Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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?”

“Are there?” he asks as he inches the front of my skirt up until I am completely exposed and actually whimpering. He slides his hands between my legs and thrusts two fingers inside me. I cry out, both startled and excited by his touch. “Careful, Ms. Brooks. You wouldn’t want to attract attention, would you?”

I close my eyes, losing myself in the wild swirl of sensation that is cutting through me. “Jackson, please.”

“Please what?”

I have no idea. Please stop? Please touch me? Please fuck me?

I know I should protest. I should back away. But how can I when every nerve in my body is firing for him? How can I think when I’m drunk on lust and desire? When the temptation to simply let go—to submit—is so close I have no choice but to go with it. To give in. To fly.

And because this is Jackson—because we both need and want this—that is exactly what I do.

He teases me with one finger, playing with my clit and generally keeping me on edge. “Christ, you’re beautiful when you’re aroused. You’re lit from the inside, as bright as a candle. I want to make you burn, Sylvia,” he whispers as he raises my skirt all the way, and then reaches around and slips his hand between my legs from behind, then teases the rim of my anus. “I want to reduce you to ashes, to discover all your secrets.”

“I don’t have any,” I say. “Not from you. Not anymore.” My body is thrumming with desire, and I am craving the sweet intensity of release.

He brushes his lips over my ear and the soft touch of his tongue and breath drive me just a little crazy. And when he speaks, his words almost melt me. “I’m so tempted to fuck you in the ass right now. To take you in the most intimate way possible right here in the middle of the day, twenty-six stories above this city. Tell me, baby. Does that excite you?”

I can hardly deny it. “Yes.”

“I’ve never taken you like that. Tell me you want it.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Why? Because I think it will feel good. Because I want to surrender to his every whim, every pleasure. Anything he could want to do to or with me. I have no shame where Jackson is concerned. Only pleasure and need.

I don’t say that, though. I say only, “Because I want you. Because I trust you and need you.”

He makes a soft sound of approval, then carefully slides my skirt back into place.

I turn in his arms, flustered. “But—”

I cut myself off, confused. Not only has he not done what he promised, he hasn’t even made me come. All he’s done is arouse me. Very, very thoroughly.

His smile holds a hint of mischief. “Soon,” he says.

I raise a brow. “Bastard,” I counter, making him laugh.

“I believe it’s a workday, Ms. Brooks.” He looks me up and down. “I certainly hope you’re able to concentrate.”

I’m trying to think of an appropriate insult to fling at him when his intercom buzzes. It’s Lauren, letting him know that both Evelyn Dodge and Arthur Pratt are outside waiting to see him.

I glance at Jackson, who’s grinning. “Perfect timing,” he says.

I roll my eyes and adjust my clothes, and hope that I don’t look as flushed and horny as I feel. “Let’s go see what they need.”

“Wait,” he says, then pulls me back and kisses me—the kind of kiss that is a substitute for sex, and fills me all the way to my core. “A promise of things to come.”

I sigh with pleasure. “I’ll hold you to it, mister.”

“I hope that you do.”

We find Evelyn and Arthur next to a table that has an in-progress model of the resort. Jackson uses it to work through spacial issues, and while he swears that it is neither final nor to scale, I think it looks amazing, showing the private bungalows, the hotel-style buildings, the recreation areas, and more.

I want to tell him how incredible it looks. How every stone and angle complements the earth. How every brick and line seems to burst forth from the backdrop of the bright blue sky.

Architecture has always been a passion of mine, and I am a bit awed that this man I love can so spectacularly mesh form and function.

But I am looking at him. At the line of his jaw and hard angles of his face. He stands erect and proud, and right now it is so easy to see the strength and force of will that had the power to create such magnificence. Watching him, my fear dims a little. Because a man who can accomplish what Jackson can is not a man to be restrained.

Maybe we really will get through this.

Evelyn nods in greeting as she turns, then hooks her thumb back to indicate the model. “Nice work. Can’t wait to kick back there for a long weekend.”

“You’ll be comped, of course,” I say.

