Page 33 of Damaged

I’m sure her phone is in the cushions, and I’ll remain mute about the extent of my hurt the same as I did before.

I don’t put my pants back on, and I don’t look through the peephole. It’s about one second later that I realize these are mistakes. I open my smooth new door, and James Callaway is standing with a white cake box in his hands.

He has a few strands of hair in front of his face like it’s been a rough day, and his navy suit is wrinkled in the shoulders.

It’s not until his eyes travel down my bare legs that I shuffle step so I’m half-hidden behind the door. “What the hell do you want?” I try to be tough and look him in the eye, but I chicken out and focus on the cake box instead.

“I brought a peace offering. You didn’t sign those termination papers you were emailed yet, did you?”

“No.”

“Well…” James’s eyebrows perks. “Please don’t.”

“Do you care to share the reason behind your sudden change of heart?”

“Jessica broke her leg. Fractured her tibia and fibula, to be precise.”

“Oh my God, what was she doing? Is she okay?”

“Ice skating. She’ll be fine. But I need an Egyptologist. One who can walk, preferably.”

“I’m not as much of an expert as her.”

“But you know the basics?”

“Sure, but…” I shake my head. “What’s in the box?”

“Coffee cake.”

I sigh and regain a sense of pride by acting like I’m too good for this. I should slam the door in his face. But I can’t. I at least have to talk to him. “Let me just… get dressed.”

“Of course.”

I don’t tell him to wait or come in. I just shut the door. I take an extra minute after I throw my pants on before opening the door again. Letting him wait.

James is standing just as he was before.

“So, you don’t want to fire me?”

“Precisely.”

I’m not too proud to say no to being the second choice, am I? Is this shameful? Going to Egypt to look at artifacts is a dream. But it might be just as satisfying to say no. To get my pride back. Seeing James Callaway with a cake box in his hands is a sight to behold. He’s already been taken down a peg.

“Look, we’re adults here. How much?” James asks.

“How much what?” I say, even though I know exactly what he’s getting at.

“Your new salary for the year. How much?”

My hands are suddenly clammy. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal for me. I have the upper hand over a billionaire. A part of me wants to shout out a million dollars, but for that kind of money, I’m sure he knows he could find some professor or expert willing to drop everything and fly to Cairo.

He raises a brow, waiting for my number. I think of the balls painting.

“Three-hundred thousand—”

“Done,” James says quickly.Waytoo quickly. Like he wasexpectingme to say a million.

“And ninety-ninety thousand.”

---