“Thank you.” That was it. That was all I had to say. Two words. Six syllables. A toddler could manage it.
But every time I thought about standing in front of him, looking into those blue eyes, acknowledging out loud that he had done something good for me—my chest got tight and my palmsgot sweaty and my brain started generating an endless list of reasons why this could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. Or possibly never.
By five o’clock, I had given up on subtlety.
I gathered the weekly reports I was supposed to submit anyway—perfect cover, completely legitimate reason to visit his office—and marched toward the elevator before I could talk myself out of it.
My heart was pounding in my ears.
The executive floor was quiet, most of the staff already gone for the day. Golden evening light poured through the windows, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. I walked past the assistant’s empty desk and stopped at the door to Jack’s office.
It was open.
He was inside, leaning back in his chair, facing the windows. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Tie loosened. Hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked tired, and for some reason that made my chest ache in a way it absolutely shouldn’t.
I knocked on the doorframe.
He turned and his eyes found mine, “Pauline. Come in.”
I stepped inside. Aware of every inch of space between us, every breath he took, the way his gaze tracked me as I moved.
“I have the weekly reports.” I held up the folder like a shield. “Figured I’d drop them off before I left.”
“You could have emailed them.”
“I could have.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “But you didn’t.”
I cleared my throat. “I wanted to thank you. For last night.”
“Thank me for what?”
My fingers tightened on the folder. “You know what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Of course he couldn’t just accept a simple thank you like a normal person. He had to make me work for it, had to watch me squirm.
I took a breath. “Thank you. For showing up. For getting me out of there. For driving me home.”
The smugness faded. Something else took its place—softer, and somehow more dangerous.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said quietly. “I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand.”
The words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there. I didn’t know what to do with them. Didn’t know how to respond to this version of Jack who was constantly burrowing into my skin.
“That’s it, I came to extend my gratitude.”
He smiled—bright and absolutely charmin, his eyes were lighter.
“Well,” he said. “If you really want to thank me properly, I have a proposal.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret asking?”
“There’s a charity gala Saturday night.” He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on mine. “I could use the company.”
I stared at him. “You want me to go to a gala with you.”
