Chapter 3
CAROLINE
The introvert in me has a bar. Every time I have to small talk, do a presentation, or otherwise spend a while in a meeting room with other people in a one-hour reunion that could have been a two-line email, the bar fills and fills to the brim. Until I’m about to blow.
And it’s not only something in my head. It’s physiological. My body gets as tired of a one-hour-long reunion where nothing gets solved as if I had run a marathon without training first.
This girl is done. And it’s not even noon.
I slip out of the meeting room the moment everyone agrees on having lunch—and then coming back for more useless discussions.
The project started with the client’s choice of red and white.
The head designer thought they could add some blue to remind customers of the American flag.
The client didn’t want to. The head designer insists, so another designer wants to put some yellow instead.
But the client wants red and white. And he wants these colors because they are the colors of his company logo, and they want to keep a standard. Why are we discussing this if we’re going back to red and white in the end?
I walk as fast as I can in these hellish heels, balancing on top of the carpeted part of the room.
The non-carpeted part makes these shoes slip.
Not a good thing when you’re carrying the company's expensive laptop.
I make my way to my desk, put the laptop in place, connect it to the power outlet, and then follow the carpeted path to the storage.
Because I’m a coward, and I need some time off.
I wish I could say I’m proud of being an introvert, but I’m not.
Being an introvert is damn hard. It exhausts me to be around people, smiling at the jokes I don’t understand so they won’t think I’m annoying.
And I tried making friends. I adore talking about books and old horror movies, but people only watch reality TV and discuss TikTok pranks.
I don’t even know what a TikTok is.
Closing my fingers around the doorknob, I open the door into the storage and hide inside.
I don’t flip the light switch on. No, I let the dark cover me, press into me.
The silence of the place lulls me into relaxation, and I lean against the cold wall and breathe out.
A migraine started in the back of my eyes, but I have no pills here.
I’ll have to buy some and leave them at my desk.
As a part-time employee, I should leave, but they want to keep going with the meeting. Should I have talked with the head designer? Last time I tried, he didn’t sound very pleased I had to go, even knowing I’m only here for four hours a day.
I want my bed. Even for only five minutes. My bed and work in my pajamas. That’s a good life.
The door opens and light inundates my vision. I slam my eyes shut, unable to see anything. Who...?
Mr. Jackson stands there, hand on the doorknob, blinking at me. “What are you doing?” he asks, and that makes me feel like an idiot. What am I doing indeed, locked inside a dark storage? Hiding from work? After badmouthing him, now he finds me hiding from work.
My time in this company won’t last.
I shove myself away from the wall too fast, and my head swims. I lose my balance, the plain floors making my heels slip.
Shooting my arms out, I try to find my stability, and strong arms grip me, holding me in place.
His hands burn me, singe into my skin, and electricity shoots straight up my arms, then down to my center.
I meet his eyes, his brilliant, burning eyes, and the deposit grows smaller.
Does he feel the same way that I do? Is this buzz just one-sided?
“Mm,” I try, but no words leave me. I clear my throat, but the fingers around my arms make me dizzy. “I’m not hiding.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Never said you were.”
He didn’t, but I bet he was thinking about it. The light pours from overhead, making my vision burn, my migraine increase in potency. At least no one can see us. Mr. Jackson is so big, he fills the door completely.
“I’ve got a headache,” I say, my voice failing and breaking. “Just needed some time off.”
He lets go of my arms slowly. So slowly, it almost feels like he doesn’t want to let go at all. “Why don’t you go home? Your hours are already over.”
My heart pitter-patters like crazy in my chest, the beating so loud I almost miss his words. “Yeah, but... I have a meeting.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re only here part-time. You’re not supposed to stay longer than that.”
I nod, chewing on my bottom lip. He stares at me hard, and I wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Sneaking a glance at my clothes, I try to figure out what’s wrong with me. Why is he gaping at me like this?
A tiny, tiny voice in my head says Mr. Jackson might just like what he sees, but I shut that voice up quickly.
There’s no use getting hopes up for something as delusional as this.
This is my life, not a romance book. Certainly not one of those romance books where the hotter, older guy gets the average girl.
His hand moves in my periphery. He raises it, then as it’s about to touch my face, he lets it drop. I watch his hand, then shoot my gaze up to his face. It’s perfectly empty. Mr. Jackson swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple go up and down a couple of times.
“You alright?” he asks in a quiet voice that booms in the small space.
In my wildest dreams, he would pick me up against his body, sling my legs around his waist, and press my back to the wall.
It would be easy for him, even with my plus-size curves.
Mr. Jackson would close the door behind him, and he would kiss me.
He would devour my lips. He would make me feel like I belong to him. Like he wants me.
I stand there, daydreaming a moment too long. Then I nod, fast. “Yes. I’m alright. Just a headache.”
He twists his lips for the briefest of seconds, and his gaze studies me again.
Is he trying to see through me? Maybe he thinks I’m lying.
He digs both hands into his pant pockets, then tilts his head.
“Come with me. I have some pain pills in my office. Then you’re going home.
” I swallow, stepping after him out of the storage.
He stops. “Caroline? You’re going home, you hear me? ”
The way he says my name shivers down my spine like hot water on a chilly day. It soaks into my bones. My eyelids flutter shut, then I catch myself. Stop that. Stop that this moment. This man is so out of your league, girl.
“Of course, Mr. Jackson.”
He swallows again, then swivels away from me. I follow him to the office, take the pill, then hurry out of the building, back home. I know I shouldn’t overthink, but overthinking is my middle name, and by the time I get home, I’m head over heels for Mr. Jackson.
Even if he’s so sizzling hot and so manly and big, I know he would never want a girl like me.