After getting ready, Jackson drove me to the hospital to grab the data sheets I’d left behind. He waited in the car, sunglasses in his hair, fingers tapping the wheel. When I returned, he leaned over to open the door, his warm, assured smile making my stomach flutter.
Next stop was the weekend markets. We ambled through rows of stalls, picking out fresh produce—fragrant basil, heirloom tomatoes, plump strawberries, artisan sourdough. I caught Jackson slipping a jar of honey into our basket when he thought I wasn’t looking.
After we loaded the bags into the boot of his R8, I laughed. “I don’t think your car’s ever seen this many vegetables.”
Jackson shrugged as he walked around to open my door like a perfect gentleman. “She’ll survive. She’s carried heavier burdens.”
“Like what? Your gy
