Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Damien shakes his head. “Once they start actively signing investors, they’ll have to be more transparent.”

“Good,” I say. Whoever started that damn resort copied the idea from me. Even if I can’t stop them, I want to know who it is I hate.

Damien’s expression is knowing. “Don’t worry about the competition,” he says. “Just worry about making Cortez the best it can be. The rest will fall into place.”

“Assuming we don’t lose all our investors.”

“No one else has bolted.”

“But there’s no arrest yet.” I don’t mean to say that. I don’t mean to shift the focus from the resort itself to Jackson. But the words slipped out—the worry that Jackson is going to end up behind bars is just too close to the surface with me.

“And if it comes to that, we’ll deal with it, too,” Damien says gently. “We’ll meet for an update after my lunch.”

I nod, and he’s heading toward the elevator when the doors open and Jackson bursts out. “Have you seen the latest bullshit?” he asks as he thrusts his phone into Damien’s hand.

“Well, hell,” Damien says. “Though I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

I hurry to them—and even Rachel abandons the desk to join us. I stand between the men, my hand on Jackson’s shoulder so I can rise up on my toes to see better.

All I can read is the headline—Another Alcatraz off the California Coast?

I look at Jackson, confused. “What—?”

“It’s a bullshit editorial. About Reed’s murder. The assault. And my alleged involvement in both of those and the Cortez project. And then, to milk the absurdity properly, the writer pulls in Damien, too.”

“A murderous dynamic duo,” Damien reads, his mouth curving down with a frown before he looks up at Jackson. “You can be Robin. And I’m not wearing a cape.”

I take the phone from Damien and start to skim.

“It’s not funny,” Jackson says.

“No. It’s not,” Damien says. “But it’s also not unexpected.”

I’m barely listening to the two of them. Instead, my stomach is twisting more and more as I read. “This is another dig on the project,” I say. I look at both men in turn. “Like the land mine bullshit. This isn’t gossip about Jackson or your relationship or Reed or any of it. This is about shutting down Cortez. A tainted island,” I read. “Bathed in blood and tragedy. How much do you want to bet that every one of the investors will get this in their inbox?”

I see Jackson and Damien exchange glances. “She’s right,” Damien says.

A burst of fury cuts through me. “I swear I will strangle whoever is behind this.”

Jackson reaches over and takes my hand, and I find the change in our positions both comforting and amusing. Usually I’m the one cooling his temper.

I glance at him, and see that he is watching Damien. “Listen,” he says, as he glances at his watch. “How’s the rest of your afternoon? Can I buy you a drink at happy hour?”

For a moment, I’m confused. Then I remember Jackson’s comment about doing his own investigation into Reed’s killer, and asking Damien for help. Unfortunately, I happen to know that Damien’s heading out to see Aiden, and after that his schedule is jam-packed late into the night, so that ball isn’t going to start rolling today.

“I’m busy,” he says evenly. “But it’s nothing that can’t be rescheduled. Rachel,” he adds, turning toward her desk, “Take care of it for me.”

“Of course, sir,” she says, as Jackson shoots me a smug grin. My eyes, I know, are wide with surprise.

I’m still gaping as the two of them step onto the elevator, and when the doors shut, Rachel lets out a long sigh.

I laugh. “It’s not that bad. Just call everyone and tell them something came up. With a man in Damien’s position, it’s hardly unexpected.”

“Oh, that’s not it,” she says. “It’s this.” She taps her monitor and I hurry around her desk to stand behind her, dread building as I do.

The moment I see the screen, I exhale, my breath forming a single word—“Shit.”

I’m looking at a scene from last night on the boat. It’s an image of the three of us, with me standing just behind Jackson, who is looking at his father with an expression of calm, contained fury. His stance conveys power and control, and though this must have been taken by one of the paparazzi with a long lens, the shot is so clear that the scar that bisects Jackson’s left eyebrow is in sharp focus.

The caption—Daddy Trouble for the Man of Steele?—is little more than a snarky irritation. But the photo itself scares me, and not just because of how closely the paparazzi have crept in, managing to take shots of conversations that should have been private.

