Snap out of it.
Not a second too soon, I drop her hand and nod my goodbyes.
I’m not even to the door when Sarzó starts listing off more things for Cate to do.
I’m starting to see why Cate is so uptight about her work. It must demand everything she has to give.
Don’t worry, I think to myself. She’ll have more to give. For you.
Chapter Fourteen
Cate
By Friday, I’m completely rattled by Jax’s presence in the office.
He comes and goes when he pleases, but he’s always there at 5:00, when I walk down the hall to meet with him about the things we’ve done that day.
I’m about to go to our third meeting, but my head is pounding. I can’t get my heart to stop hammering in my chest.
Every meeting is torture. Sitting across from him, wanting to touch him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to bite him—and knowing all the time that Sandra is watching the clock. She agreed to these meetings, but she hates them. Every day at 4:30 she adds more confirmations, more scheduling, to my list, and when I get back from Jax’s office at 5:30, she’s inevitably irritated that I haven’t done them all yet.
So I’m scrambling to send out the last few emails when the clock on my computer screen ticks over to 5:29.
I’m outside Jax’s door at 5:30 sharp, pulling it open and stepping into the silence. He works without a secretary, and by Wednesday afternoon he’d had the clear glass doors leading to his inner office replaced by opaque ones.
Raising my hand to the metal detailing on the door, I knock softly, three times, and wait.
“Come in,” he says from the other side of the door, his voice muffled by the thick, dark glass.
It’s even quieter inside the sanctuary he’s created for himself. Since Wednesday I haven’t seen him outside it unless he’s coming or going, but I can’t imagine that he spends his days sitting here, waiting for 5:00.
He’s writing something in a leather-bound journal of some kind, and it takes several moments after I sit down for him to look up. When he does, his eyes light up. His gaze is fiery even if his mouth remains in a neutral line.
“I’ve got my notes from the day, Mr. Hunter. Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to begin?”
“Let’s get to the meat of it, Ms. Schaffer,” he says, leaning forward. “Has there been progress on the major features?”
“Sandra finished with approvals for the Prada showcase, and the lineup for the menswear section has also been given final approvals.” I look down at my notes, but his eyes never leave my face. Every time I glance up, his look of pure longing and lust sucks a little more of my breath away. I continue down through my notes.
It takes five minutes to give him all the information I have.
At the end, I lapse into silence, looking across the desk into his blue eyes. They’re still locked on my face. He is clearly not thinking about the inner workings of Basiqué.
It pisses me off. What right does he have to take up my time like this?
“Does this even matter to you?” I say, not bothering to keep the frustration from my voice.
He only looks a little shocked. “Does what matter to me?”
“Basiqué. Are you actually concerned with the day-to-day here? How is that going to help you decide if you’re going to close down the magazine or not?” I hate how shrill my voice sounds, but I can’t help myself. The past three days have been a hundred times more exhausting than the entire past year. It’s awful to be so close to Jax and not touch him, even though I know I can’t. I just can’t.
Jax studies me from across the desk, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and all at once I feel a rush of fear and regret. What if my outburst is what makes the decision for him? He can’t be that volatile, can he?
“You’re out of line, Ms. Schaffer.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I choke out the words. “I know. I’m sorry.” I clutch the papers in my hands, my palms slick. “Was there anything…anything else you wanted to know?”
“Yes.” His voice is so smooth, so sultry, that it tears me in two. I want to listen to him talk all day. And I want to run from the room. “Are you always this high-strung? Always so confrontational?”
The question stings. “No,” I say, a couple of tears pricking in the corners of my eyes. My voice is much softer than I intended it to be. “No, I’m not. I’m usually—” I have to look away. “This is a very demanding job, and I need it to work out.”
“How so?”
“I can’t—” Talking about it without crying will be impossible. “Getting to a stable place is—it’s everything to me. If I can survive working with her for another year, maybe two, it’ll be my ticket to any job I want in the city. I’ve put—” My breath is coming hard and fast. “I’ve put so much into this job over the past year. So much. If the magazine goes under, it’ll all be for nothing.”