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?”