On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

“Fine,” I say. “Dinner. But I’m not staying late. I’ve got to work on Thursday, and—”

“Whatever you say, big sis.”

I frown, but it’s affectionate. “I love you even if you are a pain in the butt.”

“Of course you do. See you Wednesday.”

I end the call, then head to the reception desk to ask Karen if anyone called while I was tied up. Since I’m approaching from behind her, I can see her computer—and that she’s scrolling through the pictures of me, Jackson, and Cass. Not to mention Graham Elliott. Yesterday I saw her looking at some of the old ad photos of me that are circulating.

Wow, gee. How great is that?

“Oh. Hey.” She coughs as she clicks her computer back to a word processing screen. “Need anything?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I think I need a coffee.” And since that is absolutely true, I head down to the lobby for caffeine and the chance to clear my head.

My parents. My pictures.

For a day that had started out great, it’s going downhill fast.

sixteen

Even though it is days before I have to see my parents, just the conversation with Ethan has made me antsy. And though I like to think that I’m capable of standing on my own two feet, the truth is that I balance a lot better when I have Jackson beside me.

So instead of heading straight to the lobby, I detour to twenty-six. The construction crew and Lauren are there, but Jackson is not. When Lauren tells me he had an errand to run outside the building, I remember that we left his car at Westerfield’s. Considering how much he babies the Porsche, I’m certain he went to fetch it.

Without a coffee companion, I continue down to the lobby on my own. It’s a swift descent, but I still have enough time to chastise myself for being edgy and out of sorts. After all, it’s not as though anything has changed. Ethan told me over a week ago that he was coming, and I’ve been looking forward to seeing my little brother.

But now that his arrival is closer, it’s harder to ignore the fact that I’m going to be seeing not only him, but my parents. I’m going to have to sit at the dining room table in their house. I’m going to share wine and Mom’s meat loaf. And I’m going to have to make conversation with my dad.

That would be gut-wrenching enough all by itself. But it’s a billion times worse now that my past is assaulting me from all angles, with Reed in the news and old advertisements featuring my likeness popping up all over the place.

Hell, even Jackson is a reminder, because now every time the press mentions him—even if it’s not in connection to the resort—it’s Architect Jackson Steele, recently sentenced to community service for his assault on producer-director Robert Cabot Reed. And I hate, hate, hate that their names are now linked in the public’s mind.

And, goddammit, in mine.

The line at Java B’s is long, but they also have an outdoor coffee cart that I can see through the glass front of the building, and despite it being a gorgeous day, there are only three people waiting to order. Since that seems like as much of an invitation to enjoy the day as I’m likely to get, I head out. I end up with an extra-large latte and a chocolate chip cookie that is about the size of a salad plate. I will either keel over from sugar shock or be so hyped up for the rest of the day that I accomplish all my tasks without even blinking.

I’m hoping for the latter. After all, if I’m busy burning through my various work tasks, I’ll have no time to think about the impending torment of a visit with my family.

The cookie is about the best thing ever, and I have to talk myself out of buying another one as I stand and crumple my napkin. The only trash can is by the coffee cart, and as I head in that direction, I’m facing the loading area, a small section of road set off from the main traffic flow along South Grand Avenue to allow for cars to pick up and drop off passengers at Stark Tower.

I’m not really looking for anything in particular, but as I’m turning to head back toward the building entrance, something familiar catches my eye. I shift back around, and see that it is Jackson. He is standing by the passenger door of a small, red sedan.

I take a step toward him, but then he opens the door, and a tall, slender redhead steps out. She’s familiar and vibrant and lovely, and she puts her hands on Jackson’s shoulders and brushes his lips with a kiss.

My delicious cookie suddenly turns to acid in my stomach. Because I know this woman. True, I’ve never formally met her. But I know her name. I know he cares about her. And I also know that he has slept with her.

Megan.

I stand frozen to the spot, as if my feet are anchored by the weight of my jealousy.