5. Jackson

What passed as a coding lab in the building was abhorrently sad. I knew for a fact that it had an effect on our employees—barely any natural light, low ceilings, drab fluorescent lighting—but I still expected better than the shit I was being given.

"Making this many mistakes is unacceptable," I stated, pointing toward the screen behind me. "There was never this much of an issue back in Chicago. I know you all are better than this."

Mumbles of "sorry, sir"echoed throughout the room. I knew I was being harsh, knew I was nit-picking. But our investors expected better, I expected better, and goddammit, why was Mandy still in the back of my mind?

"I need perfection," I snapped, turning off the monitor. "Don't make me tell you again."

Everything in me was telling me to shut up and go back to my office. I was irritable, angry, and frustrated all because of Mandy. Part of me wanted to cancel the entire thing, move everyone back to Chicago, rip up my contract with LV. and never think about her again. But I'd put so much effort into this, I'd risked everything.

Everything for someone who would rather I didn't even exist.

Slowly, methodically, I made my way back toward my office. I needed to get away from all of it, even for an hour, but I knew I couldn't. I had a reporter waiting for me, I had people to please, a business to run. I just didn't want to do any of it.

"Jackson?"

I turned, expecting Angela to be staring at me with hatred but instead I was met with my spitting image. Black hair, much longer than mine; tanned skin; a scowl that could curdle dairy.

My sister.

"Jesus, did Mom send you?" I snarled, turning away from her as an instruction to follow me.

"Obviously." Her heels clacked on the tile as she walked. "You're expected at brunch this weekend. Mom said you haven't responded to her text."

"I didn't respond because I'm not going," I snapped, turning on the ball of my foot to face her. "I'm busy. She knows that. I can't believe she sent you all the way out to goddamn Colorado just to convince me, and it's even worse that you agreed to do it, Tiana."

"You know mom has her ways." Her eyes glanced around the dimly lit hallway, her young face scrunched up. "This place is shit. I hope you're not staying here."

"I'm obviously not staying here. We're building a new office, which, by the way, you'd already know if you paid any attention during our weekly ‘family' calls." The door to my office felt like a barrier between me and the journalist, and although I'd much rather stay out in the hall and chat with my annoying little sister, I was already late for the interview. "Tell Mom I'll consider it. I have to get back to work."

"Fine," she groaned, tipping her head back in frustration. "You're the worst. And your attitude is shit, Jack."

————

"So, Jackson. I think I'll start with the question every woman in America wants to know…"

No. Please, no.

"Why are you still single?"

I sighed as I leaned back in my chair, my irritation already flaring. Every single time I got interviewed it was always the same shit—why are you single, do you have any women in your life right now, what's your idea of a perfect date.

You'd think with the number of times I was asked about my love life that I was Taylor Swift and not the head of one of the biggest tech corporations in America.

"To be honest, Clara, I've been far too busy with our latest AI model, Infinius."

"It's Claire."

"Okay, well, to be honest, Claire, I've been too busy with Infinius," I repeated, preventing myself from rolling my eyes as I said the words.

"We'll get to Infinius later. What I and the readers are desperate to hear more about, though, is if you're seeing anyone," she explained, her lips tilting upward as she dragged the clicker of her pen along her bottom lip.

"No, I'm not," I clipped, sitting forward in my chair and resting my elbows on the desk. I knew I'd have to tell her eventually. It always went down like this until I answered their incessant questioning, leaving little to no time to actually talk about the things Iwas proud of and about the company. "Can we move on now?"

"Of course we can. Just a few more questions on this topic though." She slowly shifted her position, uncrossing her legs then crossing them the opposite way and slightly leaning forward, emphasizing her chest. I fucking hated it. "What do you look for in a woman? What's your type?"

"How is this relevant?"

"It's what our readers want to know."

"Jesus," I sighed. I rubbed at my eyes, pushing just a little too hard on the socket and making a headache bloom beneath the surface. Not you, I wanted to say. "Brunettes," I replied, and she perked up as she pulled her brown, straight hair over her shoulder. "Curly hair. Dimples. Tanned, but in a subtle, natural way. Athletic body, not too tall."

