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.”
“All right,” he says. “What time?”
“Seven. Just down the street at Cut 360.”
The conversation seems strange and stilted, but I can’t tell if that’s because something is truly off, or because I’m filtering it through my own little cloud of angst.
“Sounds good. Why don’t you come down about six forty-five. We’ll walk over. Should be a nice night.”
I nod. And then, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You weren’t in your office earlier.”
“No,” he says. “I went out.”
“So I gathered. Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere special.”
“With Megan.” I try to sound normal, but my voice is flat.
He looks at me, and his head tilts just slightly. I think his eyes might have narrowed, but that may just be my imagination. “Yes,” he says evenly. “With Megan.”
We’re blocking pedestrian traffic, and a tall man in a very expensive suit shoots me an irritated glance. I don’t care. Because now I’m certain the conversation is stilted, and I don’t understand it and, dammit, it scares me. Because this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Not between me and Jackson. Not ever.
I force a casual tone. “I didn’t realize she was still in town from the documentary.”
“She came back.”
“You never did tell me what you two were arguing about at the premiere.”
He meets my eyes. Mine, I’m sure are needy. His are as cold as arctic ice. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
He might as well have slapped me. “You know what, Jackson, screw it.” I see him take a step back as if in defense against a blow, but I’m too far gone to care. “You want to hold on to your secrets, then you just fucking do that.”
I storm off, feeling like an idiot, and not at all sure if he’s the one who’s off or if I am.
Back in my cubicle, I try to concentrate. Try, but don’t succeed.
I know that I’m being jealous, but dammit, I don’t care. I wanted him today—needed him. And he wasn’t there. Because he was with the one woman other than me that he’d not only slept with, but that he’d cared about.