“Fine. Okay. But are you sure you don’t want a wingman? At the very least I can hang with you until you find him.”
“No. I’m good. Go mingle. Who knows. Maybe Kirstie Ellen Todd really is here.”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’ll tell her you said hi.” She gives me a quick hug, then slides up to the bar again for another glass of wine. I do the opposite and set my half-full glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Definitely better to be clearheaded.
After fifteen minutes, though, I’m regretting my forced sobriety. I’ve circled the room twice and seen dozens of almost famous actors and well over a hundred other faces that aren’t familiar at all. I’ve seen Cass chatting up pretty much everybody, a waitress I recognize from my favorite restaurant who tells me she’s moonlighting, and Wyatt circulating through it all with his camera and flash.
But I haven’t seen Jackson.
He must be here, though, so I decide that the best approach is to go up to the second level, park myself along the balcony, and scan the guests from above. I’m heading that direction, my head slightly down as I’m taking a second to check my office email and messages on my phone, when I catch a glimpse of something familiar in my peripheral vision.
I look up, ignoring the sudden tightness in my chest, and search the surrounding faces for him. Except he’s not there, and now my chest tightens even more, this time with disappointment.
I take another step as I slide my phone back into my tiny red purse.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s descending the stairs, his attention focused on the distinguished-looking man beside him. He is clean-shaven and elegant in a collarless black jacket over a white cotton pullover. I had expected a tux, but can’t deny that this is a much better choice. He looks dark and sexy and unpredictable. More, he looks important. The kind of man who can say “fuck you” to convention, and have everyone scrambling to keep up with him.
This is the man who lives in my memories. Those crystalline blue eyes. That wide, gorgeous mouth. The thick brows and sculpted features.
He descends two more steps, then turns slightly away from his companion. As he does, I realize that he isn’t entirely as I remember him. Now there is a scar that intersects his left eyebrow, then arcs across his forehead to his hairline. It wasn’t there in Atlanta, but it’s well-healed, and must be several years old.
The scar does nothing to mar the sensuality of this man who so undeniably commands the room. Instead, that single flaw adds to his mystique, giving him a dangerous and mysterious edge. Even so, I know that there must be pain beneath it, and my fingers itch to touch it, to trace the path of it. To hold and soothe and comfort against whatever evil had the gumption to scar that incredible face.
But that is no longer my right, and that reality is pounded home as I glance around and realize that every woman in the vicinity is looking at him, just as I am. I close my hand into a fist, feeling suddenly proprietary, even though I have no claim on this man anymore. I gave that up. Sacrificed him to save myself.
A wave of melancholy crashes over me, and I tell myself to stop it, stop it, stop it.
I did the right thing, I am certain of it. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The past is over, goddammit. I need to just suck it up and move on, just like I’ve been doing for my whole screwed-up life.
I take a deep breath, then another, as I force myself to get my shit together. I’m a businesswoman with a lucrative proposition. I’m not a starry-eyed girl getting weak-kneed around the ultra-sexy man of the hour.
I can do this. I can approach him, greet him, tell him that I’m not going to accept a brush-off. That it’s been five years, we’re both grown-ups, and he’s just going to have to listen to me.
Straightforward. Direct. To the point.
Right. I can manage. No problem at all.
I take a step toward him, then another.
I straighten my shoulders and put on the professional smile that I have honed over five years of working for the CEO of Stark International.
I keep my eyes on Jackson as I move toward the staircase, taking a path designed to intercept him as he reaches the ballroom floor.
He doesn’t see me—he is completely focused on the man beside him. I cannot hear their conversation, but Jackson’s hands move as he talks, and I know that they are discussing architecture. I smile with affection, remembering the way he would outline a skyscraper in the air and the way his fingers would dance as he considered facades and footprints, purpose and plan.
His companion says something, and Jackson laughs, his wide, sensual mouth curving into a smile that freezes in place as he casually scans the crowd—and then finds me.
