Page 24 of Middle Ground
Maybe it’s childish, running off.They’re just cookies, Meyer, get it together. But I need to leave before I say something I’ll regret. Sharp, bitter words lace my tongue.
A hand catches my elbow as I reach the lip of the corridor. Shaking Jackson off, I make a beeline for the office. He’s still hot on my heels, so I don’t even bother attempting to close the door behind me.
Though I would love nothing more than to slam it in his face.
The tray of muffins clatters to the desk. My back to Jackson, I brace myself against the sturdy piece of furniture. I bite my lip, hard, as I blink furiously to will away the unwanted tears.
“Are you okay?”
He’s a lot closer than I want him to be. He hasn’t touched me again, but I can feel his presence hovering just over my shoulder. Watching. Analyzing.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say. With one final hardblink, I turn around. Jackson’s honey eyes roam over me. I ignore this, searching through the purse on my shoulder until I find the stack of papers. Those goddamn papers. I wish I could set them on fire. “Mr. Montaigne dropped these off last night.”
He doesn’t ask what they are. He knows. Heknew. He knew about Cherie’s hand in all this. Maybe not always, but he certainly knew before me, and that leaves me feeling at a disadvantage. Yet again.
Jackson barely grasps the pages before I retract my hand, like he’s a live wire and I’m in danger of electrocution. I watch as he scribbles an initial here and there. Then my intake of breath is sharp when he signs the last page.
He offers me the pen, andfuck, it’s like he’s holding out that stupid box of cookies all over again.
What’s worse is that in his gaze is the absolute last thing I want to see. Understanding.
“We can wait,” he says. “We don’t have to do this right now.”
Well, he can try, but Jackson Vaughandoesn’tunderstand me. He doesn’t understand me at all.
I pluck the pen from his fingers. Quickly, so I don’t think on it too hard, I flip through the pages, initialing and signing. Then I drop the pen.
“There.” I shove the papers toward him.
“I’ll get them to the lawyer after the meeting.”
I nod stiffly. “Fine.”
His gaze is still probing. “Ready to head back?” he asks.
I nod again, making my way out the door. I hear Jacksonfollow me out, but I don’t slow my pace. When we enter the restaurant, all eyes turn to us.
“That cookie was bloody delicious,” Marsaili, one of the housekeepers, says. Her Scottish lilt has never fully gone away, even though she’s lived in Canada for over thirty years. “Between that and my breakfast, I’ve got no room left.”
“I hope you have a bit of room,” Jackson says, “or else I’ll have to keep all of Ms. Ellison’s muffins for myself.”
Turning to him, I find he’s holding the muffin tray I purposefully left on the desk.
Marsaili perks up. “Blueberry?” she asks me.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I know it’s a fan favourite.”
“Give ‘er here, lad. Perhaps I’ll just have a wee taste.”
Herweetaste turns into her devouring the whole thing. Everyone else follows suit, and as I watch the baked goods quickly disappear, I’m reminded that I do have people in my corner.
Jackson passes the tray around and eventually takes his own.
His intention is clear, and begrudgingly, I appreciate him a little for it. Even feel a bit sorry for intending to bribe the staff. Then I remember that he did the same thing and the guilt melts away.
Well played, Vaughan.
When everyone seems to be satisfied, well on their way to a sugar high from the sweet treats, I settle into my place at the front of the room. Jackson stands beside me.