No, what scares me is what I see in the image. What the entire world can see now.

Because the camera has captured a man who goes after what he wants, even if that means walking into battle. A man who will protect what is his. A man who will kill if necessary.

A man who, I think, has done just that.

And now I fear that the whole world knows it, too.

ten

Phil, the bartender at the Gallery Bar, slid two glasses of scotch in front of Jackson and Damien. “Anything else, Mr. Steele?”

“Thanks, no. We’re good.”

The bartender hesitated, then nodded. “Well, if you change your mind,” he offered, before moving on to take care of a couple sitting close together at the far end of the long, polished granite bar. Jackson hid a smile. He’d been served by Phil a few times now, and he understood that the young man’s simple comment was more than just an offer of another drink. It was a sign of support as Jackson navigated the rough seas of the tabloid world.

“Friend of yours?”

“No, but he’s good at his job, discreet, and seems to be a good judge of character. He likes me, after all.”

Damien laughed, then took a sip of his drink. They’d left the Tower together, then ignored the calls and questions from the flock of paparazzi that had taken to lingering on the grounds in front of the building.

Questions and camera clicks had followed them as they walked down the hill together. Jackson had felt his nerves twitching—all he wanted was to get out of that spotlight—but he had to admire the way his brother had blinders on, ignoring the shouted questions and demands for photos even as he continued to chat with Jackson as they walked. Damien had put up with this shit for a long time, and now that Jackson understood what it was like to dodge the press, his respect for the brother he was only just getting to know grew even more.

Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson’s favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.

The thought of whims made him frown. “Do you think she’s right?”

“About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably.”

“Fuck.” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. “We need to know who’s screwing with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his glass back on the bar, “I need to know who really killed Reed.”

He turned to find Damien’s eyes on him. “Honestly, I thought you did.”

Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. “There’s a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that fucker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”

Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson’s words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn’t him.

He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to fuck off. “Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. “He’s a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the company—Ryan sends him all our background checks to handle—but he’s done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he’ll take the job. And if he doesn’t have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he’ll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn’t she just suggest him?”

“She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you.”

“A little brotherly advice?” Damien asked, with a hint of irony.

“Brotherly? I don’t know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best.”

Damien lifted his glass as if in a toast. “Touché.”

“Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relationship?”

“I haven’t.”

“Any reason why not?” As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the identity of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.

Damien tossed back the last of his scotch, then lifted his glass to signal Phil. “Because I don’t need Pratt to find the answer. I already know it. And so, I think, do you.”

“I’ve considered that it might be Jeremiah,” Jackson admitted. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“On the contrary. It’s the only answer that does make sense. I know I didn’t leak it. You say that you didn’t, and I’m inclined to believe you.”

“Thanks so much.”

Damien’s mouth twitched, but he continued. “We both know that neither Sylvia nor Nikki said anything.”

“There are others,” Jackson added. “Cassidy knows, and so do Jamie and Ryan. But I can’t imagine any of them telling.”

“The only other person who knows is your mother,” Damien said. “And Penny’s not in a position to talk to anyone at the moment.”

“You know about my mom?” Penelope Steele had developed early onset Alzheimer’s ten years ago. She lived now in a facility in Queens, a relatively easy jaunt from Jackson’s office in New York. He visited frequently. Most of the time, she had no idea who he was.

“As you said, I like information. You grew up knowing all about my family. I thought it was only fair I learn something about yours.”

“You could have just asked.” The idea that Damien had been poking around in Jackson’s life pissed him off. Not that this was a new sensation. He’d experienced the same sense of violation when Damien had found his petition to establish parental rights, along with the evidentiary DNA test results confirming that Ronnie was his daughter.

“Now I would. Back when I looked, I didn’t trust you. And, frankly, you didn’t trust me. I could have asked, but you wouldn’t have told.”

Jackson didn’t answer; Damien was right. Instead, he finished his own drink, lifted his finger to signal to Phil that he should pour a fresh glass for him as well. As soon as the drink was in front of him, he took a long swallow, savoring it before speaking again. “He chewed me up one side and down the other for coming to work for you. And then he got in my face about telling you the truth. Doesn’t that cut against our assumption?”

