Follow Me (Corrupted Hearts) Page 2

  Overall, my life was pretty close to perfect.

  At exactly seven in the morning, I walked into Cysnet. Security required my ID badge and handprint scan before I was allowed through. Four armed guards manned the two entrances to the building and they weren’t the friendly, chatty kind of guys. I always tried though.

  “So . . . busy morning, right?” I asked, giving the one scrutinizing me a nervous smile. He didn’t smile back.

  “Backpack, please,” he demanded, polite but no-nonsense. I hurriedly handed it over and waited as he pawed through, wincing slightly as he touched my carefully arranged things. Now I’d have to reorganize and straighten it.

  He handed it back and I fixed what he’d mussed before heading straight through the lobby to the set of glass stairs leading to the second floor where my cube was located. For about the thousandth time, I wished I could move to a different area. I sat right outside Jackson Cooper’s office, which was nice sometimes when I was feeling—a certain way. I could watch him covertly and admire how very handsome he was, how broad his shoulders were, and how very nicely he filled out a pair of slacks.

  But most of the time, he made me nervous, so I tried to block him out the best I could with my earphones and never-ending classic-rock playlists. Once I got into my coding, it was easy to forget where I was.

  Stowing my backpack in the bottom drawer, I sat down and logged in. I checked out the project I’d been working on, grabbed my notebook, a Red Bull from the minifridge underneath my desk, and began.

  I knew when it was ten o’clock because that’s when my cubemate, Randall, rolled in. He was a night owl and liked to code long after everyone had gone home for the day, but the latest management would let him come in was ten in the morning. I pulled out one earbud and caught the package he tossed my way.

  “Bacon-egg McMuffin with cheese,” he said.

  “Thanks.” My stomach was growling since I hadn’t yet eaten. Who could eat at the crack of dawn anyway? Maybe the same people who killed themselves at the gym before the sun rose, running miles on a treadmill or climbing endless stairs. Not my thing. “I’ll get lunch.”

  Randall nodded, already sitting down and unwrapping one of his four sausage burritos. This was our normal routine. He’d grab breakfast—I’d spot him lunch. It worked out pretty well because by the time we were ready for lunch, I needed to stretch my legs.

  It was another hour and I was in midchorus of “Highway to Hell” when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped, startled, spinning around in my chair to see who the hell hadn’t gone through protocol—i.e., step in front of my cube so I could see them.

  It was Jackson Cooper.

  My irritated reprimand died on my tongue and I yanked out my earbuds, hoping I didn’t have any McMuffin on my white I ❤❤ NNY T-shirt.

  “Yes, sir?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and frowned, glancing down at me. I waited until my nerves couldn’t handle the suspense and I looked down. Nope. No crumbs.

  “How can you sit like that?”

  Oh. That’s what he was looking at. Okay, I did sit kind of weird, but I was short. I crossed my legs and sat on my feet, so my legs were in the chair, knees pointing to the side. Then I’d settle my Bluetooth keyboard on my lap and work.

  “It’s, um, it’s fine for me,” I said, then hurriedly added, “but I could stop, if it’s like . . . against the rules, or something—” Were there rules for sitting? I’d read the employee handbook cover to cover and could recite most of it. I scanned my memory for anything that mentioned employee posture and came up empty.

  “No, it’s fine,” he interrupted. “It was just a question. Listen, China, can you come into my office for a few minutes? I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  My mouth was hanging open and I shut it with a snap. “Sure. Yeah.” I scrambled up from my chair—not the most graceful of moves—and grabbed my notebook. Looking around my desk, I didn’t see my pen. I shuffled some papers . . . nothing. Opened my drawer and peered inside . . . nothing. Stepped back and looked at the floor . . . nope.

  “What’s wrong?” Jackson asked.

  “I can’t find my pen,” I said. Yes, I had other pens but I liked a certain one. Where the hell was it?

  “You mean this one?”

  I looked up in time to see him standing right next to me, reaching for my hair. I froze in place and felt the slide of metal as he pulled the pen from where it had been tucked behind my ear.

