That fades, though, when I pull a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head, and see the way that Jackson is looking at me, propped up on the bed on one elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

“I spoke with Amy this morning.”

I concentrate on stepping into my shorts—I’m dressing for the island, not the Tower—then look at him again. “Your attorney?” I ask, as if this is all news to me.

“I’m tired of leaving my little girl in limbo. I’ve asked Amy to get a court date. I want to bring Ronnie home.”

I zip up the shorts, then go to sit on the bed. “Good,” I say. “You’re her dad.”

I see the relief on his face, and know that I’ve said the right thing. “There’s more. Do you remember what we talked about at the airport?”

“Sure.” I’m proud of how normal my voice sounds.

“Did you mean what you said? Because I want to make it official.”

“Official?”

He nods. “If something happens to me, I want guardianship of Ronnie to go to you. I want Amy to amend the guardianship papers. You, not Megan, if something happens to me.”

“I—” I swallow, wanting to kick myself for hesitating for even an instant.

He notices, of course. “Yesterday, when I was being an ass about the paparazzi, what you said about believing I’d killed Reed. About staying with me no matter what.”

His words are choppy, and I take his hand.

“That drove it home for me,” he continues, more smoothly, and the knowledge that I’ve given him strength swells inside me. “How much I want you to be the one protecting her. Sticking with her. But I know it’s selfish of me, too, and if you don’t want that—”

“You were an ass about the paparazzi?” The question, voiced as a tease, slips out of me. I regret it immediately, but I’m latching on to anything but the real issue. Anything but the possibility that I will be raising a child alone.

“I was,” he says. “I was pissed and acting stupid and you were right. I need to avoid them, not taunt them. And when we do encounter them, I need to play Evelyn’s game and be polite and friendly. I hate it, but I’ll do it because I know it increases the odds that I won’t end up behind bars. That I’ll stay here with you. With Ronnie.”

Relief flutters through me. That, at least, is one thing I can stop worrying about.

“I’ll call Amy this morning and tell her not to change anything,” he says gently. “It’s too much to ask. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t—”

“No,” I blurt, gripping his hand tighter. “No, I’m sure. Of course I’m sure.”

And I am.

Despite my fears, I am absolutely certain.

Because what other choice do I have?

In Jackson’s world, there is him, there is his daughter, and there is me.

He loves me, I know that he does.

But if he ever has to make a choice, it is Ronnie that he will choose. Because unlike Jeremiah or my parents, Jackson is a good father. And for him, Ronnie’s welfare will always come first.

And as for me?

All I can do is make certain that is never a choice that he will have to make.

All I can do is take a tentative step toward the role of Mommy, and hope that I never have to play that role alone.

But am I taking that step because I love Jackson?

Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of losing him if I don’t?

fifteen

The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. “That smells amazing,” I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.

We’d come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn’t on the boat and had gone home to sleep—or to the Tower to camp out.

Now we’re getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.

Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I assume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. “I’m going to go check our position. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, then focus on my culinary task until he returns.

“Getting close,” he says. “Ten more minutes and I’ll take her off autopilot. But it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s take these up to the deck.”