“Do you think it does?”

Jackson sighed. “No. I think that Jeremiah Stark has and always will have his own agenda, and trying to second-guess that man is like trying to predict the lottery.”

“Glad you get it,” Damien said, then he shifted on his stool so that he was facing Jackson more directly. “I want to show you something.” He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, then handed the device to Jackson.

“Goddammit.” The word burst out the moment he saw the image from last night—Jackson, Syl, and Jeremiah on the deck, right about the time that Jackson was telling his father to get the fuck out off his boat. He didn’t even bother to read the caption, just passed the phone back to Damien. “Those fucking pricks.”

Honestly, it was just as well he hadn’t seen this picture before he and Damien walked down the hill, because he sincerely doubted he could have kept his temper in check.

He fought a shudder as he remembered what had happened after Jeremiah had left. He’d almost taken Sylvia on deck. Demanded she strip for him. That she stand naked under the stars as he stroked her, touched her, fucked her.

His stomach roiled at the thought that she’d come so close to having her privacy violated to the extreme, and he clenched his fists against his harsh and immediate reaction to move out. To stay at a hotel. To tuck tail and run because these lowlifes were messing with him.

Fuck that.

“You’re pissed,” Damien said mildly.

Jackson glared at him. “Some asshole I don’t know has a camera aimed at my home and is snapping pictures of me and my girlfriend.”

He glared at Damien, as if the fact that his brother handed him the picture made him responsible for all this shit. “Damn right I’m pissed.”

Damien nodded as if the response pleased him. “It’s a safe bet that Jeremiah’s not pissed at all. On the contrary, he’s soaking up the attention.” He paused just long enough for the words to soak in past Jackson’s still-bubbling anger. “Don’t trust him, Jackson. Just a little bit of brotherly advice from me to you.”

Jackson pushed down the lingering anger as he considered the other man. “You know, I used to wonder what happened between the two of you. I thought that you were such a shit to him. I mean, I had reason to hate him. He was always gone. Kept me and my mom hidden away. But you had him—and yet I looked at you and thought you were a complete prick. Demanding. A prima donna. Too goddamn full of yourself.”

“So glad your impression has changed,” Damien said wryly.

Jackson chuckled. “About some things. Not others. But seriously, after I learned about Germany—after it all hit the press—”

He cut himself off with a small shudder, thinking of the things his brother had endured, all with their father’s knowledge and without his protection. He thought of Sylvia, who had suffered so similarly, and he had to fight a sudden rush of anger against Jeremiah, Reed, and Sylvia’s father. Not to mention a universe in which even one child had to endure such horrors.

He took a sip of scotch, blinking back a wave of emotion, because now Ronnie was at the forefront of his mind, and he really couldn’t understand the way those men had sacrificed their children, because there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do to protect that little girl.

“Anyway,” he finally said. “I understand why you set up your foundation. It’s a good cause. I’ll be back volunteering as soon as they let me.”

Damien nodded, but didn’t say anything more. Jackson hadn’t expected him to.

“My point is that after all that shit hit the tabloids, I understood your issues. But I still thought you were a shit. I knew all about you after Brighton, remember? Or at least I thought I did.” He’d recently learned, to his chagrin, that Damien’s last-minute land buy in an Atlanta-based development deal five years ago had saved Jackson’s ass, not screwed him. If Damien hadn’t swooped in and destroyed the deal, most of the key players in the Brighton Consortium would have been sucked into a RICO case, their fortunes and their reputations destroyed.

Most of the players, however, didn’t realize that Damien had saved their ass.

“As far as I was concerned,” Jackson continued, “you were heartless. Ruthless. You had to be. How else could you climb so far so fast?”

“I can be all those things,” Damien said easily.

“Can be, yeah. But it’s not who you are.” He downed the last of his scotch. “I’ve seen what you’ve done for Syl’s career. I’ve seen how fiercely you watch after your wife, and I’ve heard about what you’ve done for her friends. And I know now that you weren’t trying to fuck me or anyone over on Brighton.”

