First Surrender (Chance Encounters #3)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Natalie

I wake to an empty bed but I welcome the privacy. Today is a new day but I don’t know what that means for me and Jackson. Are we going to pretend like it never happened?

Are we friends now?

There are too many questions and not enough answers in my mind. There never are.

Rolling out of the king-size bed is painful only because I think I could sleep for two more days. My cramps have subsided and after a quick bathroom stop, the bleeding seems to be done as well. It’s as if it never happened at all.

Except that it did and I’ll forever hold the memory of being a mom for six weeks. Having a little piece of Jackson.

There’s a weight on my heart thinking that it might be all I’ll have. He’s proven that he’s a kind man, but that doesn’t mean I deserve him. He has more options out there than me, a girl with no job, a brother to take care of, and a boatload of childhood trauma.

Voices draw me out to the kitchen but I stop short and listen before they see me.

“I thought you knew what you were doing?” Jackson asks.

“I do. Natalie does this all the time and I watch her,” Dec replies.

“But you haven’t actually done it?”

“No, I’m only 7.”

“You’ll be 8 in three days,” he states dully. I’m pleased that he remembered Dec’s birthday.

“You’re like 40,” Dec counters.

I have to cover my mouth to stop from laughing out loud.

“Take that back. I’m 32.”

I peak just in time to see Dec shrug. They’re making pancakes. Or, attempting to.

“Does she even like chocolate chips?” Jackson asks and is met with silence. “Am I going to have to make another batch?” Dec only shrugs, again.

“I like chocolate chips,” I announce myself, saving him from his cooking-induced panic attack. They both turn to me, smiling wide, and it’s quite the welcome. I’ve never walked into a room and felt such… Belonging.

“We’re making you breakfast!” Dec announces proudly.

“I see that. Thank you. Do you need help?”

“Jackson does,” Dec whispers but it’s heard loud and clear.

“Hey,” Jackson scoffs in betrayal.

“Here, let me help before you burn them.” I lower the heat on the burner and bump them both out of the way with my hips. Dec takes off and bounces onto the couch but Jackson stays next to me. Very close.

“How are you feeling?” His words are meant to be discreet but his nearness sends a chill down my spine regardless.

“I’m good as new.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m still sad, but I do feel way better than I thought I would. “Thanks to you,” I admit, softly.

His smile spreads slowly across his face and it makes me smile but I look back toward the pan to hide it.

“Glad you’re back, fireball.” He sneaks a kiss against my hair and steps away to gather plates and utensils.

Little actions like that are too confusing for me. I like it but it scares the hell out of me. The second I believe that he’s the real deal everything will disappear. It always does.

“The apartment fire was not my fault. I don’t know why you call me that.” I feign annoyance. In reality, I’m starting to like all the little nicknames he gives me.

“That is not why I call you that.” He laughs from inside of the fridge, fetching the butter.

“Why, then?” I’m plating the pancakes and can’t look up but I sense his amusement. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Maybe someday.”

“You are such a pain in the as-”

“Are the pancakes done?” Dec interrupts and cuts off my insult to Jackson. An insult that does not hit its mark because he just winks at me.

“He looks like you now,” I comment about Dec’s hair for the first time since our big fight. It’s short on the sides, and longer on top. The blonde isn’t as bright anymore, now it’s darker and more similar to Jackson’s.

“Is that bad?” The big twin asks.

“No, it’s not bad.”

“Did you just compliment me?”

“Um, no. He just looks like a teenager now, not my baby brother.”

Jackson isn’t the worst person in the world to look like but I’m not ready to say nice things like that to his face.

As the day progresses we go back to our usual routine. I do my thing, he does his, and Dec bounces around the house like a maniac. Our only conversation is surface level and in the safety of the kitchen. I don’t know how I’m supposed to handle my feelings toward Jackson now that they’re taking over my thoughts.

I need to pick a fight with him so I can distract myself from all the “what are we” questions in my head.

I won’t fight with him unless he starts it first. Then I’ll win for sure.

“What’s for dinner?” Dec asks.

“I don’t know, what does it smell like? What kind of music am I listening to?” This is our usual game. I make him work for it to challenge his brain a little bit.

I’ve always loved feeling the culture while I cook, imagining that one day it would click and one of them would feel right. I could find a small way to connect with my unknown heritage.

“It’s spaghetti,” he states with confidence.

“It’s not spaghetti, but close.”

“Lasagna!”

I smile at his correct answer. “Yep, where do you think lasagna comes from? Think about the music.”

“It’s Italiano!” He shouts enthusiastically, pinching his fingers and thumb together in that stereotypical way that I know he learned on TV somewhere.

“Good job, Dec,” Jackson says, startling me. I didn’t realize he was watching the interaction. He snuck in and sat on one of the barstools without me noticing.

He gives me that knowing look, pointing out the secret conversation that he and I are the only ones in the world who know about.

“Dec, go wash your hands,” I tell him like I do every day, regretting it as soon as he leaves the room. Jackson studies me and my heart rate picks up. His eyes cover me inch by inch, from my head to my toes.

“I like you in my shirt.” His voice is low and husky, it makes my toes curl. I changed into shorts earlier, but I’m still wearing the t-shirt he put on me last night. I’m not wearing a bra because I hardly ever do, my chest isn’t big enough to need one unless I’m out in public. Sometimes even then I skip one.

I probably should wear a bra if my nipples are going to react every time he speaks to me because he notices. He definitely notices.

I should turn around or cross my arms to cover my chest, but part of me is still too stubborn to back down first.

“It’s an okay shirt.” I shrug, instead. His eyes narrow and I see the challenge in them, and it turns me on beyond belief. Part of me wishes the kitchen island wasn’t between us but a bigger part is glad for the distance.

The oven beeps, distracting me from our standoff just as Dec comes back into the room. Jackson and I go back to avoiding eye contact, or at least I do.

We eat and close out the evening as usual until I’m suddenly lying in bed, staring at my ceiling. The normalcy of the day is long gone from my mind and in its place is bounds of negativity.

My guilt, my failures, and my loss.

There’s a gaping hole in my heart that can only be healed by time, but I’m too impatient to accept that. Women have miscarriages. I had a miscarriage and I have to move on. Except, I’m not ready to. I’m not ready to be alone again.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m silently braving my way down the hallway toward Jackson’s room. It’s dark through the crack in his door and I don’t know if he usually leaves it open or if I’m taking it as an invitation, but I enter quietly in case it’s not.

He seems to be sleeping soundly with the blankets wrapped around his waist and his arms tucked under the pillow, beneath his head. His muscles have muscles and I never thought the overt masculinity was something that I was into, but apparently it is.

The warmth in my belly cannot be mistaken for anything other than scorching attraction, which is a nice reprieve from the pit of cold sorrow I felt moments ago.

He doesn’t stir as I climb onto his bed, settling along the edge in case I need to make a quick escape.

The air feels lighter in here, the atmosphere isn’t so suffocating and relief washes over me because I might actually get some rest tonight.

A sigh escapes me as I nuzzle into the pillow and shut my eyes, willing sleep to come. Except, almost immediately an arm latches around my waist, dragging me backward across the sheets.

It’s so comically simple to accomplish that I don’t fight it as he tucks me against his body. His slow and steady breathing resumes over my head, distracting me from my uncertainties, and lulling me unconscious before I can worry about what all of this means.