Hell, even Jackson is a reminder, because now every time the press mentions him—even if it’s not in connection to the resort—it’s Architect Jackson Steele, recently sentenced to community service for his assault on producer-director Robert Cabot Reed. And I hate, hate, hate that their names are now linked in the public’s mind.
And, goddammit, in mine.
The line at Java B’s is long, but they also have an outdoor coffee cart that I can see through the glass front of the building, and despite it being a gorgeous day, there are only three people waiting to order. Since that seems like as much of an invitation to enjoy the day as I’m likely to get, I head out. I end up with an extra-large latte and a chocolate chip cookie that is about the size of a salad plate. I will either keel over from sugar shock or be so hyped up for the rest of the day that I accomplish all my tasks without even blinking.
I’m hoping for the latter. After all, if I’m busy burning through my various work tasks, I’ll have no time to think about the impending torment of a visit with my family.
The cookie is about the best thing ever, and I have to talk myself out of buying another one as I stand and crumple my napkin. The only trash can is by the coffee cart, and as I head in that direction, I’m facing the loading area, a small section of road set off from the main traffic flow along South Grand Avenue to allow for cars to pick up and drop off passengers at Stark Tower.
I’m not really looking for anything in particular, but as I’m turning to head back toward the building entrance, something familiar catches my eye. I shift back around, and see that it is Jackson. He is standing by the passenger door of a small, red sedan.
I take a step toward him, but then he opens the door, and a tall, slender redhead steps out. She’s familiar and vibrant and lovely, and she puts her hands on Jackson’s shoulders and brushes his lips with a kiss.
My delicious cookie suddenly turns to acid in my stomach. Because I know this woman. True, I’ve never formally met her. But I know her name. I know he cares about her. And I also know that he has slept with her.
Megan.
I stand frozen to the spot, as if my feet are anchored by the weight of my jealousy.
He hands her the keys and she circles the car, then gets in on the driver’s side and pulls away.
Jackson starts walking toward the building, and I pivot back toward the coffee cart, then reach out and grab the edge of the condiment bar because I’m now feeling even more unsteady than I was after the conversation with Ethan.
Megan.
Megan?
I’d seen her at the premiere of Stone and Steele, the documentary about Jackson and his work on the Amsterdam Art and Science Museum, but that was weeks ago. I hadn’t met her then, though. I’d only seen her from a distance, first approaching Jackson, and then as the two appeared in heated conversation.
After that, she’d been gone. I’d had no idea who she was, and it hadn’t really seemed relevant. At least not until I’d seen a picture of her with a darling little girl hanging in Jackson’s houseboat.
Hanging on his bedroom wall in the houseboat.
He’d told me that she was a friend. That they’d slept together once, but that had been a one-off. A mistake. And I got that. After all, I’d slept with Cass once, but that didn’t mean we were ever a couple or that anything was still going on.
But if what he said was really true, then why hadn’t he told me she was still in town? Why had she kissed him so intimately?
And why did it suddenly feel as if the world as I knew it was shifting beneath my feet?
“Syl?” His voice, as warm and gentle as a summer breeze, drifts toward me from a few feet behind me. I stay put, motionless, then close my eyes and draw in a breath when his hand closes over my shoulder. “Coffee break?” He brushes a kiss to the back of my ear. “Good idea.”
I turn to face him, then realize that I’m still holding the coffee I’d bought at least fifteen minutes ago. “I—no. I’m done with it.” I lick my lips and toss it into the trash, even though there’s still half a latte left.
I start to head back toward the building, and Jackson falls in step beside me. If he realizes my mood is off, he doesn’t show it. And though I should be grateful, that little blip of reality has the opposite effect. It pisses me off. Because, dammit, Jackson knows me. Hasn’t he always been able to read me?
And if he can’t read me now, doesn’t that mean that his head is full of another woman?
Oh my god, I’m turning into Super Bitch.
I pause just before we get to the revolving door that is the entrance to Stark Tower. “I was looking for you earlier. We’re having dinner tonight with Damien and Dallas Sykes. Nikki and Aiden, too.”