Her grin faded as she started to realize I was not, in fact, talking about her. "Sounds like you have someone in mind."

Shit. "No. I just know my type," I explained. My back and shoulders began to ache, the irritation of my current predicament forcing pain upon myself from flexing too much. I could feel every inch of fabric on my skin, could feel the lining of my sock against the tip of my toes. I hated it. I wanted out of there.

"Now that you've moved to Boulder…" she started, and oh thank God, I think we're on the right track, "…do you plan to involve yourself in the dating scene here?"

I clenched my hands into fists to keep from making an outburst. I knew how to handle the media, how to deal with them, to answer politely and be civil. I learned at a young age since my family was always in the public eye. But with the stress of moving my company and Mandy being so goddamn stubborn, it was harder than usual. "Probably not. At least not until I've got all the quirks worked out with the new campus."

She nodded as she jotted something down on her pad of paper, slowly inching her body back into a relaxed position and not one that was meant to tempt me. "Speaking of the new campus you're building, will you be hosting a grand opening? Maybe some sort of soiree to announce yourselves to the area?"

My brows lifted in surprise as I realized this wasn't another question digging into my love life. "I… hadn't thought about that. We've got some time until we open, so maybe once we get there I'll consider it. We're still in the process of sorting out the interiors?—"

"Will it be open-invite? Will you be in attendance?"

For fucks sake, it was just a ploy to get a date out of me. "I don't know yet as I haven't planned it."

"Right." More notes, more pen scratches, and all I wanted to do was escape back to my apartment. "You said you were sorting the interiors. Are you hiring outside help or a Boulder-based company?"

"Boulder-based, actually. We've hired LV Interiors. They'll be working closely alongside us to perfect the inside of the building." Her pen scratched again in tandem with the sound of my foot tapping the floor. "Would you like to know more about Infinius?" I asked.

"Yes, in a moment." She leaned forward, pulling a second notepad out of her bag. "I have a few questions specifically from the readers if that's okay with you."

"The same readers who are so intensely obsessed with my love life?" I snapped. Her answering glare nearly made me recoil, but I pulled my irritation back. "Sorry."

"You're one of the most eligible, and wealthiest bachelors in the country. Of course you're going to have women wanting you, Jackson Big," she explained, her tone tense, almost as if her patience with me was waning.

"I understand that."

"Perfect. So, first question. Have you dated any women outside of the public eye?"

Sighing, I resigned to myself that this was always going to be where the questions led. "Yes. I'm not public with my relationships."

"But you are single, correct?" She asked, that pen dragging again along her lips. If she was trying to entice me, it wasn't working.

"Yes."

"Are you looking?"

"In a sense," I answered, not entirely sure how to form a response to that kind of question based on my current circumstance.

"Would you ever date someone that wasn't in the same tax bracket as yourself?"

I snorted. What an absurd question. "Obviously. Do people really ask that?"

"They do," she confirmed, that air of professionalism making a return.

The questions only got worse—What's your favorite sex position? What color do you like best on a woman? Butts or breasts? Perfect first date?It was a miracle I didn't lose my absolute shit with her.

I spent the majority of the last five minutes of the meeting talking her ear off about Infinius, but she barely wrote down a word I said. It was pointless, and I was beginning to believe it would always be that way.

As she walked out of my office, her ass far too large for the skirt she was wearing and clinging on for dear life, I had a thought. One I'd never considered before, one that maybe my mother with all of her scheming had thought of long before me. If I had someone, anyone, by my side, surely the media would stop asking questions. They'd have to.

As much as I wanted that person to be Mandy and to have a second chance with her, that seemed way too far off to consider. I had to think of something else. Something fake. I didn't need to be getting involved with anyone on any real terms, didn't need an actual relationship. I could make one up, one that would satisfy my mother and the media, hopefully stop their incessant questioning over who I was sleeping with. Hopefully it would also fulfill my own desire to get them off my back.

The question left, then, was the most important one.

Who?