She nods and walks up to the desk, picking up a pile of papers. "Where do you want me?" she asks, and it's a good thing she's close because otherwise I might not have heard her.
Well, that's a loaded question. "Anywhere you can find a spot. Those are bills," I say, pointing to her hand. "I tried organizing some but I got busy."
She looks around the room, chewing her bottom lip again.
That move is enough to drive a man insane. "Sit, Jasmine." My tone is firm but gentle, my curiosity winning out, needing to know how she'll respond to the command.
Her body stiffens but she doesn't move.
Piles upon piles of paperwork lay on the couch, tossed haphazardly, so deep that I only know it's black leather because I remember what it was like before it became a breeding ground for invoices. Why doesn't she just move them so that she can sit down?
Instead of making her stand there waiting, since she clearly is not going to move until I do something about it, I walk up to the couch. Moving the papers from the cushions to the floor, I step back. "Sit," I repeat, my voice firm.
She quickly moves to the couch and sits, her body relaxing.
Control.
Something about being told what to do has a calm wash over her.
Interesting.
Chapter Three
Jasmine
I don't know what's going on.
Every time he tells me what to do I have this urge to listen. A compulsion to act. When he speaks, his voice seeps into my skin and seems to invade every inch of me, until all I can focus on is him.
As I sift through the mess, from time to time I catch him glancing at me. It isn't a normal look. It is a dark gaze behind hooded eyes, eyes that feel like they can see into the depths of my soul. It scares me. I don't like drawing attention to myself. I spend most of my time actively working to avoid it. And I certainly don't need or want Cutter's attention. Dylan would kill me for not only working here, but for ever acknowledging that someone else might find me attractive.
Maybe he can see how broken I am? Scrap that, I'm sure he can. Dylan has told me before that a man can spot a weak woman right away. That's what I am: weak.
I lose my grip on the stack of papers in my hand and they scatter all over the floor. Heart racing in my chest, I look up to see if he is watching. Thankfully, his back is turned to me, his attention on the phone grasped in his large hand.
I drop to the floor, trying to scoop up the papers before he can notice my mistake. When I reach under the coffee table to get the few there, I hit my head on the edge and have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, my ears ringing and a sore patch already forming on my crown.
I can feel his eyes on me before I even look up. I choose not to make eye contact but to just keep picking up the papers, trying to not screw up more than I already have. My fingers dig into the papers, causing small dents and creases where they were once unmarred. I don't care how tight I have to hold them. I can't lose this job.
That's when he appears in front of me. He crouches down and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I jump at the unexpected contact. "Are you okay?"
God, now he's going to think that I'm some damn freak. I knew Dylan was right, but the realization still causes an ache in my chest. Anywhere I go, they'll see me for what I am, what I always have been: an idiot who can never accomplish anything.
I need to get out of here. I stand and shove the papers in my hand at him, almost tripping over my own feet as I begin to walk toward the door. When I feel a strong hand close upon my wrist, tugging gently to spin me around to face him, I freeze in fear.
"Where are you going?"
I train my eyes on the floor. "I just . . . I need to leave. I'm sorry I've wasted your time."
He doesn't let go of my wrist and the familiar panic starts to rise up inside of me. We stand there in silence before he speaks again. "Look at me."
My body reacts to his command instantaneously, and when I meet his gaze, I await his next instruction.
"What happened to you?"
He's not talking about my head. I just know it. My chest feels tight and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. My shirt sticks to my skin and I feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone. Then they would all know how pathetic I am. How I can't even do the one thing a woman is meant for and keep the man in her life happy.
He leads me back to the couch. "I don't want you to leave. Stay."
A knock at the door makes me jump and Cutter releases my wrist. I immediately pull it to me, my fingers searching for the pain that should be there, but that is noticeably absent. I look down. There isn't even a red mark.