Chapter 8

The attached bedroom is massive. It’s adorned with satin sheets, a down duvet, and piles of pillows on the bed, not a room that would belong to a guy like Jackson. I walk into the giant closet, and it’s full of clothing, dresses, pants, pretty blouses, and so many shoes. My stomach turns, and the bile rises in the back of my throat. I’d met him at a sex club, a place where swingers go. He obviously has a wife or girlfriend, and this is their thing—bring home a plaything, have a little fun, and then discard her, even kill her. It isn’t like Jackson isn’t capable of that.

I open the drawer and avoid the underwear. There’s no way in hell I’m wearing some other woman’s panties. Disgusting. I slip on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and head into the kitchen. The aroma is mouthwatering.

One look at Jackson, and I feel like a Mack Truck has hit me. He’s so handsome that he takes my breath away. He’s no longer in the three-piece suit. Instead, he’s wearing jeans like me and a button-down black