“In that case, make it a long week.” She turns to Pratt. “Look who I found in the elevator. And since I’m as curious as you are to find out what our intrepid investigator knows, I’m going to ignore the ladies first rule and let him talk.”

“So you’ve learned something?” Jackson asks.

“Learning,” he corrects. “It’s a process. But the pieces are coming together.”

Jackson leads us all to the newly built-out conference room, and Pratt remains standing while the rest of us take a seat around the table.

“So a couple of things. We got some security footage from a neighbor a few doors down. Range of vision isn’t stellar, but at least five people approached Reed’s door the night of the murder.”

“I was one of them,” Jackson says. His mouth curves down into a frown. “Apparently a witness says so.”

“I know, honey,” Evelyn says, then reaches over to pat his hand. “Charles told me. But we’ll get you through this.”

“And now we know you weren’t the only one,” Pratt says. “So that’ll give Harriet some ammunition.”

“That’s good,” I say.

“Hell, yeah, it’s good,” Pratt says. “But it was also Halloween, and Reed had his porch and sidewalk lights off to discourage the kids. The images are terrible. We’re trying to get some work done, but there’s only so much you can do to video footage if the information isn’t there to work with. With luck, someone else in the neighborhood will have a cam with a higher definition that also picks up Reed’s sidewalk. My guys are on it. But the really interesting thing is that I confirmed that your dad had some one-on-one time with Reed recently.”

“Halloween?” I ask.

Pratt shakes his head. “No. About a week before. But I thought that was just odd enough to mention. Apparently, so did the cops. They talked to him, I talked to my buddy at the PD. Stark says he was shooting the shit with Reed about architecture. Trying to get him to pump money into some foundation he’s part of.”

I nod, remembering that Evelyn told me once that Jeremiah is on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project, which was one of the major backers of Stone and Steele, the recently released documentary that featured Jackson.

Jackson frowns. “Why exactly does that matter?”

“It may turn out to be nothing,” Pratt admits. “But it has potential. Because I don’t believe a word of it.”

Jackson kicks back in his chair and extends his legs. “I’m listening.”

Pratt cracks his knuckles as he paces. “The thing is, Reed was a player. Had an assistant and his assistant had an assistant. You know the type. Full entourage. Needs them to take a dump, because he’s just that important and wants the world to know, right?”

I say nothing, but that sure as hell doesn’t surprise me.

“Go on,” Jackson says.

“He’s not the type to take a meeting alone. I talked to three former assistants and they all say the same thing. So either he made an exception for Stark—”

“Or Stark is lying,” I conclude.

“You got it. The question is why. And was that reason a motive for murder?”

“It’s good work,” Jackson says. “Thank you.”

“Hey, you’re writing the checks. And since you are, I’ll get out of your hair. No sense paying me to hear Evelyn talk, as fascinating as that might be.” He shakes Jackson’s hand, promises to check in again soon, then heads out.

“I want to revisit the idea of putting out press about Ronnie,” Evelyn says.

“Absolutely not,” Jackson says.

Evelyn is unperturbed. “It’s a good angle. A father trying to do right by his daughter amidst controversy. The public will eat it up, and we need to get ahead of this thing.”

“I’ve already said no, Evelyn.”

She holds up her hands. “And it’s my job to keep trying to convince you. Moving on,” she says when he starts to interrupt. “I’ve had some attention from magazines. All of them want to talk about the murder, not about your buildings.”

“I presume you told them all no.”

She looks at me. “The boy doesn’t know me that well yet.”

“You told them to fuck off,” I say.

“You see? Sylvia knows me.”

Jackson laughs. “So that’s handled.”

“Yes, but I don’t like that mainstream media’s looking at you that way. That’s another thing we need to get ahead of. And a possibility to do that may have dropped in our lap. Architecture in View. This reporter wants to do a profile, but wants the focus to be the resort, not the murder. I think you should do that interview.”

“You really think it’s worth my time?”

Evelyn’s mouth turns down into a small frown. “I think we can be assured they’ll treat you favorably. It’s a small magazine, just starting out. So far, the architects they’ve been able to line up for profiles are more along the lines of Nathan Dean. So you’ll be a coup for them.”

