Page 8 of Broad Shoulders

I came to see you.His words echo in my head. After a year of convincing myself our four nights together were meaningless, it’s hard to process that they clearly meant something more to him.

The truth I’ve been avoiding slips through my defenses: they meant something to me, too. Something I buried beneath the overwhelming reality of unexpected motherhood.

“Jackson,” I say softly, hoping to wake him without startling him.

He doesn’t stir.

“Jackson,” I repeat, a little louder.

Still nothing. This man sleeps like the dead.

I bite my lip, then reach out and touch his shoulder. The instant my fingers make contact with the solid muscle there, a jolt of awareness runs through me. My body remembers him—his touch, his warmth. The way he filled me over and over again.

“Jackson,” I say again, my voice unsteady.

He stirs, turning his face toward my hand. In his half-asleep state, he nuzzles his cheek against my arm, the stubble on his jaw creating a delicious friction against my skin.

I inhale sharply and pull my hand away. The contact breaks whatever dream held him, and his eyes flutter open.

“Alana?” He blinks, disoriented. Then clarity rushes back. “Is Kai okay?”

That immediate concern for our son sends an unexpected wave of warmth through me.

“He’s fine,” I say with a smile. “Sleeping peacefully.”

Jackson rubs a hand over his face and sits up straighter. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

“It’s okay. Taking care of a baby is exhausting.”

He looks around, seeming to notice the disaster zone for the first time. “Wow. I should clean this up.”

He rises to his full height, and I’m reminded again of just how big he is. Well over six feet of solid muscle, he makes my small living room feel even smaller. He starts gathering up blankets and toys, his movements still a little clumsy with sleep.

I join him, picking up the scattered contents of the diaper bag. “So how did it go?”

“Good. I think.” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “He cried for a bit after you left, but I figured out he just wanted to be held and walked around. Then he took the bottle no problem.”

“You got him to sleep in the crib?”

“Eventually. I read him a bunch of books first.” Jackson smiles sheepishly. “I know babies can’t understand stories yet, but he seemed to like the sound of my voice.”

The image of Jackson reading to our son makes my heart do a dangerous flip.

“How was your shift?” he asks, folding a baby blanket with surprising care.

“Same as always. Nothing exciting.” I don’t tell him how distracted I was all night, how I checked my phone constantly, how every minute felt like an hour. “Thank you for watching Kai. It was nice to give my mom the night off.”

“I’m sure she deserves a break,” Jackson replies before yawning widely. “Sorry.”

I laugh softly. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m okay.” He stifles another yawn. “I’d love to watch him again tomorrow night, if that works for you.”

“Only if you get some sleep between now and then,” I tease gently. “Babies can smell weakness.”

He chuckles. “I will. Promise.” He glances at his watch. “I should go.”

As he moves toward the door, he turns back. “I’m looking at a few rentals tomorrow afternoon. There’s a place on Makai Road and another on Pu’uwai Lane. Any thoughts?”

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