He meets my eyes. Mine, I’m sure are needy. His are as cold as arctic ice. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
He might as well have slapped me. “You know what, Jackson, screw it.” I see him take a step back as if in defense against a blow, but I’m too far gone to care. “You want to hold on to your secrets, then you just fucking do that.”
I storm off, feeling like an idiot, and not at all sure if he’s the one who’s off or if I am.
Back in my cubicle, I try to concentrate. Try, but don’t succeed.
I know that I’m being jealous, but dammit, I don’t care. I wanted him today—needed him. And he wasn’t there. Because he was with the one woman other than me that he’d not only slept with, but that he’d cared about.
So, yeah, maybe it’s stupid or bitchy or unfair, but I’m going to wallow. Because so long as I’m pissed off and moody about this, then at least all the shit with my father and brother stays buried under a load of irrelevant angst.
Fuck.
“Bad day?”
I spin around in my chair to find Karen standing at the edge of my cubicle holding a vase full of yellow roses.
I grimace. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve heard way more colorful language on the floor.”
“Sorry. And yeah, this isn’t the best of days.”
“Maybe these will help.” She passes me the flowers. “They just came for you.”
“Really?” I suppose I should have clued in; it’s not like Karen wanders the halls with roses. But I guess I assumed she was walking them to the coffee station to fill the vase with water. “Who are they from?”
But that’s a question that I ask only for form. Of course I know who sent them. And the heart that had been feeling so heavy flutters a bit in my chest.
Just to be sure, I peek at the card.
I’m just one floor away, but it feels like worlds apart.
I’m sorry.
J.
I tuck the card in my purse, and smile at Karen. “You’re right. They helped.”
“Glad to hear it.” She takes a step back toward the reception area, then pauses. “If Jackson shows up, should I send him straight back?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You do that.”
I’m about to type out a quick sorry I was a bitch text, but before I even start typing, I get a call from Cass.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“That’s what I want to know,” she says. “Do I need to come over there and bitch-slap your boyfriend?”
Either my best friend has completely lost it or—“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the redheaded twit. Who is she? Have you seen this shit? Hang on.”
She’s rattling her words off so fast I can barely process them, and I’ve just opened my mouth to ask her to please slow down when she sends me a text with a website link.
“Did it come through? Click on it.”
“Hang on.” I don’t want to—I really don’t want to. Because whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. But I need to know, and so I click. And then, yes, I curse.
“Oh, fuck.”
The site is one of the eight billion celebrity gossip sites. But this one is operated like social media. So someone can start a story, and then site members can add to it with comments or photos. This one starts with an image of Jackson, his head bent close to Megan’s, his face full of so much affection that I really just want to throw up.
There’s a headline, too. Starchitect Jackson Steele: Hollywood’s newest member of Club Bad Boy?
“Oh, god,” I say.