“He’s been profiled in it?” He never did tell me about his other projects, and now I’m more curious than ever.

“That’s what my contact said,” Evelyn tells us. “At any rate, the magazine’s doing a series on dueling resorts. This month it’s mountain resorts, your month it’ll be island resorts.”

“Dueling?” I say. “In that case, they should be focusing on Cortez and Lost Tides, because—” I cut myself off, because everything is kicking into place.

“What?” Jackson asks.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

I share my theory with Jackson and Evelyn as we hurry up the stairs to twenty-seven on our way to Trent’s office, and as soon as we reach the landing, Jackson bursts ahead of us.

“Shit,” I say, hurrying to keep up.

Karen, the receptionist, stands as we pass by, her eyes wide. “What—”

“Call Damien,” I snap. “Tell him to get down here. And Aiden, too.”

I glance at Evelyn as we both pick up our pace. I want to hear what Trent has to say for himself. More than that, though, I’m a little afraid that Jackson is going to pummel him into dust before I get there.

The truth is, my theory is only a theory, sparked by the idea that the resorts really are dueling—fighting it out, and playing dirty. I’m betting that whoever is developing Lost Tides has a chip on their shoulder against Stark International—and that they recruited insiders to do their dirty work. Trent, who was pissed off he lost out on managing Cortez. And Nathan Dean, who wanted a shot at designing the resort and wasn’t even in the running.

Part of me hopes that I’m wrong, even though that would mean that we’re left with a mystery.

But most of me knows that I’m not.

“You son of a bitch.” Jackson’s snarl fills the hall, followed by a loud crash. I burst into the room to see that Jackson has Trent up against a bookshelf that obviously got rattled during the impact, sending books and knickknacks tumbling. Jackson’s arm is tight against Trent’s throat, and Trent looks as if he’s about to piss himself from fear.

“Jackson!” His name is ripped from me. Not because I’m afraid he’s going to hurt Trent, but because I’m so damned on edge about the murder investigation, and any flash of temper could bite him in the ass.

Aiden Ward, the vice president in charge of the real estate division and both my and Trent’s immediate supervisor, hurries into the room. “Let him go.” The words are clipped, Aiden’s British accent more pronounced in anger.

Jackson ignores him. “Is it true?” he asks, getting right in Trent’s face. “Are you fucking with my resort?”

Aiden looks at me. “What the hell?”

But I don’t have to answer. Trent’s doing that for us. “It got out of control. I never meant for it—and the vandalism on the island—I swear that wasn’t me.”

“Bloody hell,” Aiden says. Apparently all the pieces have fallen in place for him, too.

“Let him go,” I say to Jackson, only my voice is softer than Aiden’s was. A little sad, even.

Jackson hesitates, but he complies. Even so, he’s taut as a wire and practically vibrating with energy. He wants to beat the shit out of Trent—that much is obvious. Honestly, I understand the feeling.

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Trent snaps, rubbing his throat. “I bet you did kill that asshole. Christ, you practically killed me.”

“Don’t make me regret that I didn’t.” Jackson’s voice is low and very dangerous.

Behind us, pretty much the entire department has gathered in the doorway. Beside me, Evelyn shifts, and I know that she’s thinking what has already crossed my mind—if anyone who’s witnessed this scene tells the police, it’s not going to look good for Jackson.

I tell myself they won’t. They’re loyal to Stark. To the project.

And I tell myself there’s not a damn thing I can do about it right now, anyway. Right now, I just need to focus on this.

I draw a breath. “Are you the developer? Is Lost Tides yours?”

He shakes his head. “No—no, they came to me. They knew I got passed over, and—well, they came to me.”

“Who?” Aiden asks.

“The development team. But Roger Calloway’s the main guy.”

“I know that name,” Jackson says, looking at me. But I just shake my head. There’s something familiar about that name for me, too, but I can’t place it at all. I look at Trent. “Who’s Roger Calloway?”

But it’s not Trent who answers. It’s Damien, who has arrived and is striding into the room. “Calloway was one of the players in the Brighton Consortium,” he says, and another piece clicks into place.

