Page 197 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

But that’s not Jackson’s style. He holds his hand out for me. When I reach the stand, the hostess smiles. “Have a nice dinner, Mrs. St. James.”

Taking Jackson’s hand, I pass her and reply, “Thank you.”

I follow them through the main dining room and farther down a hall of private rooms. We pass through a large doorway and enter an atrium bustling with more diners. It’s pretty with twinkling lights shining above like stars.

We’re shown our table against a wall of glass that overlooks a small garden on the other side. It’s so romantic with touches of greens and an iridescence to the glass tabletops. Jackson’s suspicions of the situation being more than business were confirmed

Our drink order is placed, and then Jackson lays the napkin across his lap and leans in. “Look at this place. Tell me that fucker didn’t have other plans in mind for you.”

I slide my hand across the table and hold it palm up. His gaze dips first, and then he places his hand over mine. “It doesn’t matter what his plans were. I’m here with you, exactly how it should be.”

He shifts forward. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing specific happened. I didn’t even make it to the lobby. I just realized that what I considered a great opportunity for my career was not going to be good for us. He seemed to be leaning in a different direction that felt more personal than business.” He knows without me going into the details.

He knew already.

Jackson’s not the kind of guy to be jealous out of nowhere. He sensed it. I should have too, as soon as Casteleone showed up at our door. I won’t trade my integrity for a promotion. It makes me mad that I was put in that position.

Jackson says, “I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

The sound of dishes being gathered and tables cleaned and the low hum of private conversation fill the atrium. It’s airy but small enough to feel invested in the experience. His grip on my hand tightens. “I’m sorry that you’ve worked so hard only to be in a position you felt you needed to protect yourself from.”

“You were right. He said business and then pleasure, and red flags flew up. I didn’t want to be sitting at a restaurant with him when I could be curled up at home with you.”

That smile that wins my heart every time joins the fun, and his hands angle up. “Best of both worlds?”

“I’d say so, charmer. Not sure how you got her to give us the reservation using your own name, but I’m grateful.”

“I didn’t want to lie.”

He may not have wanted to lie, but I drop this little nugget. “She called me Mrs. St. James.”

I’ve never seen him blush, and he doesn’t know, but he does appear a little bashful. Holding two fingers up, he winks. “Okay, a little lie.”

My heart feels bigger, more open wide around him. And he continues to fill me with so much goodness. “I don’t mind.”

The server returns and sets our glasses before us. As soon as we place our order and are alone again, I lift my champagne flute to tap to his glass. “To us.”

“To . . .” He pauses, and then smirks. “I love you.”

Our glasses tap together just as I say, “I love you.”

The liquid just coats my lips when I hear, “Marlow . . . honey?”

When my gaze shifts to the woman heading my way, I spew what little I sipped. “Mom?”

CHAPTER 20

Marlow

I’ve never spit in my life, and now I’m wiping dribbling champagne from my chin in the middle of a trendy Manhattan restaurant.

I’d recognize Talia Marché’s voice anywhere—the laid-back California pace mixing with the slightest of accent via France or Italy. It changes on an as-needed basis. But I can’t say I ever expected to run into her in New York City. I stand in a rush, my cloth napkin accidentally falling to the floor before I can catch it. “Mom?” I say again as if my eyes deceive me and my nerves are kicking in.

She walks over with shock embracing her own face. Others might not catch the expression before she rights it into a smile, but I’m the last person she expected to see. Otherwise, she would have sent a text or even a wire to let me know she was in the city.

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