Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 20
JACKSON
We embrace the whole boat ride home. I kiss the top of her head, inhale the scent of her hair, and gently rub my hands over her back. Always, the desire is there, thick, roaring, begging me to claim her. Hard. Over and over and over…
But something is going on here. Inside her head, within that caring heart, there’s a whole drama I know nothing about. I want to, but it’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it. But maybe I can settle for making her smile.
“How about a diner trip instead?” I say.
She looks up at me doubtfully. “Can we go to a diner, really?”
I grind my teeth. I’m starting to get seriously sick of this celebrity stuff.
“I’m not a major celebrity,” I tell her. “I get photographed sometimes, but not all the time. How often are you recognized?”
“Once or twice a month,” she murmurs. “This city’s a big place. It’s not like everybody watches gaming streams.”
“Exactly. And it’s not like everybody reads tech news. We’ll drive outside the city, find a quiet trucker’s diner or something like that.”
Her face lights up at this far more than at the real cove. Maybe I should be hurt, offended. I’ve been liaising with a top-tier event planner all week, installing the emerald shimmer on the rock face, expanding the cave, installing the custom bed, and lighting.
But seeing her smile is all I need. Maybe we’ll go to the cove one day. Maybe not. Right now, it’s enough to see her happy.
“A diner would be great,” she murmurs.
“Something simple,” I say, looking closely at her.
She nods. “Something regular people do. I mean—a love-bomber doesn’t take his prey to a diner, right?”
I brush hair behind her ear. I love doing that because she tilts her head every time, just a little, moving toward my touch. A physical reflex that goes beyond all this emotional complexity. I’m able to savor the moment even if her words are like a cold slap in the face.
“I’m not trying to love bomb you,” I tell her sincerely.
“I know, I know,” she rushes to say. “I didn’t mean—you.”
“Who, then?”
“Are we docking soon?” She murmurs, turning away.
I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment. I told you about my mother. I’ve never shared that with anyone except Pete. But what would I gain by throwing that in her face?
I join her, wrapping my arm around her. “I think so. Time for our dinner adventure.”
She laughs, looking up at me with the setting sun glimmering in her eyes.
“I’m grateful, by the way,” she murmurs. “For the cove. For the effort. It’s just…”
“Stuff?” I say.
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Stuff.”
I cup my hands around my mouth and bellow up at the sky. “Fuck you, stuff!”
She laughs in delight. “You’re crazy.”
I yell, “Leave Dakota alone, stuff.”
She rushes forward and pulls my hands down. “You’re going to make them call out the coast guard.”
I sweep her into my arms. “For a streamer, you’re kind of shy.”
It’s easier like this, keeping it light, on the surface. But there’s no going back now. I saw a glimpse of the other side of her, and I want to see more.
When we hit land again, I tell the limo driver to head toward the outskirts of the city, maze-like streets turning to highway, then long stretches of open road. We stop at a diner with one eighteen-wheeler outside, two tumbleweeds blowing by, and three dozen cigarette butts scattered near the entrance.
Inside, the trucker sits at the far end of the bar, sipping coffee. A waitress wipes down a table in slow motion.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Dakota asks, squeezing my hand.
“We’ll soon find out,” I reply.
“Should we stop holding hands?” she murmurs.
“Probably,” I admit. “But we’re not going to.”
She laughs, happy, sounding somehow carefree after everything. I’m learning that Dakota isn’t a big-gestures sort of woman. And she clearly doesn’t like pressure, at least when it comes to relationships. When it comes to her career, her streaming schedule is often high-pressure enough to create diamonds. To create her.
The trucker doesn’t even look at us when we enter. The waitress glances up, frowns like she’s annoyed for customers daring to visit this lonely place, then returns to wiping down the same table.
“We’re nobodies,” Dakota whispers, like it’s the best thing a person can be.
“Completely irrelevant,” I agree with a grin.
We sit in the corner booth, around the edge of the bar, out of view of the main area of the diner. The waitress walks over a minute later, her tired face creased into an even deeper frown than when she first saw us. She looks confused by Dakota’s bright, happy expression. I swallow a laugh as Dakota beams up at her.
“What’s the best item on the menu?” she asks.
“Coffee’s only forty minutes old,” she replies. “And the pancakes won’t kill you.”