As in, not Jackson.
As in, another architect that I will be working with. Because as much as I want Jackson Steele on this project, I don’t want it enough to walk away from the project manager position.
And that is the real elephant in the room. The monkey in my wrench. The worm in my candy bar—I haven’t told Jackson I feel guilty as shit for not quitting the resort. And he hasn’t told me that he doesn’t blame me for doing so.
But I know that he must, because how on earth can he not be pissed? Maybe not that I’m the one who fired him, because that really is on Damien’s shoulders. But that I stayed when I could have walked.
The gray cloud that had settled over me turns stormy, and it’s not even soothed by a double latte and chocolate croissant from Java B’s, the coffee shop in the Stark Tower lobby.
Nor does being at my desk on twenty-seven improve my mood, and for the first time in a long time I wish that I was sitting at the desk outside Damien’s office on thirty-five, and not here in the real estate department. Because every piece of paper I put my finger on reminds me of Jackson.
That’s especially true when I pull Glau’s preliminary sketches from the file and start to study them.
And goddammit, there is no comparison.
Everything about Jackson’s work is better. The presentation. The layout. The flow.
Where the resort that Glau had envisioned is undeniably dramatic, what Jackson has put on paper enhances the beauty of the island. Instead of using Santa Cortez as the equivalent of a concrete slab upon which to plunk an architectural masterpiece, Jackson has incorporated the island into his design. He used the tide pools, the inlets, the hills, and the valleys to define the layout, making the structures seem organic, as if they were part of the land and the sea.
Glau’s resort could be built as easily in Idaho as on Santa Cortez. But Jackson’s vision is inextricably intertwined with the island, so much so that I can imagine no other architect coming close to creating such a sweetly perfect design.
And yet somehow I have to find just such an architect.
Well, damn.
What I should do is march back up to Damien’s office and argue on Jackson’s behalf. But I can’t seem to make myself push back from the desk. I don’t want Damien to think that I’m simply arguing for the man I’m sleeping with, and that frustrates me even more. Because, dammit, the man I’m sleeping with really is the best man for the job.
“Fuck.”
“Trouble?” The voice is cultured East Coast with just enough of a British flair to be inherently sexy. All of which means that it belongs to Aiden Ward, the vice-president of Stark Real Estate Development, and my immediate superior for The Resort at Cortez project.
I twist around in my chair to find him leaning against the entrance to my cubicle, which constitutes my temporary office in the real estate department. When and if I leave Damien’s desk to be a full-time worker bee on this floor, I’ll get an office with a door and windows. Until then, I’m in cubicle land.
“Usually you’re so bloody cheerful,” Aiden says amiably. He has dark blond hair and green eyes that flash when he’s amused. Like now. “Whatever could be the matter?”
I make a face. “Don’t even pretend you haven’t heard.”
“I have, and I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I think Damien’s making a mistake. In this day and age, Jackson’s arrest is hardly a blip. Hell, the PR department could probably have a field day leaking stories to the press. We’d end up selling out opening day so fast we’d have to arrange for a month-long opening extravaganza. What?” he adds, frowning at me.
I shake my head and adjust my expression. “It’s just that I agree with you. Did you talk to Damien?”