“And you look like shit.”
I pause mid-stride. Grit my teeth.
Breathe.
Keep walking.
I hit my office and drop into my chair with a groan, raking a hand over my jaw. The weekend is still stuck to me, wrapped around my brain like static. Rorie’s voice, Rorie’s lips, Rorie’s?—
Nope. Not going there.
Jackson appears again, of course. The man is a housefly with a trust fund and too much free time. He plants himself in the guest chair across from me because of course he does.
“Is there something you want?” I ask, leveling him with a look. “Besides to be a walking HR complaint?”
He leans back, grinning. “Thatcher wants to see you. About the Cross party.”
My stomach dips, just slightly. I can do damage control in my sleep, but Thatcher?
He’s not exactly known for handing out grace. And I know that party wasn’t a clean win. Rorie hijacked everything with style, sass, and a damn sparkler.
And Asher ate it up.
“I’ve got drinks with Shelby this week,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Saturday was bad, Nolan. She sabotaged us.”
“No, she one-upped us.” I grab my mouse and click through unread emails, trying to ignore the way my jaw tightens.
But I can’t, not when I’m already carrying too much tension. And especially not when I’m fairly certain Jackson’s the reason for Rorie’s anger toward me slash us. Since he’s the one dishing out thestrategic flexibilitytalk.
“Speaking of sabotage,” I say. “Did you undercut another firm’s rates by thirty percent just to land a deal?”
Jackson blinks. Shrugs. “What if I did?”
“How’d you know what they were offering?”
His smirk sharpens. “I’m playing the game.”
“Yeah, playing fast and loose with predatory pricing and dragging the entire firm into a legal shitstorm.” I lean in. “That kind of stunt puts us on the radar. We start violating antitrust laws, and it’s not just dirty—it’sdumb.”
He scoffs, all confidence and recklessness. “Relax. It’s less than a handful of clients. Besides, that kind of thing barely sticks in court. You know that. And hey, if the other guys wanted to win, they should’ve been smarter.”
Jesus Christ.
“And I’m the one getting dragged into Thatcher’s office?” I snap. “Unbelievable.”
Jackson checks his watch, already bored. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m ready to watch him rip you a new one. Front row seat.”
My phone buzzes, screen lighting up with a new message fromTextually Frustrated.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, Jackson’s nosylittle eyes catch the notification. His gaze bounces back to me with mock horror.
“Textually Frustrated?” he repeats, like he’s just witnessed a crime. “That’s got to be the saddest, thirstiest pet name I’ve ever heard. You sexting your therapist now?”
“Get out before I forward your browser history to IT.”
He rises slowly, chuckling. “Love our little chats, buddy.”
