Page 86 of On the Edge

He clears his throat. “I just sent you an email, which you should check immediately. I need your ass back here in Park Citynow. If you’re lucky, I’ll be able to save your job. But I’m not making any promises.” His voice is level, but hard. TJ rarely gets truly angry, but when he does, the master of avoidance is more likely to give you the silent treatment than to show how pissed he is.

“What?” I sputter.

“Just check your email. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning.” The line goes dead.

I sink into the couch closest to me as Nate calls out “What’s going on?” from across the large, open space.

“I’m not sure,” I say as I pull up my email on my phone. At the top, there’s an email from TJ. It’s been forwarded from Matt McCarthy, but the original email was sent from some address that’s a random mixture of letters and numbers, obviously intended to be unrecognizable. The subject line is “Nate Davenport in Big Sky.”

I scroll further down, and then I’m paralyzed with fear and shame and anger. There in graphic detail, in picture after picture, is my training session with Nate two days ago. In each picture I’m wearing fewer and fewer clothes, and there are several of Nate and I having sex on the floor.

People I work with saw these.

At least the photographer blurred out anything that could get him or her charged with distributing pornography, but it’s still clear enough what was happening. And it’s clear it happened while we were working. Yes, we were in the privacy of Nate’s home—though obviously it wasn’t as private as I thought—but we were clearly doing a PT session.

Oh shit. I may have said that instead of thinking it, because suddenly Nate’s standing right behind me asking, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I can’t speak. It’s all I can do to hand him my phone and let him look for himself while I sit there with my elbows on my knees, head in hands, taking deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating.

“Shit.” He walks to the floor to ceiling windows in the living room, and looks out at the full evergreen trees lining the edge of his property where the photographer must have hidden. He comes back and says, “TJ sent these to you?”

“Yeah, and if you look at the email you can see the message was forwarded from Matt.”

Nate’s growl is full of frustration, but he doesn’t seem to be feeling the overwhelming embarrassment that’s got me feeling like I’m in the midst of a hot flash. Then suddenly my stomach is turning over. I run for the half bath off the hallway and make it just in time to empty the contents of my lunch into the toilet bowl.

This can’t be happening.This is a hundred times worse than the picture of Marco and I leaving that bar together in that hotel in Italy. But at least these pictures aren’t in the news or on social media. Actually, for all I know, they might be.

This cannot be happening. But it is, and I’ve never felt more powerless in my life.

“You okay?” Nate asks from the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m just great.”

He sets my phone on the counter. “I forwarded that email to myself and I’m going to start looking into who sent it. Don’t worry, Jax, I’ll take care of this.”

“Take care of it?” I ask from my knees, looking up at him in the doorway. I’ve got my hair in one hand and am wiping snot from under my nose with my other. My voice sounds hysterical, even to my own ears. “Aside from the tremendous violation of privacy, Nate, and the fact that my boss and yours both saw them, those pictures are probably going to cost me my job. I’m being called back to Park City, and TJ said he’d try to save me from getting fired, but he couldn’t make any promises.” I stand and flush the toilet.

“Give me a little time to start looking into who sent the email initially so we can isolate that piece at least.”

I don’t even care who sent the pictures. They can’t be unsent. I’m going to lose my job, and will also have to kiss the Danforth job goodbye. And all Nate cares about is figuring out who sent the pictures? “Fine,” I say as I scoot past his frame in the doorway, and head upstairs to his bedroom.

When I hit the top of the stairs I look down over the half wall that separates the upstairs landing from the living space below. He’s already got his laptop out on the dining room table and is on the phone. He’s talking quietly so I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but I don’t care. I head to the bedroom, pull the one suitcase I never unpacked out of the closet, and throw the other empty one on the bed. I grab clothes and start stuffing them in as quickly as I can. In the bathroom, I dump all my toiletries into another bag, grab my makeup bag, and throw them both on top of the mess that is my suitcase.

Then I realize I left my phone downstairs in the bathroom, so I go back down to grab it, only to see that I have an email notification from Annie on my home screen. The subject line is:Interview date and time.

The timing could not be more ironic. I’m going to get fired, which means Danforth will cancel the interviewagain. Instead of opening the email, I text the car service we used when we arrived, asking for the quickest ride to the airport possible. The driver replies that he can be at the house in fifteen minutes, so I carry one suitcase down the stairs followed by the other. Nate’s got his back to me and his AirPods in and is engrossed in whatever he’s doing, which involves an awful lot of swearing. I grab the few things I have lying around the living room—the book I’m reading, my Waves wireless headphones, and the cropped sweatshirt that started this mess—and throw them all into my purse because I’m not sure I’d be able to zip my suitcase closed again if I opened it and added anything else.

With my bags, boots, and coat at the front door ready to go, I stand at the kitchen island watching Nate, waiting for him to seek me out, to make sure I’m okay. He still hasn’t gotten off the phone or looked up from his computer. He clearly cares more about figuring out who took and sent the pictures than he does about the fact that I’m going to lose my job. I don’t know why I thought this was going to work, or how we’d keep it a secret.

When the text from the driver comes, I’m so pissed off at him that I debate leaving without even telling him. But even as upset as I am, I won’t do that to him. I know how it feels to have the person you love leave without saying goodbye.

He’s so engrossed in what he’s doing that he actually startles when I put my hand on his shoulder. He takes in my coat and boots, and his brows furrow.

“I need to get back to Park City,” I say.

He takes his AirPods out, pushes his chair back, and stands to face me. “Wait, what? You’re not leaving now?”

“I am. TJ wants me in his office first thing tomorrow morning.”

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