Page 11 of Enemies Off Camera
I jump slightly, surprised to be staring into the eyes of the last person I want to see right now.
The world stands still as we stand here, staring. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t want to get trapped in an elevator with him. But... God, he looks good.
Black athletic pants. Matching jacket. He’s clean. Fresh. Not a trace of worry or exhaustion on his face. Meanwhile, I look—and feel—like I’ve been dragged through a cyclone.
“You’re going up,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s an order.
That bossy tone of his is like nails on a chalkboard. I almost tell him I’ll take the next elevator—but I need him soft today. I need him pliable. He has to go along with my plan, and if I put him in combative mode, then he’ll push back.
So I say nothing. I step in and take a position as far from him as possible.
Of course, he doesn’t move.
No, heplantshimself dead center, like the elevator’s his personal stage.
Asshole.I really don’t like this guy.
He’s so unaware. So smug.
The longer I stand here, the more his presence bothers me. So, to push him back, I fake a coughing fit. Loud. Uncovered. I don’t know much about athletes, but I’m pretty sure they’re obsessive about their health.
“How’s it been going?” he asks, entirely unbothered.
There’s a smirk. Barely perceptible—but I see it. He knows I’m faking.
I give up the ruse with a sigh. “Did you watch the show?” I ask abruptly.
He looks ahead. “Yeah.”
I wait. But apparently, that’s all he has to say.
“What did you think?” I press.
He shrugs. “That guy really liked you.”
I chuckle despite myself. “That girl really liked you.”
Then I tilt my head. “But... come on.”
His brown eyes cut to me—sharp. Like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“I don’t like you, Jaxon. And you don’t like me. So what the hell are they doing?”
He sighs like he’s deflating—letting every ounce of air drain from that tall, lean, perfectly sculpted body.
The elevator dings.
“It’s just a show, Zara,” he says, stepping aside to let me exit first.
I take the hint and step out. “Yeah, but it’s afakeshow. Aren’t you...”
I search for the word, too tired to come up with the perfect one.
“Offended,” Jaxon supplies, walking beside me.
“Yes,” I say, relieved he gets it. “Offended.”
At the receptionist desk, a very pretty, very thin, veryyoungwoman shoots to her feet like she’s just been told to stand for royalty. I’ve seen this type a dozen times since signing with the agency. Turnover’s high. Faces blur.
