I spend the entire ride fantasizing about what it would be like to be my own boss. To set my own hours. To make the decisions about what stays and go. Books—I could work with books. I never have time to read anymore. I got into the magazine business because I loved writing and reading, not fashion, but now fashion has taken me over.
Things haven’t improved much by the time I collect the drink carrier from Manuel, but being in the Basiqué building at least forces me to get into some semblance of work mode. I hold myself upright as best as I can, but people keep giving me looks, their foreheads wrinkled, corners of their mouths turned down.
Once in the office I breathe a sigh of relief. Sandra is not here yet, but I only have a few minutes at best.
Coffee on desk. Carrier in recycling bin. Dusting is out of the question—how will I raise my arms, it would be so tiring, how—and just in time I get myself to the door to meet Sandra on her way in.
She’s already talking as she hands me her purse and a gauzy shawl that matches her outfit, and it’s an incredible effort to get it into the closet, hung up, her purse on the hanger. My hands shake as I grab for the notebook and follow her into her office.
I’m standing right next to her desk but her voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.
Rodarte, I write on the notepad.
Reschedule approvals on menswear feature, I scribble, but the last two words blur, run into each other, seem to slide off the page.
“Catherine,” she says sharply, and I look up into her narrowed eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically, which is a mistake. It makes my vision go hazy.
“Good.” When I look up again, Sandra is looking back down at something on her desk.
I can get through this.
I will get through this.
Another stream of instructions from Sandra and I pull my shoulders back, trying to remind myself that I’m at work, that I need to be on top of this, I need to perform, but now the words are coming too fast, my hands can’t keep up, I have a splitting headache, it’s blinding, blinding…
There is a sound at the door and I lift my head, it weighs a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, and Jax is framed in the door, he’s saying something to me, his eyes serious and wide, he’s reaching for me, but I’m falling, falling…
I don’t know how long I’m out.
The gentle sound of beeping is what brings me out of it, little by little.
At first I hear the sound, and then I feel the cool blankets over me, the rougher fabric of a hospital gown against my skin.
And the pressure of a hand in mine.
It’s hard to open my eyes, so hard, so I take my time, but when I get them open, blinking in the light of the hospital room, there’s Jax, sitting by the bed, holding tightly to my hand, looking into my face.
He gives my hand the gentlest squeeze, and swallows.
“You should know,” he says softly, looking into my eyes, “that I love you, Cate. I love you.”
I have to lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, before I answer him, and when I do it’s an exhausted whisper. “I love you, too. Please stay?”
“Of course,” he says. “Sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jax
After two days in the hospital getting treated for what the doctors say is a case of exhaustion that needs to be carefully managed, I bring Cate back to the penthouse.
“This is where you live?” she breathes as we step off the elevator.
“Here, and the floor beneath.” Cate isn’t nearly as small town as she thinks she is. Her time in the fashion industry has given her an acute sense of the value of the things money can buy, and living in New York City will give anyone an appreciation for how expensive space can be, when people climbing the career ladder live six to an apartment.
I was one of those people once.
Never again.
She looks up at me, somehow glamorous in black yoga pants and a matching tank, and her smile is skeptical and delighted at the same time. “You need two floors? For just you?”
“And you.”
Cate shakes her head. “Be serious. Two floors?”
“It’s not just me. My gym takes up about a third of the space. There’s a separate guest suite, and then space for my staff.”
Her expression turns incredulous. “How many people work here?”
“I have a full-time chef, a personal assistant who’s here about four hours most days, a driver, a personal shopper, a housekeeper, and a bodyguard.”
“I’ve never seen your bodyguard.”
“You wouldn’t have. My driver, Peter, doubles as security during times that aren’t particularly threatening, like my trips to the Basiqué office. Lance is on retainer in case of unforeseen circumstances. Right now—” I check the time on my phone. “—Laurence is here, Gloria has already made her rounds, I don’t need anything purchased today, and there’s no reason for me to think a threat is imminent. Would you like to meet Laurence?”