The Brighton Consortium was an Atlanta land development deal that I was actually working on through my old boss back when Jackson and I first met. It was also the deal that went completely south after Damien snatched up a huge amount of acreage, ensuring that the project couldn’t be completed. Jackson had been pissed as hell at his half-brother, and had only recently learned that the consortium’s investors were about to be buried in all sorts of fraud and racketeering allegations. Damien’s Hail Mary ploy had saved Jackson’s ass—not to mention all the others who were about to get burned.

But now I can’t help wonder if maybe Calloway didn’t know that, either. And maybe he’s been thinking of Lost Tides as a way to get back at Damien. And the sabotage as a way to ensure that Cortez floundered.

Honestly, though, I don’t give a fuck about Calloway’s motive. All I want is for the sabotage against Cortez to stop.

“Talk,” Damien says.

“I—He got Nathan on board, first. And that’s aboveboard, honest. Nathan learned what I was doing, but never did anything himself. Nothing but work on the plans.”

“But you did,” Damien says.

Trent nods. “Calloway wanted details on design, vendors, marketing plans.”

“He wanted you to spy for them,” I say.

He nods.

“They had you hack the security feed. Leak emails. All of that?” Aiden’s voice is harsh. Demanding.

“Most of it. But I told them a few weeks ago that I’d had enough. And the vandalism on the island—I didn’t have anything to do with that. I swear. They must have hired someone to go in and—”

“That’s enough,” Damien says. He turns to face me and Aiden and Jackson, as well as everyone who stands behind us, still lingering in the doorway. “Go on. I’m going to speak to Mr. Leiter alone.”

Trent looks a little sick, but he doesn’t protest.

I look at Jackson, and he nods. He looks exhausted, but I can’t help but think that he also looks relieved.

When we’re out in the hallway, with the door to Trent’s office shut behind me, he confirms that assessment. “It’s fucked up,” he says. “But at least we have an answer now.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “It’s more closure than I have in my life, that’s for damn sure.” He looks at me. “I’ll see you later. I’m going to go back to work.”

He brushes a kiss over my cheek, but before he can walk away, Evelyn stops him. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but I didn’t get to finish telling you everything before our dramatic interruption.”

I catch Jackson’s eye, and I can see that he looks just as uneasy as I feel.

“Bad news?” he asks.

“Well, it’s not good. I don’t have confirmation, but rumor is that another production company is courting Graham Elliott, and he’s still keen on making the movie. I’m sorry.”

“Wait. What?” Jackson asks, as if he can’t quite make sense of her words.

“The movie,” Evelyn repeats. “Reed may be dead, but I’m afraid the movie isn’t.”

eighteen

“I can’t believe it,” Cass says Friday morning. She’s come downtown because Siobhan has a job interview at the Museum of Contemporary Art, which is just a stone’s throw from Stark Tower. Now we’re sitting outside by Java B’s coffee cart, sipping lattes and eating chocolate-filled croissants. “I met him once, didn’t I? At some work party you dragged me to?”

I’ve just finished telling her about all the drama with Trent, and I nod. “Last year’s Christmas party. He hit on you.”

“Oh, right. I let him down easy. Told him it wasn’t personal. He just had the wrong equipment.”

I hide my grin by taking a huge bite of my croissant. “I actually liked the guy. Maybe if I hadn’t, I would have seen it sooner.”

“Don’t kick yourself. It’s hard to see the worst in people. Has Damien strung him up?”

“Fired him. No references. And he called Calloway, too.”

“The one who owns Lost Tides and dragged Trent into the whole mess? Would I have loved to be a fly on the wall during that conversation?”

“I know, right?”

“Is Damien making him shut down Lost Tides?”

I shake my head. “Nope. He said he’d let the market decide—which is fine by me, because Cortez is going to kick serious butt. But he also said that if he catches even a whiff of more dirty tricks, he’ll string Calloway up by his balls. And that’s pretty much a direct quote.”

“And Damien could manage it, too,” Cass says. “Calloway must be pissing himself.”

