Page 11 of Bound

Snacks and spreadsheets, her ever-present notebook and pen to take notes. And the fucking laptop she’s cramming in there.

Working.

Always fucking working.

She doesn’t acknowledge me further, though, just grabs the handles of her purse and slings it onto her shoulder?—

Or tries to.

Because I snag it from her before she can, and—Christ—the fucking bagdoesweigh a ton. “What do you have in here?” I mutter. “Bricks?”

“No,” she grumbles, reaching for it, “I havesandwiches.”

A curl of amusement slides through my stomach, but my annoyance definitely outweighs any humor of this situation. “I don’t think of you as someone who just makes sandwiches.”

She snorts and grabs her coat, wrenching it off the back of her chair. “Right.” She lifts her hand. “Give me my bag please.”

“Claire—”

She stills, eyes closing for a second, then exhales opening them and holding my stare. “I can’t do this tonight.”

“You started it.”

“You don’t like me,” she says quietly. “You’ve made that clear.”

I like her, have liked her far too much from the first moment I saw her. She just…

Knows too much.

“It’s not like that.”

Her brows flick up, but instead of snapping at me, she rubs her forehead, as though there’s a throb beneath the surface. “Then what’s it like, Jackson? Because you spend pretty much every moment we’re together”—she waves a hand in my direction—“looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Scowling,” she snaps. “Looking down your nose at me like I’m dog poop on the bottom of your shoe.”

“Okay, that’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” She laughs, but it’s not filled with humor. “Right. Dumb little blond girl who knows nothing. Keep up the gaslighting, Jackson, but do it by yourself.” She starts for the hall.

I let her go for a second.

Then I go after her, shutting her office door behind me, trailing her through the hallways, knowing that she’ll realize I’m following sooner or later.

She pushes out into the parking lot, not fazed by the cold winter air slamming into me, sinking into my bones like I’ve been dunked into icy water. I have to force my feet to keep moving, to trail her across the enclosed space, and I reach her just as she’s stopped next to her car.

Which is why I see her shoulders slump in resignation when I get near, see the temper leave her as she spins around to face me.

“My bag,” she says, holding out a hand.

“You’re a lot more than sandwiches and snacks, Claire.”

“Right,” she mutters, not quite looking at me.

Giving in to the urge that eats at my insides, I gently cup her jaw, tilt her head up so her gaze meets mine. “You’re smart and a valuable asset to the team.”

“But”—her throat works—“you don’t like me.”

---