“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I was—I was just in the middle of something. I thought you were Damien. Is he—”
“He’s fine, but I’m not calling on his behalf.” As a rule, Nathan’s quiet and pretty easy to intimidate. Hopefully if he knows Damien’s not about to jump on the call, he’ll chill. “I was hoping to set up a meeting. I’ve got a potential project coming up, and if you have time to add it in, we should talk. You know I’m working in the real estate department now, right?”
“Of course, of course. I—well, I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the truth is that my schedule is jam-packed through the spring at least.”
“That’s wonderful.” I’m genuinely pleased for him. Since I hadn’t read anything about him in the trade papers, I’d feared he didn’t have many projects. “I know about Trent’s house, of course, but what else have you got on your plate?”
“Well, there’s another with Trent and—”
“With Trent?” I know it’s not for Stark Real Estate Development. “Is he building a vacation house in Santa Barbara?”
I’d asked the question lightly, just as a toss-away because of Trent’s recent trip up there. So I’m surprised when Nathan stumbles over the answer, saying, “Santa Barbara? No. No. I mean, he’s not—actually, you know, I’m running late for a meeting.”
“Sure. No problem.” We end the call, and now I’m wondering what’s up with Trent. I can’t think of any reason why he’d want to keep a project secret. Unless he’s relocating and doesn’t want anyone at work to know yet? I frown, because that’s actually a real possibility. He was genuinely pissed off when I got Cortez and he didn’t. But I hadn’t thought that he was pissed enough to go shopping for a new job.
I’d hate to see him go, but I can’t silence the selfish little voice that points out that without Trent in the real estate division, there will be more opportunity once I shift permanently into that department.
I’m making a mental note to ask Rachel if she has any gossip when Mila glances up from the phone by the couch, where she’d just ended a call that had come in for Damien. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “Except that the one guy I’d hoped to entice with the promise of steady work is all booked up.”
“But that’s good, right?”
“It is for him.” I puff out my cheeks as I take a breath, then blow it out, feeling edgy and frustrated and slightly off. “Not so great for me.” I press my fingertip to my temple. “I need another coffee. Want one?”
“No, thanks. But I can get you one if you want.”
I wave off the offer. “I need to move anyway.”
I’m standing as my cell rings. It’s Ethan, and I answer as I’m stepping away from my desk. “I’m so glad you called. I was on the boat and didn’t get your texts, and I’m—”
“Sylvia, honey, it’s Dad.”
I reach out one hand to grab the side of the desk. “Why are you calling on Ethan’s phone?”
“You know why.” His voice is somehow both gruff and soft. As if he’s frustrated, but trying hard not to show it.
“I can’t talk to you right now. You had no right to tell him.”
“Honey, you—”
“You need to stop calling me that.”
“Please, let me talk to you. I love you.”
I cringe, those words sounding harsh and horrible from this man. “You have a funny way of showing it. And you need to stop calling me. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.”
“When will that be?”
“Never,” I whisper as a chill snakes up my spine. “That will be never.”
I end the call, then start to slide my phone back onto my desk, but my fingers aren’t working very well, and it tumbles from my hand and onto the ground. I spit out a curse, and I see Mila’s forehead pucker. “Are you okay?”
I smile. “I’m fine. I’m just—not enough sleep, you know. I’m going to take a walk. Ten minutes. Okay.”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I hurry to the stairwell, shove through the door, and lean back against the cool metal. I want to cry. I want to scream.
But I don’t do either.
Instead, I remind myself that I’m strong.
I hear Jackson’s voice telling me that I can get through this.
In my mind, I clutch hard to his hand.
And then—because I know that he is right—I close my eyes, tilt back my head, and breathe.
seventeen
When I finally get down to twenty-six, I see Jackson’s assistant, Lauren, huddled with the two guys from Jackson’s New York staff, Chester and Doug, who have flown here ahead of the others. I nod as I pass, but otherwise don’t divert from my path.
I enter his glass-enclosed office and pause in the doorway to take in the sight of Jackson. He is standing at an elevated drafting table, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his posture relaxed—completely in his element. He’s wearing headphones, and from the way that his hand is moving with controlled fluidity, I imagine that he is listening to classical music. Something bold. Something sweeping.
I step further inside, my attention drawn next to the corkboard that Jackson has installed on the one solid wall of the office. It is covered now with sketches of the work in progress, as well as photographs of the island from every possible angle and location.
“Bastards,” I whisper. “Fucking bastards.”
Frustrated, I run my fingers through my short hair. I’m not sure if I came down here because I wanted to walk off the lingering irritation from my dad’s call, or if I came because I wanted to tell Jackson that I survived it. That it was horrible talking to him, but I got through it, and I didn’t melt down, and I didn’t even shed a tear.
I’m not certain, but it doesn’t matter. Because seeing those pictures has reminded me that my priority today is the resort, not my dad. I need to get it back on track, cleaned up and ready. Because Jackson is doing amazing work, and there is no way that I’m letting some invisible asshole beat us.
I’m almost out the door when a single word from Jackson stops me. “Hey.”
I turn to see him looking at me, his expression filled with a combination of heat and tenderness that warms me all the way to my toes.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, grinning.
“You come, you leave, you don’t say hi?”
I cock my head, amused. “You’re in a good mood.”
“And why wouldn’t I be? The design is coming along well. My girlfriend came down to see me. My office is finally finished. And so far, nobody has come to arrest me.”
I laugh. “I guess you’re right. You do have reason to be chipper.”
He hits a button on a box mounted above the table, and blinds descend from the ceiling along the interior of each of the glass walls, turning the room from fishbowl to private in the time it takes for him to reach me.
“They finished the installation while we were on the island,” he says, though I hadn’t asked the question. “I thought a little privacy could be a good thing.”
I see the heat in his eyes as he says the latter, and I understand what he means by “good.”
He walks past me to close the door, and I hear the firm snick of the bolt turning.
I cross my arms as he returns to me, then lift an eyebrow. “What exactly are you doing, Mr. Steele?”
“Exploring the functionality of my new office space.”
“Oh, really?” I’m amused. I’m also turned on. “Should I remind you that it’s working hours? That you owe me a design? That there are people right outside these doors?”
“Are there?” he asks as he inches the front of my skirt up until I am completely exposed and actually whimpering. He slides his hands between my legs and thrusts two fingers inside me. I cry out, both startled and excited by his touch. “Careful, Ms. Brooks. You wouldn’t want to attract attention, would you?”
I close my eyes, losing myself in the wild swirl of sensation that is cutting through me. “Jackson, please.”