Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Axe
The second I step into the lobby, the place goes dead quiet.
You can almost hear the sound of arses clenching as they suddenly remember they have very important work to do.
I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the window.
Aye, I’m a dangerous-looking motherfucker after a ride.
Like there’s hell to pay in the thud of my dirty size-thirteen boots on the tiled floor.
The gauntlet gloves, the reflective gear—I’m halfway between Mad Max and a Norseman fresh off a pillaging.
I’m rarely a dick at work, but if I said boo to any of these MIT kids, they’d likely keel over.
But now it’s my turn for an effing heart attack: Josie’s sitting in the atrium, and she’s staring right at me.
Not a speck of fear in her eyes. Figures.
“Hey,” I say as every single other human being melts away.
She’s showered, her hair’s damp and twisted up in one of those little clips.
She smells fresh and clean, and it turns out she’s even more beautiful without a speck of makeup.
She’s also wearing an ugly navy blazer that hides her.
Big, shapeless, the kind of thing that says Don’t look at me.
Like she raided her closet for the dullest bit of armor she could find.
“Can we talk in private?” she asks.
Earlier, I’d have gladly traded a pinkie to hear those four words. And now here she is—no blood sacrifice required. Just a little road rash from a rage skid. Maybe I’ve tracked some grit onto the marble floor—but ach, who cares? Only makes me look more badass.
Two minutes later, we’re in a first-floor conference room. I’d prefer my office, but Josie looks skittish enough to bolt, so I play it safe.
“I’d rather eat a ghost pepper stuffed with wasabi and topped with ground-up glass than take this job,” she says flat out, and I cough into my hand to smother my spit-laugh. Josie is dead serious.
“What about if I throw in a rubbing alcohol chaser?” I ask, and she smirks. “And a signing bonus bag of dog shite?”
She almost smiles, then reins it in. Not giving an inch. I respect that.
“If you’re trying to make the perfect girlfriend, you’re off to a terrible start.”
“In what way?” I ask, genuinely curious. I am always interested in what Josie has to say, even when it’s something ridiculous, like warning me that Mercury is in retrograde.
“You have manipulated my consent,” she says.
“How?” I blink, genuinely baffled. Consent is sacred to me. “You said no earlier, and I watched you walk out. Didn’t stop you. Now you’re back, on your own terms. You haven’t consented to anything yet.”
She holds my gaze, chin up. “I need this job for your health insurance. There are medications I need that aren’t available here, and my life depends on them.”
“Ah.” I nod and lift my brow as if this is new information.
Josie doesn’t know that I know about her special insulin.
I don’t betray even a trace of pity—mostly because I don’t feel any.
Josie’s a tough little cookie, not some sickly hothouse flower.
This woman is a true survivor in every sense of the word.
And survivors don’t need pity. They deserve respect.
“Aye, we all take jobs for different reasons. Health insurance seems as good as any.” She frowns, and I catch myself staring at the way she purses her lips.
I shrug. “Sorry, lass, but that’s the truth.
I didn’t create the system. I want you on my team, and if it’s my generous insurance that seals the deal, then fine.
That’s your beautiful American capitalism at work. ”
I let that hang in the air for a moment. Josie needs to know who she’s dealing with—a man who’s sharp, calculating, and playing to win. But fair. Always fair. I expect the best from my people, and they get the best in return. High salaries, great benefits.
“We can get you on the health plan today, if that’s what it takes,” I say.
“Contract will be in your inbox in five minutes. Signing bonus wired to you by the end of the day. And I know what you’re making at Grace this is a Josie I’ve never met before.
“That’d take a few hours to explain properly. But the short version? You’ll be cocreating with us. Nothing gets locked in to the final model without your sign-off and consent.” I grin. “I promise it’ll be more fun than ghost peppers and wasabi.”
Something in my words must hit the mark, because I see her shoulders relax a bit and I feel like I’ve finally scored a point.
“Sounds reasonable.”
“The working contract is a fifty-two-page, single-spaced document,” I tell her. “I want you to go into this with your eyes wide open. Take all the time you need to read it line by line. If you want a lawyer, we can refer you to one.”
“Send it over.”
I get out my phone to do just that, and I email Rita from HR and tell her to add Josie to our plan immediately.
All I want to do now is make it official and take her out—maybe something that starts with champagne and ends with her lips on mine, though Josie’s navy blazer is not invited.
I don’t like anything that intentionally tones down or hides her natural sparkle.
But I know better than to push. I will have to wait to see what it’s like to fake date Josie Greene.
I deliberately check my watch like I’ve got places to be. My own eagerness is making me exceptionally uncomfortable. I don’t do eager.
“Any other questions?”
She hesitates, then says in a rush, “I drew the Devil card today.”
I smirk on instinct but quickly wipe it off my face. I’ve got to stop mocking what she cares about to make this work. If she’s this seriously into tarot, maybe I should pick up Tarot for Dummies and learn a thing or two. Even if it’s all obvious horseshit.
“The Devil,” I repeat.
“And I really hope I’m not making a deal with him.”
I nod gravely, though I want to laugh again. If she only knew. “I feel more like a guardian angel.”
“Don’t push it,” she scoffs, but her lips twitch.
“You haven’t seen our prescription drug coverage yet,” I say, and kiss my fingers.
Every meeting’s a game of timing, like poker in Vegas—a balance of knowing when you’ve won and it’s time to stand up and leave before you blow it.
And right now, it’s time to go.
I rise, still in my damp gear from the ride, and her eyes flutter like she’s staring right at Satan’s brother himself. And considering the filthy thoughts all chasing one another round in my head—involving this table, her open thighs, and my tongue—maybe she is.