“Exactly.” My gaze met and held hers. Much to my relief, there was no pity in her expression, no judgment, just acceptance. No wonder her first ex had wanted her back. Annabelle Martin was a rare and exotic bird.

“And what will I be designing?” she asked.

“Lexi Brewer is breaking ground on a net-zero housing development in the middle of Phoenix, and she will want you to design every bit of the identity, logo, advertising, etc., attached to it. The media is going to go bananas over this project, which I am quite certain is going to garner national attention.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s huge.”

“As I said.”

One corner of her mouth turned up. “This would make me look really, really good.”

“And I’m sure you’ll do the same at the gala for me.” I held out my hand. “Deal?”

She studied me for a second as if she was looking for the fine print, the hidden warnings, the buried clauses. Then she reached across the space between our chairs and took my hand in hers. So impulsive! The skin-to-skin contact sent a thrum of awareness through me. It occurred to me in that moment that Annabelle Martin was much more dangerous than I’d realized.

“Deal,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Jackson stared at me as if I’d announced I was planning to skydive without a parachute.

“Yes,” I said. It had taken me two days to get the nerve up to do this thing, and my anxiety was making my impatience razor thin and just as cutting.

“Okay, I don’t want to discourage you in any way, but you haven’t left the house, other than to go to the doctor, in over nine months,” he persisted. As if I wasn’t painfully aware of this fact myself.

“Yeah, well, Lexi isn’t taking my calls, so I have no choice,” I said. “I’m going.”

“To her office on the jobsite,” he clarified.

“Did I stutter?” I asked.

Jackson shook his head. Good thing the man had a hide like a rhinoceros and was virtually impossible to insult. “Okay, I’ll bring the car around front.”

“Thanks,” I said. I made it short, because, in truth, I was trying not to freak out, and even thinking about being out there in the world where anything could happen—okay, a stroke, a massive you’re-now-a-potato stroke, could happen and I might not be able to get the care I needed in time—made me feel levels of discomfort found only at a proctologist’s office.

Jackson strode down the hallway, leaving me to ponder possible death or worse in his wake. Always a good time.