Page 7 of Work with Me

“Head injury.” I pointed at my cut. “I can’t be trusted to make judgments like that.”

Pursing her lips, she raised her eyebrows.

“Okay, yes, totally hot. Both of them. But Cooper’s a glacier.” I shivered, remembering the chill of his eyes. Jackson was the opposite: the warmth in those brown eyes as he’d blotted the blood from my face had felt like a crackling campfire on a crisp fall day, but they’d blazed into a wildfire when he’d learned I was there to take over his project. Dangerous. The flame had been doused after he’d spoken in the hall with Cooper. I still couldn’t get a read on their dynamic.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention that I tried to ask Jackson Jones out, before I knew who he was, so there’s that.” I winced.

“Girl.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t have to tell you to stay far away from all that.”

“Nope. Nothing but downside for me in that situation. Good thing he turned me down.” My stomach twisted with embarrassment. “And now that I’ve joined his project, Jackson’s about as friendly as a bramble bush. Anyway, it’s totally irrelevant. I’m there to do a job. Get in, get out.”

“But?”

“I guess I thought it’d be different as a consultant. They hire me to be smart. I come in, I save the project, I leave. No fragile male egos. No company picnics. No happy hours. No performance reviews. Easy. Transactional.”

“Honey.” She gripped my hand. “Nothing’s easy for women in a man’s world. You’ll be fighting the good fight against the patriarchy every damn day. I know you’ll do your best. And you’ll make Jamila proud.”

I heard what she didn’t say, too. That if I made a mess at Synergy, it’d reflect poorly on Jamila. I took a deep breath. “Do the job, get out. Don’t rock the boat. I hear you.” I’d tiptoed through the minefield of male egos my whole career. And this time, I was being paid double what I’d earned as a regular employee.

Fighting Jackson Jones, I’d earn every penny. And when Dr. Ruiz came in and told me Noah had fractured his ulna, and her assistant told us how much his treatment would cost with my rusted-tin insurance, I knew I’d need it, too.

3

JACKSON

“You won’t findfood like this in San Francisco.” I leaned away to gauge Cooper’s expression.

His lip curled so slightly that someone who hadn’t known him for a dozen years might not have seen it. His gaze wandered from the “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt of the person in front of us to the order taker, sweaty and with sauce on her apron, to the overcrowded kitchen, where an even sweatier man flipped a rack of ribs. “No, I don’t think I would.”

Ever since Alicia had swept into the meeting that morning—the meeting I’d thought wasmine,proof Cooper finally trusted me again—all confidence and grace despite the ridiculous bandage I’d pressed to her forehead, I felt like I’d been covered in ants. Fire ants, which I’d discovered were a thing—a painful, ass-biting thing—when I’d tried to rest on the grass at the park after one of my runs. And that made me, as they said here in Texas, ornery.

So I’d brought Cooper to the smokehouse, with its surly service and sticky tables and self-service condiments, which I knew he’d hate. But I was no fool. The food, the best thing I’d eaten in the three months I’d been in Austin, was worth it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. A reminder to call Sam. Marlee was a saint for setting the weekly reminders. I ignored the ones she’d set to call my mother and my other siblings, but I never blew off the one for Sam.

“Sorry, something I have to take care of. Order me the ribs, potato salad, and okra?” I chuckled at Cooper’s horror-struck expression and ducked outside. I found some shade under a tree, tucked in my earbuds, and videocalled Sam.

She picked up after a few rings. The institutional gray walls surrounding her made her pale skin look greenish.

“Why can’t you text like a normal person?”

“Favorite big brothers don’t have to text first. Besides, I like catching people off guard. Where are you, anyway?”

“Stairwell at school. I wasworkingwhen you called.”

“On homework? Need any help?”

“No, Jackson.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m working on my research project.”

“That’s programming, right? I can help. Like I used to do when I lived at home.”

“When I lived at home, I wasn’t doing convex optimization. And neither were you.”

“Convex what?”

She smirked. “Yeah, they didn’t teach thatten years agoto undergraduates, even atStanford.Admit it, now that I’m in graduate school, I’m the programming guru.”

“Of course. You’ve always been a natural. But are you sure you’re okay?” She hadn’t had those dark circles under her eyes the last time we’d talked.

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