“Jas, I’ve had this office for five years. Not once have you set foot in it.”
She glances around, visibly shuddering. “You know me — offices and suits give me the ick.”
I laugh despite myself. “Seriously, though. Why are you here?”
The humour fades from her face. Her shoulders tighten.
“Jasmine Garcia Hernandez,” I warn, leaning forward.
“Okay, okay — don’t dad me.” She sighs, reaching for the mug of coffee Matilda made me. “Do you remember that guy I told you about? The one who followed me home? Bit clingy?”
“Yes,” I draw the word out, tension already crawling up my neck.
“I think he’s back. I saw a black car outside my flat last week. Same car came back three nights in a row. Might be nothing… but I thought I should tell you.”
“What the fuck, Jas? Why are you only telling me this now?”
I stand, then immediately sit back down when I see her eyes glisten. The last thing I can stomach is making her cry — especially not Jas. I take her hands, pulling them under my chin.
“Hey. I’m sorry. We’ll take this seriously. Leave it with me. I’ll make some calls, okay? But for now, you’re staying at mine until we sort this out.”
“No,” she shakes her head, forcing a small smile. “I’ll stay with my brother. His place is closer to work anyway.”
“Are you sure?” I trust her brother Lukas, otherwise I’d insist she stay with me. He’ll look after her.
“Positive. But thank you. If you could check around, I’d appreciate it.” She leans in, kisses my cheek, and wipes away a stray tear. “I’d better get out of your hair. You’ve got a proper job and shit to do.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I guess.”
“I’m proud of you, you know.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “And Jas—”
She pauses at the door.
“Call me anytime. Day or night.”
She smiles and leaves. Through the glass, I watch her exchange a brief, polite smile with Matilda.
Then Matilda’s cheeks flush, and she drops her gaze, pretending to be engrossed in her computer.
Fuck.
Maybe she thinks Jas and I are… something. And honestly, the sight of her looking jealous hits me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I want to go out there, explain, fix whatever that expression on her face means — but my phone rings, and I’m dragged into another fire to put out.
Two hours later, I finally get a break.
Matilda’s desk is empty.
I head toward the break room and stop dead in my tracks.
Through the doorway, I see a tall, blonde guy in a cheap suit laughing — laughing — with a woman in a red dress.
My woman in a red dress.
Matilda’s smiling, holding her coffee, head tipped back as she laughs at something he’s said. And then — Jesus Christ — she touches his arm.
