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?”

“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.