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Jonah knows Dylan Green. Jonah hates Dylan Green. And I sold him photos of Jonah’s sister. Ah shit. The familiar guilt about my photos flares, and on its heels, dread. This is worse than I thought. What have I gotten myself in the middle of?
I rifle through the rest of the emails but find nothing useful. The door slams open. My head jerks. Jonah. No jacket, hair mussed. His eyes narrow.
“Do I pay you to sit on the floor, Thompson?” My pulse speeds at his hard tone. He’s angry. At me? Hard to say. He always seems to be angry.
“You don’t pay me at all actually,” I mutter, but I shove to my feet. An email flutters to the floor, and we both watch it hit the carpet.
“What is that?” His voice is low, silky, wrapping around me.
“Just trying to file the papers,” I say lightly.
He takes one menacing step forward, and my back hits the shelf. I teeter on my stupid heels, my knee buckling. Before I can grab the shelf, Jonah is there, crushing the emails under his loafers and steadying me with two warm hands on my waist. Mine land on his chest, over the smooth cotton of his white shirt and the hot skin of his chest. He’s firm muscle and spicy cologne and a carefully shaved jaw. He’s also way too close. His breath puffs out against my face, and when I shift my hand over his heart, he inhales sharply. His pulse is racing too. I tilt my head back to watch him. The hunger is there again, in his dark eyes, before he shutters his expression.
“Saving me?” I ask with a smile. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought he was. Maybe there’s a kernel of goodness under that cruel exterior. And suddenly, I would dearly love to find it. I would love to worm my way beneath his skin and figure out what makes him tick. See if there’s more of that hunger beneath all his layers.
His hand tightens on my waist. His eyes harden.
“Not likely. Making sure my property doesn’t get damaged.”
I frown. “But you stepped—oh.” My breath catches as realization sinks in. My stomach bottoms out. “Me,” I whisper. “You mean me.” I shove at his chest and he steps swiftly back. “You think I’m your property?” I choke out the words. He’s worse than I thought. I may not survive this. The realization hits me with stunning clarity.
He smiles coldly. “For five months, thirty days, and—” He checks his watch. “Six hours. And my lunch is late.” He raises a brow. “Hurry up, Thompson.”
My chest is tight. I suck in a breath, and he smirks. His eyes are black fire.
“Something wrong?” He expects me to back down. Never.
I dig my nails into my palm and force a smile. “Let me just grab my purse.”
It takes twenty minutes to get Jonah’s sandwich. It’s a Monday special and half of Midtown Manhattan seems to be getting the same thing. I’m surrounded by a sea of blue suits and construction workers in dusty vests. When they finally call his order, I slump in relief. I have ten minutes to get upstairs, deliver his lunch, and eat the food I brought. I race back to the office, as fast as my heels will allow. I should have changed before leaving. I won’t make that mistake again.
By the time I duck out of the elevator on the fifty-second floor, I’m limping. Jonah’s door is closed, so I slump into my chair in relief. I send him an email to let him know his precious sandwich has arrived and start shoving carrots into my mouth. I’ve just crunched into the fourth when his door opens.
“Thompson.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m so hungry, and I just want five minutes without Jonah’s imperiousness. But I force myself to swallow the carrot and stand. Jonah appears in the door, Miles behind him. Miles’s beauty is approachable, warm, not like Jonah’s cold fire.
Jonah eyes my lunch. “Lunch break is over.” He steps forward.
I step back, protecting my food. I wordlessly pass him the bag with his sandwich. Miles’s lips twist in what looks like sympathy. Jonah takes another step. I put my hand over my carrots and leftover pasta.
“I need you to finish sorting those papers, Thompson.”
My stomach lets out a growl. My face flames. “I’ll just finish my food and I’ll be right back to it.”
Jonah leans in, and I suck in a breath. What is he doing? His eyes glint with sick pleasure, and then he reaches around me and swipes my lunch into the garbage.
I slump back against the desk. I dig my fingers into my palms. Don’t react. I refuse to give him the pleasure.
“Hurry up, Thompson. You only have until the end of the week, so you better work quickly.”
I hold his black gaze, my pulse thudding uncomfortably under my shirt. He gives me a smirk and heads back into his office.
Miles eyes me uncertainly. “You’re the reporter, right? From the New York Star?”
“That’s me. Come to punish me as well?” I ask bitterly.
“I should,” he says crisply. “You’ve certainly printed enough articles about me, but—” He grins. “You brought my future wife back into my life, so I can’t be mad at you.”
