“I meant what I said last night,” Jackson tells me. “About loving you? Wanted to make sure you didn’t think it was the trauma talking.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “It was me,” he adds. “I meant it.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling softly.
“So you can kiss me if you want,” he adds, and looks back athis own reflection. “I wouldn’t mind. It’s an open invitation.”
I laugh, heat racing to my cheeks. “Good to hear,” I reply, a hitch in my voice. “You know, if I decide I want to.”
“Glad I could clear that up.” He glances at me again in the mirror. “Just let me know if you need any encouragement.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He doesn’t look away this time, holding my eyes. He sets down his brush and starts to limp toward the bed, but I reach out to grab his arm. He turns, and then I’m kissing him, up on my tiptoes with my arms over his shoulders. Jackson nearly falls, but then he laughs and returns my kiss enthusiastically.
My hair is wet, soaking into the back of my T-shirt, but Jackson’s body is warm against mine. He pulls back, motioning behind him.
“Can we…? Can I…?” He points to the bed, and at first my heart races, but then I realize he needs to sit down before his leg gives out.
“Right,” I say, out of breath. “Yes.”
He sits on the edge of the bed before holding out his hand to me. I take it, and he draws me closer, staring up at me with the most intoxicating smile I’ve ever seen. I lean down and kiss him again.
This is nothing like the pictures in the magazine the girls and I read together at the academy. It’s nothing like the first time I was kissed by a stranger in front of a theater. With Jackson, it’s all slow and deliberate. It’s everything.
We continue this way until I climb onto his lap, curious aboutwhat will happen next. Just as his hand slides up the back of my shirt, there is a sharp knock on our hotel room door.
Jackson breaks our kiss, groaning before smiling up at me. “It’s Q,” he says. I climb off his lap and he looks at the door. “I don’t need any towels,” he calls out, making me laugh.
“Jackie, open the door,” Quentin responds.
Jackson and I exchange a fearful look, and I rush for the door. I slide open the metal lock and pull the door open to find both Quentin and Annalise waiting. Quentin nods hello before walking past me to talk to Jackson. When I turn back to Annalise, she pauses a moment, running her eyes over me.
Her red lips quirk up with a smile, wrinkling the skin around the scar. “Well, good morning, sunshine,” she says. “You seem to be having a nice time.” I’m not sure how, but I think she can tell that I was just kissing Jackson. She winks and walks into the room.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask, looking from Annalise to where Quentin is talking to Jackson.
“We’re hungry,” Annalise says. “Also, have you seen the news? There’s a pretty big story.”
Quentin grabs the remote from the dresser and clicks on the television. Annalise sits on my bed and pats the space next to her for me to join her. Quentin finds the news channel and turns up the volume.
On the bottom of the screen is a banner with a familiar name.
Hawke Fusillo found dead at age 56.
“Holy shit,” Jackson says, the earlier flush fading from his cheeks.
“Wild, right?” Quentin asks. “That’s the rich dude who’s always posting conspiracy theories online. Someone murdered him.”
Jackson doesn’t respond, continuing to watch the news banner as it trickles out details.
“No,” Annalise says to Quentin. “That’s another guy just like Hawke. Fusillo’s the one who built the last three space shuttles using his own private company. Although the last one was grounded. Lack of funding, I heard.”
“Where’d you hear that, space camp?” Quentin asks, making her smile.
Jackson and I are noticeably quiet, my heart pounding in my chest. Another investor is dead, and that makes three. The news program goes to a commercial before offering any more details.
Jackson turns to me, his eyes rounded. “That’s probably a bad sign,” he says.
“Do you think it’s connected?” I ask.
