Page 46 of Mr. Big Shot

I walk around the perimeter of the ring so I can climb down and head to the locker room. I need a cold shower, and I need it now.

Unfortunately, Scarlett’s waiting for me when I’m done. She’s showered too. She’s washed off her makeup and let down her long hair. It’s air-drying slowly, framing her face. She looks heartachingly young and sweet without makeup. Her brown lashes are clumped together from the shower. She’s wearing a Columbia t-shirt and a new pair of leggings.

“Where’s your coat?” I ask her.

“What? It’s in my bag. But listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I shake my head, not about to go down this path. This is why men my age should not have CRUSHES. I’m too old to be making excuses for anatomy I can’t control. “Let’s just forget it, okay?”

Her face falls. “Forget the training stuff?”

“No. Forget what just happened.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “Okay cool, yes.” She smiles. “I can do that.”

“How are you getting home?” I look toward the gym doors then back to her. “Jasper?”

Her face scrunches at the idea. “Oh. No. I was just going to walk. I live just around the corner.”

“It’s snowing,” I point out dryly.

She waves away my concern. “Okay…so I was going to walk fast.”

“Don’t you have a car in the city?”

“I feel like we’re getting into the weeds a bit here…”

I shake my head and motion for her to walk on. “Let’s go.”

“To your car?”

“No, to the moon, Scarlett. Yes, my car. I can’t let a junior associate get frostbite on my watch. It’d look bad for the company.”

“I could see if Barrett is still here. Or my dad?”

“Okay.”

That’d be preferred. It’s a stupid idea to put her inside my car.

But probably because I was so willing to relent, now she doesn’t want to. “Whatever, fine. If you’re willing to, I’d love the ride. Thanks.”

A major perk of being a partner is that I get primo parking in the underground garage. Though when I make senior partner, my spot will be even better. Right up front. I’ll get someone to shine my reserved sign every week. No, every day.

I unlock my Toyota Land Cruiser and toss my briefcase and workout bag in the trunk. Scarlett hovers near the passenger side door, her hand outstretched toward the handle.

“Up front okay?”

I don’t even deign to give that question a response. I’m not going to Driving Miss Daisy her ass through the streets of Chicago.

“Up front,” she confirms, tugging open the door and making herself right at home among my crap, though it’s not fast food wrappers you have to contend with in my car; it’s papers: files, documents, memos.

She has them all tucked neatly into a pile on the floor by the time I’m behind the wheel. Her scent is everywhere, hitting me like a wall when I close the door and buckle up. She’s perched herself on my leather seat, her hands folded together on her lap. I flip on the seat warmers and show her where she can adjust hers.

“Thanks. I love toasty buns.”

I shake my head and start to back out. My car started streaming music from my phone as usual. It’s a Marcus Mumford live set, and Scarlett asks if she can turn it up.

I nod and she reaches over, ever so carefully turning the dial until she’s satisfied.

---