Page 40 of Work with Me

– Jackson

What? I let the note flutter down to my pale-blue comforter. Okay, it was a little sweet that he’d sent me medicine for my headache, but why the hell did he think I had hemorrhoids? He had to have crossed some sort of HIPAA line. Clenching my teeth, I snatched up my phone and jabbed in a text.

Me: What the hell, Jackson?

A few seconds later, my phone rang. He’d never called me, so it was the regular ringtone, but his name flashed across the screen.

I hesitated for a second. Texting was safe, almost anonymous. A phone call crossed a line. Hearing his voice, imagining him in his space, and him imagining me in mine, seemed intimate. Especially on a Friday night. Was I ready for that? No.

But he knew I was there. Ignoring the call would make me a coward. I tapped the answer button. “Hello?”

“Didn’t you get my apology note?”

Oh, wow, he was jumping right in. “I got a note with two butt references worthy of a grade-schooler. And the, um, items. I don’t need them.”Hemorrhoid cream. Overstepping asshole.

My bra strap had been digging into my shoulder for hours, and my skirt waistband was tight after I’d gorged on Esmy’s pupusas at dinner. I tugged my blouse over my head and tossed it toward the hamper, but it was too light and fell short.

Jackson’s voice was gentle, soothing. “It was a joke. About how I’m a pain in the ass. I also considered diaper cream and lube, but I thought they might send the wrong message. For different reasons.” He paused when I didn’t say anything. “Did I choose wrong?”

I couldn’t help smiling a little. I had a special appreciation for grade-school potty humor. I released the tight band of my bra, balled it up, and threw it at the hamper, thankful we weren’t on video.

“As usual, you chose very wrong. A greeting card would’ve been much safer.” I yanked open my dresser drawer, found a soft gray UT shirt, and pulled it on, feeling twenty percent better.

“I’m not really into safe.” Jackson sounded a little breathless. “Except for sex. I’m very safe about that.” He paused. “Though not too safe.”

My skin tingled like he’d brushed his fingers over me. I shivered.

Jackson cleared his throat. “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about sex.”

I’d unbuttoned my skirt, but now I felt weird about taking it off. No, heshouldn’tbe talking to me about sex. We worked together. We barely knew each other, spoke as little as possible in the office. Except for his questions about my Tuesday-Thursday commitments and clumsy fumbling about my dating life yesterday at lunch, he’d never asked me about my personal life. It was exactly what I’d wanted when I’d started my consulting business. Focus on the work. No need to get to know each other. No talk about families. The men I worked with would see me as someone exactly like them: no distractions or responsibilities that affected my work. And yet, his deep voice was turning on nerve endings inside me that I’d all but forgotten about.

He said, “Do I need to apologize again?”

I chuckled. “I was waiting to see how deep you’d dig that hole.”

“I think I hit bedrock.”

“Fine. You can stop now. I appreciate the apology.”

We had to be almost done with the call, but I couldn’t wait a second longer. I unzipped my skirt, let it fall to the floor, and stepped out of it. I rubbed at the red lines where the seams had pressed into my skin.

But he wasn’t done. “I really am sorry about lunch yesterday. I’ll admit, I did take you to lunch to get your thoughts on my code. Because I respect you. Because you’re talented. But I should’ve made that clear when I asked you to go with me.”

A warm glow started in my belly, and I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me. I eased on a pair of sleep shorts. “Thanks. And I’m sorry, too. For blowing up at you. It’s just—you hit a nerve. I”—I took a deep breath—“I’ve been on the receiving end of some pretty dismissive comments. At work. Because I’m a woman.” I held my breath.

“You know I’d never—”

“I know. I think I do.”

“I have a sister. She’s a coder, too. She’s told me some stuff. I’m sorry I triggered that for you.”

The tension I’d been holding in my shoulders eased. “No more apologies, okay? We both did our penance when we missed out on Linda’s tacos.”

He laughed, low and sexy.Not sexy!“Next time, I promise lunch will be purely social.”

I scooped up my skirt and blouse and tossed them into the hamper. Social lunches—especially with a man as attractive and brilliant as Jackson Jones—would complicate my orderly life. In fact, they were exactly the opposite of my goal: to keep my work and personal lives separate. No company picnics. No happy hours. Only work and a paycheck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Before he could press, I asked, “Did you find your bug?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Irritation roughened his voice. Good.

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