  “Voila.” He smiled a crooked half grin which, combined with him being so close I could tell just exactly where the very top of my head met his shoulder, made my knees want to melt like Field’s metal stuck into a mug of boiling water.

  I was mesmerized by his eyes. I didn’t think I’d ever stood this close to him before. He had cologne on—I could smell it. And he’d touched me . . . My eyes fluttered shut and I rocked forward slightly, inhaling the sweet aroma—and bumped my nose right into him.

  “You okay?” he asked, grabbing my shoulder. My eyes flew open. “You’re not going to faint, are you? Did you stand up too fast?”

  My face turned so red I could feel the heat radiating from my neck upward. “I’m fine. Sorry.” I snatched the pen from his hand. “Yeah, just stood up too fast.” I forced my lips to curve in a smile and shoved my glasses up my nose. He was going to think I was so bizarre.

  Jackson looked quizzical for a moment, then turned and headed for his office. “Follow me,” he tossed over his shoulder, and I rushed to obey.

  I felt eyes on me as I walked. Jackson usually only met with the managers, not the staff directly. I reported to a guy named Brad who happened to be on vacation this week. I supposed that was why I was heading into Jackson’s office instead of Brad. Whatever it was, it obviously couldn’t wait.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the seating arrangement in his office. His desk stood to one side, diagonal to the windows that lined the wall. A sofa and two chairs were arranged facing each other on the opposite side, which was where he’d pointed.

  Okay then.

  Sofa or chair . . . sofa or chair . . .

  I stood in indecision, frantically going through the pros and cons of each seat inside my head. The chair would be good but it faces the windows and there’s a glare. I’ll be squinting. Sofa is better but what if he sits beside me, then I’ll be craning my neck to see him and my feet won’t touch the floor. The other chair is in a better location but it’s higher than the sofa and if he sits on the sofa then I’ll be above him and that may be insulting since technically I’m not “above” him—

  “China,” he interrupted my train of thought, brushing past me and taking the chair I’d been leaning toward choosing. “Have a seat.”

  That was a command. I could recognize the tone. So I plunked myself down in the nearest spot, which put me on the sofa. Except I’d misjudged the softness of the cushions and I sank, putting me even lower than I thought I’d be, as I faced him. I forced a smile.

  “Cushy couch.”

  Okay, that was something a teenager might say. Not a grown woman with degrees piled behind my name and several years of experience under my belt. My smile turned into a grimace. I started fiddling with my pen and shoved my glasses farther up my nose.

  “Brad would usually be the one to hold this discussion,” he began, “but since he’s out of the office right now, I thought I’d handle it.”

  My palms began to sweat and I went cold. This sounded like the beginning of a conversation I wasn’t going to like. I searched my brain, trying to think of what I could’ve done to bring about a disciplinary meeting with the CEO.

  “If this is about that argument between me and Toby last week, then I want you to know it’s resolved. He dinged my Mustang and refused to admit it, but when I had the paint samples compared, they totally matched.”

  Jackson gave me an odd look. Okay, that wasn’t it then.

  “And I’m not the one who keeps stealing Janin
e’s Diet Coke from the fridge,” I blurted. “It’s Megan in accounting. I caught her but she swore me to secrecy because she saw me borrow one of Blake’s Kit Kat bars that he keeps in the freezer.” I took a breath. “Borrow’s not really the right word, I guess, since I ate it. But I did replace it the next day.” I grimaced. “And ate it again. But I really am going to bring him more. I swear.”

  Still nothing. His eyes were a bit wider though. Surely that couldn’t be a good sign?

  “And I’m not the one that keeps adding h-o-g to Liam’s nameplate.” The guy’s last name was Hedge. Really, he was just asking for that one.

  “Or—”

  “Stop!”

  I clamped my lips shut.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “While I appreciate your willingness to, um, clear your conscience . . .” he paused, “none of those things are why I brought you in here.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “I was getting to that, before your impromptu confessional.”

