesn't make it mine to walk through. A canceled wedding isn't an invitation. He just lost a fiancée in front of an audience full of people; the last thing that man needs tonight is the woman his whole disaster orbits around showing up with feelings and champagne breath.
So I fled to a pool instead. Very healthy. Dr. Campbell will be thrilled during our visit next week.
I take another drink and let my legs drift through the lit water while my brain hosts the world's shittiest committee meeting.
I'm guilty. I'm hopeful. I'm sad for him.
I'm relieved for myself. I still want him so badly it's embarrassing, and none of those things seem interested in canceling each other out.
Fine.
Tomorrow can sort that shit out.
"Fancy meeting you here."
"Ugh. Fuck you, universe!" I hold the champagne bottle up to the night sky. "Now I'm hearing his voice!"
Jackson chuckles behind me. "Nope. It's really me."
I whip around so fast I nearly baptize myself in the pool, and there he is. Jackson. Flip-flops, swim trunks, towel slung over one shoulder, hair down.
Well, hello there, abs. Oh, how I've missed you.
The thought arrives before any of the appropriate ones. Are you okay? What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to become somebody's husband an hour ago? All very responsible questions.
Instead: abs. Champagne Rosalie has priorities.
He's watching me have this entire internal event. I can tell because one corner of his mouth is doing that thing.
"You gonna share that bottle, or is this a private party?"
"Get your own." I turn back around and take another chug.
It's my champagne. I stole it fair and square.
"Based on the available evidence, my guess is there's not a lot left."
"Your guess would be correct. But there are three more bottles in the bag on that chair. And I'm not a thief. I was going to pay for them."
He laughs as he crosses the deck, pulls a bottle from the bag, and pops the cork one-handed with a lazy ease that makes my thighs clench underwater where he can't see.
God, I hope he can't see.
"And who exactly did you plan to pay?"
"I hadn't thought that far ahead. Why are you being so judgy?"
"No judgment."
He lifts the bottle and takes a long, slow pull, his eyes never once leaving mine over the glass.
Asshole.
He knows exactly what he's doing because I taught him what he's doing.
"I'm sorry that happened to you today, Jax."
"Whew." He lowers the bottle. "You must be tipsy if you're bringing out the big guns. Jax? Damn, girl."
"Jackson has too many syllables, and I don't only call you that when I'm drunk."
“Whatever you need to tell yourself." He takes another pull and steps into the pool, the water climbing his thighs. "And I'm fine. But thank you for saying it."
"You're welcome."
"How's it been, being around James?" He settles onto the underwater ledge an arm's length away. Close, not closing. "He seems like a really cool kid. Had me laughing my ass off all day last time we were at Bennet's."
"He's amazing. God, we have so much to catch up on. But yeah, he's so great. He accepted me right off. Stayed the weekend with me that same night, and we talked for hours. Days. About everything." I can't stop smiling now, and I don't even try. "He told me I'm a badass. He said I was pretty."
My voice goes small on the next part despite my best efforts.
"He likes me, Jackson."
My eyes water, and I scowl at the bottle in my hand.
Fucking champagne.
"That's beautiful, Rose. I'm really happy for you. Both of you."
"Thanks." I wipe beneath my eyes before my mascara decides to join the evening's list of casualties. "What are you doing out here? Have you talked to Rian since the altar?"
"I didn't have it in me to stay at the reception, but I demanded everyone else stay and enjoy the food.
Samson didn't cook all week for nothing.
" He rolls the bottle between his palms. "And yeah, I spoke to Rian after.
It was amicable, believe it or not. She made the right decision for herself, and I can't fault her for a second of it.
She's taking the honeymoon alone. Going to find herself a pool boy, she said.”
He runs a hand through his hair and takes another long pull of champagne.
"Why did she do it?"
He's quiet for a moment before he looks down at the bottle. "I didn't give her much choice, Rose. I fucked it all up."
"I'm so sorry."
And I mean it. Cleanly this time, without needing to inspect the sentiment for hidden contaminants. Whatever door this opened for me, I hate seeing him hurt. I've always hated seeing him hurt.
"Don't be." He looks out at the water instead of at me. "It's for the best."
"I can give you some space. You came out here for a reason."
"I don't need space from you, Rose. Quite the opposite, actually."
Then he looks at me, and fuck, I know that look well enough to know whatever comes next is going to require more sobriety than I currently possess.
"What did you mean that day outside Bennet's place?"
Please don't go there. I need my head on straight for that conversation, and my head is currently three-quarters of a bottle deep and doing the backstroke.
"I don't remember," I say far too quickly, then reach for his bottle and take a pull straight from it, which may have been a tactical error considering how dark his eyes just went.
His mouth was there. Now mine is there. And judging by the way he's staring at my lips, we both just did that math in real time. Fuckshit.
"Liar."
"Nuh uh." I shake my head, because twenty years of legal training and the best defense I can mount is nuh uh. Very mature, counselor.
"Rosalie."
Oh no. Full name. Abort, abort.
"Jackson."
"The truth."
"The truth."
He takes a step closer through the water, and his eyes make the slow trip from my face to the dress floating loose around my thighs before coming back up. I don't need to look down to know what my nipples are doing. Traitorous little bitches.
"That's not an 'I just got left at the altar a few hours ago' conversation, Jax. It's a 'let's revisit tomorrow under less inebriated conditions' conversation."
"Then what should we discuss?" He takes another step, and my thighs part like a fucking welcoming party.
Oh, for fuck's sake. Could we have a little dignity?
His eyes drop, catching the movement, but he doesn't say a word. He just takes the bottle back and drinks, eyes never leaving mine as he closes the last of the distance until he's nearly seated between my open thighs.
"More?" He tilts the bottle toward me.
I reach for it, but he gives me a slow shake of his head.
"Open."
Well. That's a tone I remember.
My lips part and my head tips back. His eyes stay fixed on my mouth as he pours the champagne over my tongue. Some spills past the corner of my lips, running down my chin and throat, and then his tongue follows it in one slow pass from my collarbone to my jaw.
Every nerve I own reports for duty at once.
"You never answered my question, Rosalie." His voice is low against my ear. "What should we discuss?"
I know exactly what I need to ask him. Two questions have been sitting underneath every other question since I came home, and with him this close, I don't need tomorrow or sobriety or the long version anymore.
"Did you love her?"
"Never."
"Did you stop loving me?"
"Fucking never."
It comes out rough against my throat, and that's it. That's the whole conversation I was saving for sober. Two questions, two answers, everything I actually needed to know delivered in under ten words. The rest is just paperwork.
"Then I don't want to discuss anything."
I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back with the force I've been aching to use for over a year. His whole body shudders at the pull, and fuck, I know that response. I know exactly what he wants from me.
"Make me come on your fingers," I tell him. "Like my good fucking boy."