From his expression, however, I think that the resort is the farthest thing from his mind. Still, he starts heading toward Hollywood Boulevard, and I consider that a victory.
But we don’t make it that far. Instead, he shifts right past the nightclub and leads me to the door of the Redbury Hotel, a luxury boutique hotel that Cass has raved about a few times.
“No way,” I say, but I remember the way his fingers felt inside me just moments ago, and I have to forcibly plant my feet outside the main entrance. “No fucking way.”
He turns around and I expect to see either frustration or irritation on his face. Instead, I watch him melt a little. “No,” he says simply, almost gently.
Then he leans in and kisses me, this time so softly and gently that I think I will melt. “I’m not the man you think I am.”
“You are,” I say. And that is the heart of the problem.
He hesitates only a moment, and then continues through the doors. I consider protesting more, but I’m both confused and exhausted. I have no more fight left in me. And so I will stay beside him and see where this is going.
“Jackson Steele,” he says to the clerk. “Is Jennifer working tonight?”
“Of course, Mr. Steele. One moment.” A short while later, a stunning woman in a pencil skirt joins us in the lobby. She has a name tag pinned to her jacket lapel—Jennifer Trane, Night Manager.
“Jackson,” she says, shaking his hand in a manner that I’m certain would have been a very deep kiss were she not on the clock. “I didn’t realize you were checked in.”
“I’m not. I finally bit the bullet and got my own place. But my friend needs a place for the night. Could you see about getting her a room? Sylvia Brooks,” he says. “But I’ll take care of the charges.”
“The hell you will,” I say.
“We’ll get her settled,” Jennifer Trane the night manager says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. If there is any jealousy lurking there, it is well hidden. Even so, I can’t help but wonder how they know each other. And as I wonder, I want to swiftly kick myself in the ass. Because I really don’t need to be going there.
“All set,” the night clerk says, then passes Jennifer a small envelope with my card key. “Right this way, Ms. Brooks,” Jennifer says, and I start to walk after her. For one moment, I consider simply bolting and getting a taxi. But my Santa Monica condo suddenly seems very far away, and the thought of a soft bed nearby is incredibly enticing.
I turn back, expecting to see Jackson behind me. Instead, he is still standing in the lobby. “Goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. And for the second time that night, Jackson Steele walks away.
eight
Sylvia …
Sylvia …
Sylvia!
I sit bolt upright, breathing hard. I’m in a strange, dark room, and something is buzzing repeatedly, sounding to my tormented mind like my name being called over and over and over again.
But it’s not my name. It’s my phone. And as I scramble to find it, reality returns.
I’m in a hotel room. I’m by myself.
And Jackson is standing firm on his ultimatum about the resort.
Well, hell.
As for the rest of it—the memories, the zoning out, the way he touched me—I really don’t want to go there.
But even though I tell myself that, I can’t help the jolt of disappointment when I finally squint at my now-silent phone and see that the call wasn’t from Jackson.
Damn.
I sit up, stretching as I play the voice mail from Cass.
“Hey, girl, I tried to find you last night, and then someone said they saw you leaving with Jackson right behind you. So I hope that Jackson said yes to the resort and you’re home sleeping the sleep of victory. Or he said no, and you’re home sleeping the sleep of defeat. Either way, I hope you didn’t do something stupid. Zee and I are about to crash for a few hours, but if you get this right away, then call me. It’s, um, not quite eight. And if I don’t hear from you by ten, I’m going to be supremely pissed. No excuses, Syl. Call me.”
The phone goes dead.
Well, I think. All right then.
I hesitate, because I’m not entirely sure I want to talk. But this is Cass and she loves me and even though she didn’t outright say it, I also know that she’s worried. So I bite the bullet and call.
“You bitch,” she says without preamble. “You didn’t even text me. Where were you? Were you with Jackson?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. And no. I mean, yes. I mean, later. I was with Jackson later.”