He flashed his most charming smile at his brother. “Make no mistake, I’ll call you out the second I think you’re doing something to fuck up Cortez, but as for Damien Stark the man? Maybe you’re not the devil I thought you were.”

“Don’t spread it around,” Damien said. “I have a reputation to protect, after all.”

“My lips are sealed.” Jackson glanced down to check his watch. “Should we head back?”

“In a minute. Detective Garrison asked me to see him tomorrow,” Damien said flatly, referring to one of the two detectives who’d spent the morning grilling Jackson.

A cold, hard knot formed in Jackson’s gut. “Why?”

“Presumably because they think my half-brother committed murder. More specifically, because you also work for me, and as I think I mentioned once, I’ve met Reed a time or two. But all that is just speculation.”

“Well, shit. I’m sorry.”

Damien’s brows rose slightly. “Sorry?”

“That this mess is screwing with you, too.”

“Murder isn’t the kind of thing that stays contained.”

“So what are you going to say to him?”

“That I don’t think you did it.”

Jackson studied him. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.”

Damien didn’t smile, but Jackson saw the hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not talking to the police right now, am I? I’ll tell them that I don’t know you that well, but I do know you’re not stupid. And killing him just a few days after beating the shit out of him would be very, very stupid.” He waited a beat, then leaned closer, his elbows on the bar. “Jackson, stupid doesn’t run in our family. Jeremiah’s a shit, but he’s not stupid, either. If he did leak our relationship—he had an endgame.”

“Like what?”

Damien leaned back. “I have no idea. But you wanted to know who else might want Reed dead. I say add him to the list of possibles. Jeremiah knew Reed. You said so yourself.”

Jackson considered, then nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to Harriet. Have her keep an eye on him. Maybe he’ll end up being my reasonable doubt.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Damien said.

“No, you convinced me.”

“I mean, it’s already done.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Is it?”

Damien lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, Jeremiah Stark always has an endgame. I’d like to know what it is. Besides,” he added with a significant look to Jackson, “maybe he did kill Reed.”

“Anything’s possible,” Jackson said dryly. “But what would he gain?”

“I don’t know,” Damien admitted. “If he were another man, I’d say maybe he was trying to protect you. Keep the movie from being made. Keep Reed from suing you for the assault. Maybe even protect his granddaughter.”

“He doesn’t know about her,” Jackson said tightly.

“Are you sure?” When Jackson stayed silent, because, dammit, he wasn’t sure, Damien continued. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that Jeremiah Stark looks after one person and one person only.”

He met Jackson’s eyes. “So watch your back, Steele. Because you may not see him coming.”

eleven

Since it is already the end of the workday and I am still too riled about that damn photo to focus, I decide to grab a few files and head home to work there.

Home, of course, is the operative word. Because Jackson and I have been spending more and more time on his boat since his drafting table and other work tools are there. And as for me, I like to stretch out on his comfy lounge chairs with a glass of wine and relax to the sound and rhythm of the ocean. I’d like to do that tonight, in fact. But I can’t, and that pisses me off.

Because tonight, the boat isn’t my destination; my condo is. Not that I don’t love my condo—I do. But I’d rather be in my place because I’m craving my own stuff. Not because the damn paparazzi are messing with our lives.

And, yes, I trust that the property managers at the marina are doing their job. None of those cockroaches are getting access to the boat or even the parking lot. But that didn’t stop them from taking those pictures last night, and that was invasive enough for me.

Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.

It occurs to me as I reach Santa Monica that the press might be staking out my place as well, but when I pull my Nissan up to the entrance to the underground parking garage no one is there, and my shoulders dip in relief. It’s possible there are a few stragglers by the main entrance to the building, but that’s outside on the Third Street Promenade, and since I’m coming in through the garage, I don’t even have to see them.

As I head to the elevator, I shoot Jackson a text—Safe and sound in the condo. See you soon.

I still don’t have a reply by the time I get upstairs, but I’m not surprised. He’s with Damien, after all, and on top of everything that’s happened recently, they have a lifetime of catching up to do.

So do I, I realize, as I step into my condo. Or maybe not a lifetime of catching up, but at least several days’ worth.

