Chapter Twenty-Three
Rose
Michael's apartment door is slightly ajar when I make my way down the hall, laughter and conversation spilling into the corridor before I even reach it. I pause outside and take a steadying breath, then immediately get annoyed with myself for needing one.
I'm nervous.
Ridiculous.
I smooth my hands down the sides of my dress, check my reflection in the brass number mounted beside the door, and step inside.
It is not my intention to make an entrance. Unfortunately, I make one anyway.
The conversation doesn't stop all at once. It happens gradually, attention shifting person by person until the room collectively realizes someone new has arrived. Heads turn, sentences trail off, and several people blink at me with absolutely no attempt to hide it.
Then I find Jackson.
Or rather, Jackson finds me.
He's halfway through a drink when he looks up, and the glass stops at his lips. For a moment he just stares at me mid-swallow, which proves disastrous when the whiskey goes down the wrong pipe.
"Holy..." He coughs violently, one hand flying to his chest. "Fuck."
The reaction is so immediate I almost laugh.
Almost. Instead, an embarrassingly satisfying little spark settles in my chest because I fucking love the reactions I pull out of that man.
I stood in my closet for twenty minutes debating whether my signature leather dress and choker were too much for tonight.
Question answered.
"Are you okay, Jacks..."
Michael starts toward him from across the room, then his attention lands on me and the sentence dies.
"What the fuuuuuck, Rose?"
He changes direction so abruptly he nearly takes out an end table, vaulting the back of the couch and somehow snatching a jacket off the cushions in the same motion. By the time he reaches me, he's holding it spread in front of my body like a matador who's deeply confused about his assignment.
"Whatcha..." He gestures vaguely with the jacket. "Whatcha wearing there, sis?"
I take one neat step backward before he can cover me and give him the look. The look. The same one I've been giving him since he was fifteen and trying to explain why putting a dirt bike on the roof of our garage had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.
"A dress, dear brother."
"That's not a..." His eyes make the mistake of dropping, then shoot straight back to my face. "Rose."
"I have a date with a jilted groom." I pat his cheek. "Put the jacket down."
"But it's leather," he whispers, horrified.
"Yes. I was aware of that when I tried it on and purchased it."
"There are people here."
"I noticed that as well."
"Men, Rose. Men are here."
I stare at him. "I'm familiar with the concept."
Behind him, somebody snorts.
Michael spins toward the room. "Nobody asked any of you."
I step around him before he decides to throw the jacket over my head and feel Jackson's eyes find me again. I don't need to look to confirm it. I can feel the stare from across the room.
"Hi, everyone."
"Fucking hell, Rosalie."
Jenn waddles in from the back of the apartment, both hands resting on her belly, wearing a glow only she could pull off. Pregnancy suits her in a way that feels genuinely unfair to the rest of humanity.
"You look fucking phenomenal." She gives me another slow inspection. "Now I'm horny all over again."
I laugh and wrap her up carefully. "You're always horny, Jenn."
"I really am. This baby has absolutely ruined me."
"Baby, you were always horny long before you got pregnant." Joseph materializes behind her and delivers one decisive slap to her ass. "Own it." Then he looks at me over her shoulder. "Hey, Rosie. You do look stunning."
"Thank you, Joe."
"I said that too," Michael grumbles from somewhere behind me.
"No, you tried to dress me."
"Same sentiment."
I make my rounds, and once I've greeted everyone, I head straight for the kitchen and claim a glass of wine off the counter.
I drink half of it standing right there because only now, safely behind the island, do I feel remotely equipped to deal with the fact that I deliberately dressed like this in front of Marcus Jackson.
Or, more accurately, for Marcus Jackson.
Fine.
The truth is, I made a conscious effort not to stare when I walked in. I was aiming for maturity. Dignity. The emotional composure expected of a woman my age who has spent the last year doing an obscene amount of work on herself.
Unfortunately, Marcus Jackson makes dignity difficult.
Because fuck, he looks good.
He chose a black T-shirt for our first official date, which shouldn't be noteworthy except the damn thing is stretched across his shoulders and thick arms in a way that feels deliberately antagonistic.
Dark jeans sit low on his hips, his hair is loose again, and he's sitting there with one ankle over his knee watching me over the rim of his glass.
Jackson has always been attractive. Even at nearly twenty-one, the night we first slept together, he was devastatingly handsome.
But Jackson at thirty-one is worse. The man grew into himself, filled out, picked up the beard, the confidence, the irritating ability to sit completely still while making me feel like I'm the one being inappropriate.
It is deeply annoying.
And hot.
Also annoying.
His eyes drop briefly to my dress before coming back to mine.
Shall we? he mouths.
I nod and finish the rest of my wine because I am an adult making excellent choices.
Jackson gets to his feet, and then we're saying our goodbyes while the entire room behaves like we're teenagers leaving for prom.
Blaire is grinning. Jenn is already emotional about something.
Michael keeps looking at my dress with the pained expression of a man trying very hard to forget his sister owns breasts.
Then Joe pulls out his phone.
"Wait, wait. Stand together."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jackson says, laughing.
"First date picture."
"We're adults, Joseph," I tell him.
"Exactly. You're all grown up."
Jackson steps beside me anyway, his hand reaching around and settling against my lower abdomen for the picture.
And there it is.
That hand.
I straighten my shoulders and smile at Joe's phone like my entire nervous system didn't just perk up and yell welcome back.
The fucker.