Page 4 of Boss Me

“No.” The word held none of his usual crispness. Was he in shock?

“Sit down.” With the hand I wasn’t using to apply pressure to his wound, I reached up and pushed on his shoulder until he folded into his chair.

Finally, I looked at Jackson, whose mouth still hung open, staring at his friend. “What happened?” My tone wasn’t as respectful as it should’ve been around the company’s cofounder, but anything involving blood was extenuating circumstances.

Jackson leaped toward the desk and scooped the shards of shattered glass into a pile. “Cooper was making a point a little too forcefully. I guess he should’ve sprung for the tempered glass.”

Fuck, if he kept doing that, I was going to have two bleeders on my hands. “Jackson, stop. I’ll get maintenance up here—”

“Dammit!” When Jackson stuck his thumb in his mouth, his elbow caught the conch shell on Cooper’s desk. The one I’d dusted once a week, each time wondering why he kept that one decorative item on his desk. I didn’t have to wonder anymore. It tumbled off the desk, bounced once on the carpet, and shattered when it smashed on the wood floor.

The silence after was even louder than when Cooper broke his desk.

“Sorry, Coop, I—”

Pain flashed across Cooper’s face. It was the same look he’d gotten the day Jackson wore his baby to the office in one of those backward backpacks. “Forget about it. I—I need to go.”

“Now?” I lifted a corner of my handkerchief. The bleeding had slowed. “You can’t go to a meeting like this.” Only Cooper Fallon would continue his workday like nothing had happened after he’d sliced himself open. I wrapped the ends of the cloth around the back of his hand and tied them into a knot over his palm.

“People are used to me showing up as a hot mess. Not you.” Jackson raked his hand through his dark hair. “Listen to Ben. Sit and rest a minute. I’ve got some whiskey in my office. We can—”

As soon as my fingers left the knot on the handkerchief, Cooper ripped his hand away. His blue eyes weren’t as icy as usual when he turned them on me. Probably because of the blood loss.

“I need—out.” He rose and stepped around me on his way to the door. His hand on the latch, he turned back.

Thank God, he was going to sit down and be reasonable. I took a half step toward him in case he wobbled on his way back to the chair.

But he stayed there, gripping the handle. “Ben, let the New England Entrepreneurs’ Society know I’ll be taking Jackson’s place as the keynote speaker. And switch his hotel reservation to me.”

Jackson popped his thumb out of his mouth. “Coop, you don’t have to do that.”

Cooper gave his best friend a wry smile. “Isn’t that exactly what you were telling me I had to do before—before this?” He waved his handkerchief-wrapped hand at the mess in his office.

“But—”

He held out his palm. It trembled. He must have been exerting an enormous amount of control over himself. “Move all my meetings to next week.”

What the absolute fuck was happening? “Yes, Mr. Fallon.”

He opened the door and walked out, closing it gently behind him. No gym bag, no coat, no laptop. Was he staying in the building? Did he have a secret, primal-scream room downstairs?

“It’s okay.” Jackson hung his head. “You can say it. I’m the worst friend ever.”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled at the jerk. He was irritatingly adorable. “You totally are. But he loves you anyway.”

He whipped his head up and grinned. “He does, doesn’t he? I’m the luckiest guy in San Francisco.”

My smile melted off my face. He fucking was. What I wouldn’t give to be on the receiving end of one percent of that love. Jackson was too full of himself to notice, but I’d seen it from my first days at the company. Cooper was pining for his best friend. His obliviously straight best friend.

“You should get out of here,” I said, my tone flat. “I’ll call maintenance to clean this up.”

“Thanks, Ben. I’ll give Coop an hour or so to stew, and then I’ll talk to him.”

If I knew my boss, he needed more than an hour. And I guessed he’d get it on his last-minute trip to Boston. Which I now had to schedule.

Fucking hell.

I’d figure out a way to check on him, even in Boston. Because maybe Jackson Jones didn’t give a shit about how much he’d fucked up Cooper’s life, but I did.

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