Page 31 of Work with Me

Me: What

I was too irritated to bother with punctuation.

Jackson: Just wanted to check on you. You don’t normally leave early on Fridays.

I almost dropped the phone. Jackson Jones was worried about me?

Jackson: I mean, did you have to rush off to your contact at Gurusoft to tell him how great our code is?

Me: Stop fishing. You have nothing to exchange for your terrible guesses.

At least, I hoped he didn’t.

Me: You didn’t find another bug, did you?

I held my breath while the dots popped up to indicate he was typing a response.

Jackson: Not in today’s code. Hoping to find something tomorrow.

Me: Sadist.

Jackson: Only if that’s what you’re into.

My breath quickened. Was he flirting with me? I’d thought he might the last time we’d texted, but when he’d seemed perfectly professional at work, I’d dismissed the suspicion, thinking I’d read too much into his texts. But this last text had taken a giant step over the line.

And the worst thing was that I didn’t hate it.

My phone sang again.

Jackson: Sorry. Don’t know what got into my thumbs.

I blinked.Okay, then.

Me: Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.

As a woman in technology—a woman, period—I’d received plenty of drink invitations, sexual innuendo, and unsolicited dick pics, though, thankfully, never a coworker’s cock. But Jackson’s joke didn’t make me feel like I’d been slimed, or ashamed like I’d let him think I was interested when I wasn’t.

No, it felt like a couple of coworkers joking around, poking a little fun. Like my texts with Tiannah.

Or…that my coworker was checking on me. Like he cared.

And that was worse.

Because when the project ended, I’d go on to the next gig, and Jackson would go back to San Francisco. We weren’t coworkers. He was a client, and I was a temporary consultant.

Jokes—friendship—caring—had no place in our relationship.

Get in. Get out. Get back to focusing on my responsibilities at home until Noah was straightened out. Go on to the next gig.

No time to lose focus now. I deleted the texts.

* * *

The imageon the video screen was so clear I could see the red creeping up Cooper Fallon’s throat and hitting his sharp cheekbones. That chiseled jaw twitched.

Last week, Tiannah had sent me a link to a post on a thirst blog: “Thirty Sexy Nerds Who’ll Give You a Brain Boner.” She’d helpfully pointed out that Cooper and Jackson were numbers twelve and thirteen on the list, respectively.

Clearly, the blogger had never had their ass handed to them by Cooper Fallon. Twice. Because I could tell them from experience, there was nothing boner-inducing about it. My ovaries had to have shriveled up to the size of peas because he was making me feel too stupid to live, much less reproduce. And the curl of his lip said I was so far beneath him I wasn’t worthy of having a lady boner in his video presence.

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