Page 57 of Jackson
He leaned down, murmuring near her ear. “Not what, Melda?”
Tears stung her eyes. She wasn’t his Melda anymore, and still, he’d changed her irrevocably.
She was still keeping her apartment clean. Had made a dent in the boxes. Had started cooking instead of simply eating takeout.
At first, it had been a distraction. A way to keep herself busy, to keep from missing him.
But now?
Now she realized she was still trying.For him.
That night after Josh’s mother’s funeral, she’d been so sure—so certain—that she was going to fight for him.
And yet, three weeks later, what had she done?
Nothing.
She’d let her doubts creep in, let herself get stuck in her own damn head.
Where the hell did my spine go?
She shook herself, grabbed her soup, and headed back to her desk.
The burglary cases were still waiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jackson stared at the ceiling, his body heavy with exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come.
The apartment was too quiet—too empty.
He rolled over and grabbed the remote from the nightstand. With a few clicks,The Two Towersresumed on TV. The battle at Helm’s Deep was about to start—his favorite part. He’d watched it at least a dozen times during the past few weeks, trying to drown out the silence.
It didn’t work—nothingworked.
He flung aside the remote and scrubbed a hand down his face. It wasn’t the silence that bothered him. It was the absence.
Paula’s absence.
She used to sit on that damn couch, legs tucked under her, tossing popcorn at him every time he quoted the script. And she always made fun of his taste in movies, even though she never changed the channel when he put one on.
A flicker of something sharp twisted in his chest.
He missed her.
And not only as his submissive.
He missed her opinionated commentary, her sharp wit, the way she threw herself into things without hesitation. She didn’tdo anything by half measures. She either loved something or tore it apart with full dedication.
She’d done the same with him.
Jackson sighed and rolled onto his back. He wasn’t getting any sleep like this.
He pushed off the bed, grabbed a hoodie from the chair, and padded into the kitchen. The glowing numbers on the microwave mocked him—3:47 AM.
Great.
He pulled open the fridge. Beer, leftover takeout, eggs he hadn’t touched in days. Nothing looked good.