  Oh. I shut up again.

  “I had a project come in and need a programmer with certain skills,” he said. “You seem to be the only person on staff familiar with LISP.”

  I was still processing the “need a programmer” part so my brain took longer than usual to catch up.

  “LISP?” I asked. “Um, yeah. I went through a phase where I was studying the first programming languages. I learned FORTRAN and LISP. Not a lot of stuff being written in those nowadays, but it’s helpful to learn for maintenance purposes.” I shrugged. “Besides, I was bored.”

  “You were bored,” Jackson echoed. I nodded. “And how old were you?”

  “Thirteen.” Not every thirteen-year-old girl wanted to host sleepovers and paint their friends’ nails . . . Okay I had really wanted to have a sleepover, but the smell of fingernail polish gave me a headache. And since there was no one to have a sleepover with, I learned coding languages.

  “I see.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. My eyes were drawn to his shoes.

  I had a thing for a really good pair of men’s shoes. Not to wear or anything—I wasn’t that weird—but I could appreciate the expense and quality of well-made leather footwear. And Jackson Cooper always wore nice shoes, polished to a gleaming shine. His clothing was almost always the same palette of gray or black pants paired with a button-down shirt, also in a gray or black. He never wore a tie, and his shoes were never the same two days in a row.

  I could feel his gaze on me and I kept mine on his hand, which was draped on his ankle. His hands were large and looked strong, but weren’t roughened by manual labor. The fingers were long and tapered, almost like a pianist’s. Looking at them made my thoughts wander in an unprofessional direction and I hastily averted my eyes.

  It was nerve-racking, being in here alone with him. I’d worshipped him from afar ever since he’d first made his name in tech. Yes, empirically speaking, he was closer to the Ten on a scale of One to Ten and I wasn’t blind. But his main draw, at least in my opinion, was how smart he was. Compared to him, most of the population were just jabbering monkeys, myself included.

  Whereas my hands had been cold, now they were clammy with sweat and I had to consciously stop myself from wiping my palms on my jeans. That would look really gross. I pushed my glasses up my nose instead and focused on Jackson’s eyes rather than his body.

  Oh geez. It felt wrong to even be thinking that word in reference to my boss. Body . . .

  “. . . currently working on—the version upgrade for MTS—let’s take you off that for now,” he was saying. I nodded like I’d been listening all along. “I’ll e-mail you a brief of what I need and the project outline. You can look that over and we’ll meet tomorrow to work out anything that needs clarification.”

  Which was a really nice way of saying anything I didn’t understand, because I had no doubt that I’d have to wade my way through what Jackson would view as a light bedtime story.

  Jackson looked like he was waiting for an answer or some sign that I was comprehending the words coming out of his mouth.

  “You betcha!” I blurted, then inwardly cringed at how ridiculous I sounded. I forced a smile that widened until my lips were sticking to my dry teeth. This time he didn’t even bother with a polite perfunctory smile back. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Okay, thank you,” he said, rising to his feet and heading for his desk.

  I was up and off the couch like a shot, or I would’ve been if the couch hadn’t fought me. There was a gravitational pull of black-hole proportions and it wanted my ass to stay right there. After fumbling for a moment in the depths of the cushions, I struggled my way to my feet. I could feel Jackson’s eyes on me and my face burned, but I didn’t dare look at him as I hightailed it back to my cube.

  Only after I’d curled up in my usual semisquat in my chair did it hit me: I was going to be working side-by-side on a project with none other than Jackson Cooper.

  Holy shitballs.

  2

  Monday night was when I worked late, which wasn’t hard on this particular Monday, and ordered pizza on my way home. It had taken me the entire day and the better part of the evening to read through what Jackson had e-mailed me. As I’d figured, it wasn’t exactly entry-level stuff. I took notes and highlighted, wrote down questions, and dug out my old tech books. I forgot to eat lunch and lost track of time. It was a challenge and I loved it.

  So long as I didn’t think about having to work with Jackson, I was fine.