“I hope so. The one I feel bad for is Rachel. She really liked Trent, and now she’s pretty much destroyed. I called and told her everything last night. I didn’t want her to come in and get slammed with gossip unprepared.” I make a face. “She’s taking the day off.”

“So your good deed landed you more extra work?”

I nod. “But that’s okay. The busier I am, the less time I have for worrying.”

“And Jackson?”

I crumple the bag from my croissant, then hold my coffee in both hands, wanting the warmth. “He’s worrying enough for the both of us.”

“About what Evelyn told you about the movie?”

“About everything,” I say. “But the movie’s got the big neon sign over it at the moment. It’s like he’s having to deal with all of the hell of being a suspect, but the upside was that at least the blackmail threat was gone and the movie was a bust.”

“And now he’s still a suspect and the movie may actually happen, so it’s like fate just kicked him in the balls?”

“That’s about it,” I admit. On the whole, I think he handled the news pretty well. We’d actually gone to my apartment last night, then spent the evening walking the Third Street Promenade and then all the way down to the pier. After that, we’d watched late night television in bed and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. On the one hand, it had felt nice to just be together. But that niceness was colored by worry and frustration.

“I just want a reality that isn’t full of drama and uncertainty.” I sound whiney and mopey, but since I’m only talking to Cass, I don’t need to try and put on a good face.

Cass puts her arm around me, and I lean against her. “I know you do. You’ll get it.”

She says the words firmly, but I don’t believe her. Every day, I’m getting more and more scared. Because every day seems to prove the adage that the good never lasts. It just gets swept away with the drama.

Hell, wasn’t that the story of my life? My childhood destroyed by my father.

My romance with Jackson interrupted by my own horrible nightmares.

And now every time we take a step forward in our relationship, we’re slapped back. Sabotage. Murder. Even the little victories get ruined. Like yesterday. We solved the riddle of the sabotage, only to learn that the damn movie was barreling down on us all over again.

And what really scares me is the pattern. Because if the good is always followed by the bad, then doesn’t that mean that I’ll inevitably lose Jackson? Either because he ends up behind bars? Or, god forbid, because we just can’t make it work?

I pick at the label on my coffee, frowning. “There’s more,” I say. “About Ronnie, I mean.”

Cass, who knows me well enough to understand that I’ve got something major on my mind, turns to face me directly. “I’m listening.”

I lick my lips. “Jackson wants me to be Ronnie’s guardian if he goes to jail.”

“Whoa,” Cass says. “I’m not surprised, though. I mean, he loves you. Who else would he want his daughter to be with?”

“I know. Believe me, I get that. But—”

“But you’re scared.”

“Fucking terrified,” I admit.

“Don’t be. He’s not going to jail.”

I make a face. Considering everything that’s happened recently, that kind of optimism is nothing more than a platitude.

“And if he does, I think it’s great that she’ll be with you. You’ll do awesome, Syl. I know you, remember? And I know what you’re capable of.”

Her words are encouraging, and I cling to them like a lifeline. Cass had a great relationship with her dad, and I know that she believes that I can do this, and her faith warms me up from the inside. But that warmth doesn’t burn away my doubt.

Cass is watching me closely. “You don’t have to be someone else, you know.”

I frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t have to be Mommy, or Aunt Sylvia, or whatever it is that she might call you. Just be Sylvia. Just be yourself. You’ll be fine.”

I lift a shoulder. “Maybe. I don’t know. It scares the crap out of me.”

“I know it does.” She puts an arm around me and squeezes. “But it’s going to be fine. Is he bringing her out here now?”

I shake my head. “He’s thinking about it. He told me last night that he considered bringing her out this weekend, figuring that way he could spend time with her in case—well, in case he’s arrested and there’s no more time to spend. But then this thing with the movie ramping up happened and he’s worried about dumping her into the spotlight.”

“Makes sense. Poor Jackson, though.”

I nod, because I agree. But my horrible, guilty secret is that I’m relieved. And I hate myself for it, because I don’t want to deprive Jackson of his daughter. But I’m so damn nervous about playing a role in raising her, this fragile little life that I may end up being responsible for.