I wrinkle my nose, because the place has that closed-up smell that is one part dirty laundry and two parts something left in the trash I forgot to take out.

I remedy that first, emptying the trash from all of the rooms, then shoving a lemon down the disposal and turning it on while I run the trash to the chute. I hit the button for the back door as I step into the hall, and by the time I return thirty seconds later, my garage-style door has almost completely ascended, letting in a nice, cleansing ocean breeze.

On a normal day, I’d be irritated with myself for doing something as stupid as forgetting to take the trash out. Today, however, is not normal. I want a distraction, and cleaning seems like just the ticket.

Within half an hour, I’ve gone through the pantry and refrigerator and tossed every bit of old food. An hour after that, I’ve vacuumed, added some essential oils to the potpourri I keep on a table in front of the couch, completed one load of laundry and started a second, and am telling myself that I wasn’t worried by Jackson’s lack of response two hours ago, and I have no reason to be worried now. We’d all left work early, so it’s only seven. For all I know, drinks turned into dinner. And if that’s the case, I should be happy. After all, I love Jackson and I respect Damien; I want them to get along.

But despite telling myself that, the sense of dread in my stomach doesn’t ease, and though I really don’t want to, I pull out my phone. This time, I’m not going to text Jackson.

This time, I’m searching social media.

And, dammit, there he is. Not just one picture, but several.

Jackson and Damien walking down the hill to the Biltmore, presumably taken by one of the photographers who’ve taken to camping outside Stark Tower just on the off chance another prime shot like the one of Megan kissing Jackson comes along.

Then there’s a shot of them entering the Biltmore, then several of the exterior of the hotel with the hashtag #StarkSteeleWatch.

Great.

Of course, there’s nothing inherently bad about any of these pictures. It’s just the fact of them that bothers me. That they exist at all, and that they exist because a layer of Jackson’s privacy has been stripped away.

Damien has always been news-fodder, of course, but for the most part, nobody camps out at the Tower anymore, primarily because there’s no Stark scandal at the moment. Or, at least, there wasn’t.

Now there’s murder and sabotage and sibling speculation, and the frenzy has started up all over again.

I sigh, knowing that it won’t die down until after Jackson is either cleared or tried. And so long as I’m tied to Jackson, I’m in the thick of it, too. Right now, the press is only interested in me as Jackson’s girlfriend and the resort’s project manager. Yes, they know that I was a model for Reed years ago, but those photos are so tame that they’ve died down on social media. But the more I’m caught in the spotlight that shines on Jackson, the more likely the press will dig.

And if they learn about the blackmail—if that goes public—

I shiver, because that is a thought that I really can’t let into my head.

With an effort, I force my mind away from all this. I plug my phone into the small speakers in my kitchen, and my favorite playlist starts blaring out Basket Case from Green Day. That’ll work, I think, as I crank the volume and then go to change the sheets. That, and then vacuuming, will keep me busy for another half-hour.

And if I haven’t heard from Jackson by then, I’ll call Nikki. If I can’t find my boyfriend, maybe she at least knows how to find her husband.

I strip the sheets, then ball them up and start to carry them from the bedroom to the small laundry closet that is just off the kitchen. But the moment I turn around, I drop them, and a small, startled “oh!” escapes me.

“Let’s go,” Jackson says. He’s by my breakfast bar tapping the key I gave him against the granite counter. He stands tall and straight, his eyes hard, his expression defiant. But what it is that he is defying, I really don’t know.

“Go?” I repeat. “Go where.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “Back to the boat.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not. No.”

I gape at him, my head shaking a little bit as I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “Jackson,” I say gently, “there are paparazzi everywhere. I saw the pictures of you and Damien walking to the Biltmore, so I know you’ve seen them. And last night at the marina? And if you didn’t already know it, then let me be the first to tell you that those fucking bastards have splashed pictures of you and me and your dad all over social media.”

“I saw.”

“Well, then, hello? The boat is really not the place we want to be now.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches, and I tense, because more and more it’s become clear that he’s not just in a mood—he’s in a dangerous mood.

“Okay,” I say. “What happened?”

