Chapter 12 Jaxon
Jaxon
Ishould be asleep.
It’s midnight.
My suit jacket is hanging neatly over a chair, my tie discarded somewhere in the suite, the city outside my high-rise glowing like a living constellation.
I should be exhausted after a full day of acquisition meetings, contract reviews, and navigating an office full of whispers.
But all I can think about is her.
Ruby.
Her laugh. Her voice. The way she bit her lip when she was nervous tonight. The way she held her wine glass with her fingers trembling just slightly. The way she said “this can’t happen,” but leaned in every time I spoke.
She doesn’t realize it yet.
I’m already in deep.
I’ve dealt with assets worth billions, negotiated mergers that lasted eighteen hours straight, survived high-stakes board battles, but one dinner with her?
That shook me more than any deal I’ve ever made.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, and stare at my phone.
I have her number now.
I could text her.
I shouldn’t.
I am absolutely going to.
I unlock my phone.
Her name looks wrong on the screen, too plain, too simple.
I changed it.
Ruby Quinn → Ruby.
Better.
I open a new message.
I should write something formal, professional, respectable, even.
Instead, my thumbs type what I actually want to say.
Me:
Did you get home safely?
I hit send before I could rethink it.
The message delivers instantly.
I wait.
One second.
Five seconds.
Twenty.
A full minute.
Nothing.
I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
I stand, pacing slowly across the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect back a version of me I barely recognize, sleeves rolled again, hair pushed back from running my hands through it too many times, jaw tense with something too close to longing.
I don’t do longing.
I don’t chase.
I don’t need.
Except… apparently I do now.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it fast enough to embarrass myself.
Ruby:
Yes.
Home safe.
Thank you.
Short, polite, and very neutral.
It’s not enough.
I text again before the thought fully forms.
Me:
Good. Are you okay?
Another pause.
She replies:
Ruby:
I’m fine.
It was just dinner.
Just dinner.
She says that like we didn’t both feel the tension every time our knees brushed under the table.
Like she didn’t look at me the way she did in that candlelight. Like, I didn’t spend the entire meal trying not to reach across the table and pull her in.
I exhale slowly and type:
Me:
It wasn’t “just dinner.”
She doesn’t reply.
I stare at her typing bubble that flickers, disappears, returns, stops again.
Then finally:
Ruby:
Jaxon…
I told you.
This is complicated
Me:
It doesn’t have to be.
Another pause.
Ruby:
It does for me.
I sit down again, letting my frustration bleed into focus.
This is fear talking, not truth, not desire. I know it’s not what she wants.
It’s the fear of judgment, the fear of gossip, and the fear of someone thinking she slept her way into an opportunity she earned.
I understand that. I respect that, but I also know this isn’t something she can smother or run from.
I refuse to let her.
I type again:
Me:
Then let me make it simple.
Her reply comes instantly.
Ruby:
Don’t.
I stop.
She thinks I’m going to make a declaration big enough to break her walls.
Not tonight.
Me:
Meet me for coffee tomorrow.
Public place.
Neutral ground.
No pressure.
Just two people talking.
Her typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Returns.
Ruby:
I don’t know.
Me:
You do.
You wouldn’t still be replying if you didn’t want to see me again.
A long pause this time.
The longest one yet.
My heartbeat slows, and tightens.
Then:
Ruby:
…maybe coffee.
I’ll let you know in the morning.
I smile, a real one, the kind I haven’t felt in a long time.
Me:
Goodnight, Ruby.
Her reply is immediate.
Ruby:
Goodnight.
I lock my phone, lie back on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.
She thinks she’s delaying, she thinks she’s setting boundaries, and she thinks she’s protecting herself.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but every time she replies, even with hesitation, even with fear, even with denial…
She chooses me a little more.
And tomorrow?
I plan to collect on that choice.