Jackson and I ease back against his comfortable sofa and he searches for the remote control. For a moment, my thoughts zap back to Sylvia and Raymond. For years I watched them go through their nightly routine of lazily relaxing on the couch while watching shows. In a weird way, it was one of the things I envied the most about their lives. Just having that time to relax. To let their minds go numb and let the hardships of their day float away while they enjoyed each other’s company for a few hours. I was never allowed to sit on their furniture, let alone watch their television, so as Jackson grabs the remote and flicks his screen to life, a tingle of rebellion travels down my spine.

An advertisement for the new fall line-up of shows draws our attention as Jackson sinks back against the navy fabric covering the cushions and whistles. “I can’t believe tomorrow is the first day of October, can you? Where did the summer go?”

I sit taller, my muscles tensing. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.” The words fall out of my mouth, sounding every bit as surprised as I feel.

“What? No, it’s not.” Jackson casts a glance at me from the corner of his steely eyes with a half smirk on his face. “Wait, is it?” He looks startled as his full attention turns to me.

“It really is. I don’t care, though. I didn’t realize it was that time of year again.” I look down at my nails, fleeing from the intense curiosity written across Jackson’s raised eyebrows.

“You’re serious? You really forgot that tomorrow’s your birthday? How does that even happen? I had no idea!” He runs his broad palm down over the back of his neck and searches the room. “I don’t have a gift for you or anything.” He sounds so much more disappointed by that fact than I could ever feel.

“Yes, I’m serious. Jackson, listen.” I grab his hand, but I can see the wheels turning inside his head. Like he’s trying to figure out if it’s too late to run out to the store to buy something for me at the last minute. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I turned fifteen years old. It was my quinceañera, which is a big deal in Colombia. It’s when a girl becomes a woman.”

“So, kinda like a sweet sixteen then?”

“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “Do girls wear a beautiful pastel dress and a tiara for their sweet sixteen?” I honestly don’t know. I haven’t exactly been invited to a lot of American parties.

“Uh, no. Not usually. That sounds really elaborate.” Jackson watches me closely, waiting for me to continue, but my thoughts drift back to my fifteenth birthday. Memories of the happiest and most exciting night of my life flash through my head like a slow motion movie montage.

“My family started my day with fifteen helium heart-shaped balloons and my mother made me the most delicious Arepas.” I can almost taste the sweet cornbread pancake smothered in soft, white cheese melting on my tongue. I swear, I can almost smell the inviting home cooked breakfast. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

“That sounds sweet.” His hand slides over mine, enveloping it in warmth and strength.

“It was beautiful,” I agree. “I remember I was looking forward to finally getting to wear makeup. Up until then, my parents were very strict about it. I couldn’t even wear tinted lip gloss. I’d beg them to let me, you know, just for special occasions, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’d always told me to wait for my quinceañera. So, when I woke up that morning, that was the first thing on my mind.”

I remember how I stuffed my breakfast in my face, chewing as fast as I could, and raced downstairs where my mother had laid out my gorgeous, pillowy gown for that night. My parents both watched me with a twinkle in their aging eyes as I lifted the gown from the back of the chair and swirled it around the floor.

“Fifteen sounds like a good age. We should have the custom here too,” Jackson murmurs.

“That night, at the huge dance, all of my family and friends were there to celebrate.” I can feel the dewy humidity in the air as I close my eyes and recall the details that I haven’t allowed myself to remember in years. “I started the night out in flat shoes. It’s part of the tradition. It’s symbolic of starting out as a girl, but when my father slipped my high heels on and I stepped out onto the floor”—I sigh at the memory of the smiles and clapping as I twirled theatrically for the onlookers—“I felt like a princess.” I realize my eyes have softened with tears and I wipe them away quickly.

“It sounds magical.” Jackson squeezes my hand, hanging off my every word.

“It truly was.” I breathe out a quivering lungful of air and force my tears away. “Not long after that, my family was murdered. I was smuggled to America and brought to Sylvia’s house. I never had another birthday again. But I always had that memory. It was the best day I ever had and I got to share it with my family before they were taken from me. I’m just so grateful I at least had that one day with them.” I can’t stop the tears. I brush them away, but they just spring right back.

“Shhh, hey, come here.” Jackson pulls me into his thick chest and I can smell his musk as I bury my face and let the tears dry against his shirt. The warmth of his body, the hard ridge of his muscles, his manly scent, it all relaxes me. I sink into him, losing myself in his arms.

“Are you okay?” He grazes his thumb down the edge of my cheek as I lift my head and meet his eyes, nodding.

“I will be.” I smile, for once realizing the truth in my words. I’m free from that horrible woman who kept me as her indentured servant. I’m finally free and I couldn’t imagine a better life. I get this fluttery feeling, this buzzing pulse that tingles every nerve in my body, this weird way I struggle to breathe every time he looks at me like this.

Jackson leans into me, his lips brushing mine in a kiss as light as a whisper, as soft as a summer breeze. It’s not the passionate, desperate kisses he’s covered my lips with before. It’s simple and sweet.

“Come with me.” He stands up and tugs my hand, helping me to my feet. I follow him into the kitchen and he opens the fridge door, taking out a box of white wine. “Mom left this here on labor day. We had a barbeque and she likes to keep it classy.” He chuckles. “Here.” He opens the cabinet door and grabs two wine glasses, holding them under the spout. He fills them up, handing me one. “I know it’s pretty far from fancy, but I’d like to make a toast.”

I can’t tear my eyes away the neatly trimmed hair covering his chiseled jaw or the faint pink heat staining his cheeks.

“Before I met you, I spent my entire life thinking that there was no such thing as a perfect woman. Like the idea that everyone has that one soul mate out there, I thought it was bullshit.”

Jackson clears his throat and averts his gaze. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, I wrote that off as a silly dream. A fantasy. Some Hollywood idea that no person in real life could ever measure up. Not until I met you.”

His voice cracks and he swallows hard. “I’d like to make a toast, to the woman who made that glittery Hollywood fantasy dull in comparison to her smile. To the woman who has an ability to make me want to fall at her feet and feel like I’m walking on a cloud at the same time. To the woman I love with my entire heart. Happy Birthday.” He smiles and my mouth drops open. Jackson clinks his glass against mine, and I go through the motion of taking a sip, but shock has set in.

Did he really? Did he just tell me he loves me?

“I love you too.” I take a step closer until we’re pressed close.

Jackson places his glass down on the counter and takes mine from my hand, putting it down beside it. He quickly slides his hands under my thighs and lifts me from the ground. His mouth finds mine and stifles my nervous giggle as he walks me back toward the counter and sits me on the edge.

He takes his time soaking me in from head to toe and then back up again as he steps between my legs and grinds against me. “I was wrong.” His voice is velvety and rich. “I do have a gift I can give you. Unfortunately I can’t wrap it, though.” His eyes dance under the light.

“Oh.” My breathing quickens. “And what’s that?”

“How about I show you?” His fingers thread through my hair and tug the locks, jerking my head back as he kisses a trail down my neck.

I moan softly, “Yes.”