  “Hi Reggie . . . yeah, it’s China,” I said into my Bluetooth. “I know I’m late . . . seven minutes . . . yeah, the usual, please—no, wait. Let’s go crazy. Add extra cheese.”

  I heard a laugh in my ear. Reggie got a kick out of my detailed routine and it had taken him about two months to figure out I called at precisely the same time every Monday night and ordered exactly the same thing. The only two variations were last February when I’d ordered dessert (in honor of Valentine’s Day), and tonight. Being asked to help the boss on a project was cause for some celebration, I thought. Therefore, extra cheese.

  Ordering from the car ensured just enough time for me to get home, change clothes, and pop open a Red Bull before the doorbell rang.

  I liked to keep my apartment warm, so wearing a thin pair of sweats and a tank was perfect. It felt good to be out of jeans and a bra. I wiggled my toes. And shoes.

  Grabbing some money from the envelope I kept in a kitchen drawer (put there for this purpose), I jogged for the door and yanked it open.

  “Perfect tim—” I stopped. Because it wasn’t the pizza guy at my door, it was Jackson.

  I was so shocked, I stood there gaping at him for a moment, then blurted, “What are you doing here?”

  He ignored my question. “Can I come in?”

  I couldn’t compute. “This isn’t right. You’re supposed to be at work. Not at my house.”

  “I’m not at work twenty-four seven, China,” he said mildly.

  “No no, I mean, yeah, I know that, but you’re at my house . . .” My words faded away as common sense took over. I was making my boss stand on my stoop in the dark, moths dancing around his head in the light I’d left on for the pizza guy. “Crap. Yeah, sure, come in.”

  I stepped back inside and he followed me. Everything was all awry. I wasn’t dressed properly. He shouldn’t be here—how did he even know where I lived anyway? The pizza guy would be here any minute and was there enough for two people? Of course there was, but then I wouldn’t have leftovers tomorrow and would have to do something different for lunch. I hated different. And he’d undone another button on his shirt, not that I’d noticed.

  “I’m sorry to arrive unannounced like this,” Jackson said as I closed the door behind him. I reached up and tightened my ponytail, then shoved my glasses up my nose. A twofer in my nervous jitter repertoire.

  “It’s fine.” Which was such a lie. This wasn’t fine. Not at all. What was I supposed to do with
him? The only men I had in my apartment were my RuneQuest squad and I didn’t really count them as men of potential romantic interest since two of them still lived at home with their parents and the other two lived together in the Biblical sense. Jackson Cooper was most definitely a man in all the ways that mattered most to a female.

  Something to drink. Yes. That would break the ice. And would give me something to do.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I asked.

  “Sure. That’d be great.”

  Okay. He said yes. I spun on my heel and hurried to the kitchen, then realized I hadn’t asked him what he wanted to drink. Shit.

  “Um, so, yeah, I have water . . .” Duh. Everyone with a sink had water. I opened the fridge. “Milk . . . Red Bull . . . cranberry juice . . .” I think I had one dusty bottle of merlot someone had given me. I could offer him that. “Wine—”

  “Red or white?”

  I jumped at his sudden proximity and shut the door too hard. He’d come into the kitchen without me realizing, since my head had been buried inside the refrigerator.

  “Um, red, I think.” I pushed my glasses up again and moved past him to get the bottle from my cupboard. I’d just realized I didn’t own a wine-bottle opener corkscrew thing when I saw it was a screw-top cap. Thank God. Disaster averted.

  I poured him a glass then thought I should pour myself one, too. I handed his to him. “Here you go.”

  He said “Cheers” and held up his glass to toast just as I took a big gulp. I choked.

  “Easy there,” Jackson said, slapping my back, which just made things worse.

  Coughing and spluttering, I grabbed a dish towel and coughed into it. My eyes were watering but even so, I could detect the pity in his eyes. Could this get any worse? And I still didn’t know why he was here.

  The doorbell rang just as I was getting myself under control and Jackson went to get it before I could stop him.

  “Who’re you?” was the first thing out of Reggie’s mouth.