“The walk down was fine, but when we were ready to leave we saw that they’d practically swarmed the Biltmore. Phil got us out the service entrance,” he says, referring to the bartender he chats with sometimes. “And I felt so damn smug all the way back to the Tower and into my car, because Damien and I went into the Tower the same way, through the loading dock in the back.”

“So you beat them.”

“We snuck around like rats,” he said. “Or like criminals.” He meets my eyes as he says the last, his voice harsh and hard and angry.

“Jackson—”

“No. I’m not living my life that way. We’re going to the boat. We’re going about our business. We’re going to pretend like the fuckers don’t even exist.” He draws a breath. “Pack your things, Sylvia. You’re coming with me.”

I press my lips together, because I get it now, fully and completely. I understand where he’s coming from. What he’s trying to do.

I once told Jackson that his work was all about power and control, and he agreed with me. But he’d taken it further. “It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”

Those words from so many years ago come back to haunt me now, because that is the root of his anger—his inability to control the scandal, to tame the media storm. He wants to press a reset button and return everything to normal, and he can’t.

So yeah. I get why he’s frustrated. Why he’s hurting. And, yes, I understand why he wants to go back to the boat.

I understand it. But I’m not going along with it.

Slowly, I shake my head. “We’re staying here tonight.”

“The hell we are.”

“Goddammit, Jackson,” I say, my temper rising to match his. “I’m sorry the world isn’t operating to your liking right now, but you can’t kill a man and then act like nothing has changed.”

He’d taken a single step toward me, but now he takes one back, his head cocked slightly to the side as he studies me. I stand there, breathing hard, aware that something has shifted for him, but not entirely sure if I’ve made my point or simply pissed him off further. Finally, he speaks, his words coming slowly and without inflection. “I think if I kill a man, that’s exactly how I should act. Not guilty.”

“I’m talking about being smart. I’m talking about just staying the hell away from the press. Don’t go walking in right under their noses. Don’t give them any fodder.”

His expression softens. “You truly think I killed him.”

“I—” I close my mouth, suddenly unsure.

“And yet you’re still right here.”

“Where else would I be?” My voice is gentle. “Whatever you did, you did for me. For Ronnie. We’ve talked about this, Jackson. I know you’ll always protect me. All I’m trying to do now is protect you, too.”

He closes the distance between us, this time coming so close I am breathing in his scent. Musk and wood and just the hint of scotch. “Baby,” he says, his voice filled with heat, “that’s not what I need from you right now.”

I gasp as he pushes me against the wall, then lifts my arms and holds them in place above my head, his right hand encircling my wrists. I open my mouth to speak, but his mouth closes hard over mine even as his left hand slips down into my yoga pants. His fingers roughly stroke me, then thrust inside. I moan, my body responding immediately as it always does to Jackson’s touch.

But while there is no question about the desire that has flared between us—that heated connection, that primal need—I don’t know its source. Is this about control? Is he taking from me what he can’t get from the world?

Or is this about anger? At the paparazzi. At me.

Or is it simply the ignition of the sparks that are ever-present between us?

I truly don’t know, and I think this is the first time that I have been unable to read him.

I want to ask, and yet I say nothing. Part of me is afraid of the answer, but another part of me is simply melting under the long, firm strokes of his fingers and the pressure of his mouth against mine, his tongue taking and teasing.

And it is only when my phone rings sharply—a series of chimes that indicate that the caller is my brother—that my senses return, and Jackson backs away, breathing hard.

“You should answer it,” he says.

“Right. Yeah. I should.” I scramble away and grab my phone from where I’d left it on the kitchen counter. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Any chance we can have drinks tonight instead of tomorrow? I talked with Cass, and she’s good if you are.”

“Oh.” I glance over at Jackson. “I’m not sure tonight’s the best idea. Why the change?”

“I had to get away from the house,” he says. Considering he’s living temporarily with our parents, that’s a sentiment I completely understand. “I got in the car and ended up here. And I’d just really like to see you.”

“And you don’t want to drive up again tomorrow?” I tease.

“That, too.”

I sigh. “Listen, I don’t think I should. It’s just not—”