With Rachel—with the job—I’m forced to focus. And that’s a good thing.

I pull a card from the envelope and see that it’s an invitation to Senator Robertson’s daughter’s wedding, and Senator Robertson is the kind of man with whom conglomerates like Stark International want to stay friendly. Considering the stress in Rachel’s voice, I realize that she knows that. I also know why it’s impossible—Damien will be in China, along with the heads of other multibillion-dollar corporations, to discuss all manner of business with Chinese government officials.

“Should I just decline and send a gift?”

“Yes, but Damien needs to send a personal note, too, explaining that he’ll be out of the country. And,” I add as I remember something, “there’s one more thing.” I’m standing behind her desk so that we both have a view of my—well, today it’s her—computer monitor. I bend so that I can reach the mouse, then open up the file we keep on Senator Robertson. Then I lean back, smiling with victory as I point at the screen. “There.”

Rachel skims the article that I’ve copied into the file—a small piece from the Washington Post about the senator’s wife and her involvement in a retired greyhound adoption program. “Check with Damien, of course, but that’s a cause he’ll support.”

“Send a note to the senator along with a donation for his wife’s cause?”

“See how good you’re getting at this job?”

She makes a face. “I spent the entire morning rearranging meetings and dealing with Dallas.”

“Sykes? Or the city?” Cold fingers of worry flicker up my spine.

“The man—no, no, it’s not the resort.” She hurries to reassure me, and I realize my face must be revealing more than I want it to. “He’s throwing some party in San Diego to celebrate a new store opening and he wants Nikki and Damien to go, but both their schedules are insane, and—”

“Yeah,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Believe me, I get it.”

“Advice?”

“Learn the subtle art of saying no.”

She scowls.

“Hey, if you want this desk . . .”

“If we weren’t at work, I’d have to call you a nasty name.” She smiles brightly. “But I’m at work and on my best behavior, so I’ll just leave that to your imagination.”

I laugh, genuinely amused. The more time I spend with her, the more I like Rachel, and I’m glad that she’ll be taking over for me when I move full-time to the real estate department. If I move full-time, I amend. That’s not happening until the resort happens—on time, on budget, and with all the other trappings of success. But with land mines, scandalous photos, hacked emails, and murder trials, I’m having to fight harder and harder to get my resort off the ground—all at a time when I’m horribly distracted.

“So how are you doing?” Rachel asks, and I jump, realizing that I’d slid off into my own little world of anxiety. “I mean, the two of you, and all this stuff with Jackson’s arrest. Are you okay?”

I nod. I’m not okay, of course. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m terrified that Jackson will be taken away from me. I’m terrified of what it will mean if he is. Of what it will mean for me. For Ronnie.

Jackson and I haven’t talked about that since the one vague conversation on the airport tarmac. And that is scaring me, too. That uncertainty. If he goes to jail, do I become Aunt Sylvia? Do I become Mommy?

And if so, what do I do then? How the hell am I supposed to cope without him?

I give myself a solid mental shake, because those are the kinds of things that I’m not letting stay in my head. That way lies madness. Or at the very least, bone-deep terror.

So instead, I force a smile that I am certain looks lame. “It’s been hard. But we’re good.” I lift a shoulder. Just one more martyr making it through the day.

“Oh, Syl.” Rachel’s voice is full of genuine pity, and I really do appreciate that she cares.

I glance down at the floor, as if I can see through the carpet and concrete to where Jackson sits many floors below in his office, working at his drafting table. “The work helps, you know? It keeps him sane.”

“You, too,” she says, and I have to nod. There are only two things that pull me out of the path of the nightmare that is barreling down on us—getting lost in Jackson and getting lost in my work.

“How about you and Trent?” I ask, because I want to change the subject. Her cheeks turn a little pink, and I grin. “Did you guys have a hot weekend in Santa Barbara?”