Chapter 7 — He Wasn't Harmless

Jamie put the call on speaker.

A man answered with the alert politeness people usually reserved for investors they couldn't afford to lose.

"Mr. Cole."

"You drafted a side agreement for Mercer Media. Why?"

"It was a routine commercial instruction."

"Then you'll have no difficulty explaining the discrepancy between the main contract and the private one."

The silence lasted long enough that I looked at Jamie instead of the phone.

He sat against my pillows, shirt half-buttoned, hair still untidy from sleep. His face could have belonged to a stranger.

"You have until noon to send the correspondence," he said. "Our counsel will decide which parts need further attention. Don't contact the agent again."

He ended the call and put the phone down.

Then he looked at me, almost cautiously.

"You're doing it again," I said.

"What?"

"Sounding like somebody who owns the room."

His gaze lowered to my mouth.

"You don't look offended."

"I look curious."

"That could be worse for me."

I moved closer, resting a hand against his chest.

His breathing changed immediately. The power in his voice had done nothing to protect him from that.

"Which one is real?" I asked. "This man, or the one begging for my evening?"

"Both."

"Convenient."

He caught my wrist gently and brought my fingers to his mouth.

"I don't have to pretend I want you," he said.

I felt the words against my skin.

Owen arrived an hour later with Jamie's former agent, Paul. Someone had sent Paul his daughter's school address along with instructions to secure a signature.

Jamie's chair scraped back when he heard it.

Paul began apologizing before anyone accused him of anything.

"I didn't know what to do. They said it would all go away if he signed."

"Give Owen the messages," Jamie said. "Your daughter won't be walking home today. We'll arrange somewhere safe for your family while you report this."

Paul stared at him.

"I can't afford—"

"Nobody asked about that."

His voice was sharp enough to end the apology. Then he softened it.

"Call your wife. Tell her you're not alone."

When they left, I watched Jamie standing by the window.

"You could have told me you had that kind of help available."

"You already have people."

"Yes. I could have introduced them to yours."

He turned, acknowledging the point with a brief nod.

"I don't need you smaller, Jamie."

That struck him somewhere he hadn't expected. He came back to me, sat on the edge of my desk, and looked down at my hands.

"Most people don't like finding out they underestimated someone."

"Most people aren't currently trying to decide whether they should kiss him."

He stayed on the edge of the desk, watching me.

"You don't have to make me feel better," he said.

"I'm considering what would make me feel better."

That surprised him into a smile.

"An excellent policy."

I had spent years measuring affection by what I could do for someone. Sitting across from him, I realized how often he made wanting something for myself feel easy.

His thumb moved over a worn corner of the script beside him. He was waiting rather than assuming, and somehow that made his patience more provocative than any demand.

I pushed my chair back.

He looked up.

I stood, and the distance between us disappeared.

"You should," he said quietly.

I did.

We agreed to the television special only after replacing the private document with terms our own lawyers negotiated. The offers were generous enough to make refusing simply out of spite feel wasteful, and the program would give us a public platform Grant couldn't privately rewrite.

I wasn't interested in spending weeks on it. One promotional day, one recording, and we would be done.

The promotional shoot took place at a coastal resort I was already considering as an investment.

Sloane arrived determined to look happy beside Ethan. Grant arrived determined to stand beside me.

Jamie made both plans difficult.

He carried my shoes when the photographer asked us to walk barefoot on the deck, tied my scarf when the wind picked up, and refused to move to another chair when Grant tried to place himself between us at lunch.

"I'm comfortable here," Jamie said pleasantly.

"This is a business discussion."

"Then she'll let you know when she needs another seat."

I put my hand on Jamie's knee beneath the table.

His attention shifted to me so quickly that Grant had to repeat his question.

Across the deck, Sloane offered a designer handbag to the campaign coordinator in exchange for making her and Ethan the focus of the video.

The coordinator declined within my hearing. Sloane accused her of being ungrateful.

Jamie glanced over, then called the producer. He didn't raise his voice. He asked for the camera crews to remain separate and the raw footage to be retained.

Grant heard him.

"Do you imagine you're running this shoot?"

"No," Jamie said. "I imagine your niece has difficulty behaving when nobody records her."

I hid a smile behind my glass.

For our last shot, the photographer asked Jamie to carry me across the terrace.

"His leg," I began.

"Healed," he said immediately.

"You're suddenly an expert."

He bent slightly.

"Get on my back. If I collapse, you're allowed to complain."

I put my arms around his shoulders.

He stood with me so easily that I laughed, and his hands settled securely beneath my knees.

"There," he told the photographer. "She does that when nobody mentions a meeting."

He walked across the deck with my cheek near his, talking just loudly enough that I could hear.

"You haven't said it today."

"What?"

"That you're keeping me."

"You need daily confirmation?"

"I'm high maintenance."

I brushed a curl away from his forehead.

"I'm keeping you."

He stopped walking.

"Again."

"Jamie."

"I waited years. Don't ration it now."

I kissed his cheek.

The photographer captured his expression before he could hide it. Later, that photograph became my favorite: a man who could silence a room looking undone by one small kiss.

Ethan watched us from the far end of the terrace.

When Jamie put me down, I saw him turn away, gripping the railing. Sloane complained about his expression. He didn't answer her.

That evening, Owen called to say Ethan was waiting at my office.

He wanted twenty minutes.

Jamie stood beside me while I considered the request.

"You're allowed to say no," he said.

"I know."

"You're also allowed to say yes."

I looked at him.

He kissed the ring on my hand.

"I'll hate it," he admitted. "But I'll drive you."