And while I’m almost convinced that I can do it, I’m still selfishly happy for the reprieve.

Beside me, Cass’s phone beeps, and she glances at the screen. “Siobhan’s almost done. Wanna walk with me to the museum?”

I’m tempted, but I shake my head. “I should get back to it.” As we start to rise, I remember what I keep forgetting. “Ollie told me on Monday to tell you hello. And no rush, but he’s wondering what you’re thinking about the franchise.”

“Oh.” She’s already on her feet, but now she sits back down.

My eyes widen. “Trouble?”

“No. I don’t think so. But I’ve been talking with Siobhan and I’m going to put it on hold.”

“Really?” I’m both surprised and concerned. This is her passion project, and one of the huge problems with her previous girlfriend, Zee, was that she wasn’t supportive at all. I hadn’t expected the same from Siobhan.

“Not permanently,” Cass says, apparently reading my mind. “But Siobhan pointed out that right now, I’m the face of the company. But nobody outside the walls of my studio knows me. So I’m going to hire a publicist and start advertising. Really get my name out there. Create a logo. Brand myself. That kind of thing. Because I need that to lure franchisees, but also just to make my brand stronger, you know?”

“I think that’s brilliant.”

“It was Siobhan’s idea,” she says, and I’m certain she can see my relief on my face. “I know, right? Zee was such a slug. But Siobhan and I click.” Her grin is wicked. “In more ways than one.”

She stands again, then reaches down to give me a hand up before pulling me into a hug. “You and Jackson click, too,” she says. “And that’s important. It’ll get you through a lot of shit.”

“Maybe,” I say, hugging her back.

“Trust me,” she says. “It’s all going to be fine.”

I don’t answer. I hope she’s right, of course, but I can’t quite bring myself to believe her.

Two hours later, I’m wishing I had taken that walk to the museum because my head is about to explode from juggling eight million projects at once. “I’ll find room in the budget,” I say to the recalcitrant supervisor on the other end of the phone line. “Work twenty-four hours if you have to, but the helipad and the entire area need to be cleared and repaired by Monday.”

I hang up the phone and close my eyes, then press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. Despite working nonstop since my coffee break, I’ve still only made a dent in the cleanup. Or in my to-do list, for that matter.

I’m about to dive into the next task when Ethan calls. At least, I think it’s Ethan. Since I’m assuming my dad won’t pull that horrible stunt again, I take the risk and answer it.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says. “I just found out. I can’t believe he used my phone. I’m so, so, sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “He’s the asshole.” I take a breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back right away. Everything’s been crazy at work.”

“It’s okay. I figured you were pissed about Dad telling me and needed to cool off.”

“I wasn’t,” I say, even though I was. Hell, even though I am.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence, and then he says, “I shouldn’t have told you.”

Shit. I don’t know what to say to that. Because part of me agrees. And yet another part of me hates the idea of more secrets between me and my brother.

“No,” I finally say. “I was pissed at Dad, not at you. And even though I don’t like you knowing, I hated us having secrets. And I swear that was the only one on my end.”

I wait for him to tell me the same, but he says nothing.

I frown, not sure if his silence is relief that I’m not pissed or obfuscation.

“So, are we okay?” he asks after another long pause.

“We are.” Because no matter my own issues and secrets, I’m not letting anything come between me and my brother. “I promise.”

“Okay. Cool.” He clears his throat. “Listen, about Jackson’s little girl—”

“Jackson wants me to be her guardian if he ends up in jail.”

“Oh, Syl. Shit.”

“I’m doing it,” I say. “And I’m only telling you because of the no-secrets thing. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” More, I don’t want to talk about it with Ethan. I know what he’d say, and I’ve already freaked myself out enough about mommyhood for the day.

“I—fine. Okay. Whatever.” He draws a breath. “Are we cool?”

“We are,” I assure him. “And I have to go. I’m not the one still lazing around on vacation.”

He laughs. “Fair enough. I’ll call you in a day or so. Might even make you come down here and help me buy furniture.”

“You found a place?”