“Mom, can I get some nachos? I saw some on the way in, and they lookedreallygood,” Jackson pleads.
“You’re hungry again already?” she asks, her eyebrows arching.
Jackson nods.
“Then, sure.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “If Gio doesn’t mind.”
I chuckle. “Not at all. I’ll be right back.”
“Can I come?” Jackson asks, hopping back up. “You know, to help carry stuff,” he suggests, like I might not agree to it otherwise.
“As long as your mom doesn’t mind being left to fend for herself,” I tease, glancing up to meet her eyes.
“I’ll hold down the fort,” she agrees.
Jackson and I head back toward the concession stands, and I keep a close eye on him as he strides proudly beside me.
He’s been talking nonstop about tonight ever since I invited them to the game, and I love how well I hit the nail on the head finding something he would enjoy.
The crowd around us thickens, the flow of traffic moving against us, and Jackson falters as his confidence wanes.
When he steps closer to me, reaching for my hand so he won’t get lost in the crowd, my heart feels like it might explode.
I close my fingers around his tiny palm, a deep, instinctual desire to protect him surging through me.
It hasn’t come up again since my second first date with Stephanie, but it’s moments like this that make me know, without a shadow of doubt, that I want to be in their lives.
It doesn’t matter to me who Jackson’s biological father is. If Stephanie doesn’t need to know, neither do I.
I already love Jackson like he’s my own son because I love Stephanie with every fiber of my being, and Jackson is half of her—plus he’s one of the coolest kids I’ve ever met.
“Where’d you see those nachos?” I ask, leading him toward a less crowded part of the mezzanine so he won’t feel quite so overwhelmed.
“Um.” Jackson looks around, then his face lights in a victorious smile as he jabs a finger toward the nachos stand. “There!”
We wait in line, Jackson talking animatedly about the cool tricks he’s learned in soccer lately.
Then, when it’s our turn, I encourage him to order his nachos—and a Coke, which I hope Stephanie will be okay with Jackson drinking.
I order two lagers, and as we wait for the concession worker to put it all together, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
When I pull it out, the caller ID tells me it’s one of the investigators my family has always kept close connections with.
My pulse quickens, and I glance at the concession worker then Jackson.
“Can I leave you in charge of paying for our order while I take a quick call?” I ask. “Just have her set it off to the side, and we can grab it in a second.”
“Sure,” Jackson says, taking on his responsibility with all the gravity of someone being sworn in to the Oval Office as I hand him my credit card.
With a smile, I step away—just a few feet so he won’t hear me but close enough that I can still keep an eye on him.
“Hey, Howard. What’ve you got for me?” I ask, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Well, to be frank, not a whole lot,” he says, voice bland with frustration.
I was afraid of that, but I’m not ready to give up.
In my free time, since my brothers have given me their blessing to step down as Don, I’ve started to do some digging intoStephanie’s past—to try and find her hospital records and get to the bottom of what happened to her after she was taken.
