But eventually, it became a problem, like so much else between Sebastian and me. Wanting to see what I was doing while he was working became wanting to control what I was doing all the time.
Ryder is my boss. He already has control of what I do, and he has control over whether I continue to do it. If I’m deemed too much of a distraction, he becomes vulnerable, less in control of both himself and his business.
And if Sebastian is any kind of example, feeling vulnerable can sometimes make people angry. Vindictive. Unfair.
And then their problem is your problem and you’re literally rearranging your whole world trying to solve it.
But you know what? I’m tired of men running my life. If Ryder thinks he’s going to fire me or void our deal because of what happened last night, he needs to prepare himself for a piece of my mind on Monday. Every kiss, every touch, every everything last night—well, it’s his fault, too. Who backed who onto that desk?
I’m not saying that I minded it. But I’m also not saying I’m sorry.
RYDER
CH. 12
The door of Ogden’s Books has an old-timey bell that rings lightly when Jackson and I enter the empty space. Ogden’s had been an institution of Little Five Points for something like the last three decades, the kind of bookstore that carried new bestsellers alongside vintage, hard-to-find collections. It survived the migration to e-readers and the recession, but it turns out the owners couldn’t resist a good old-fashioned payday, which is what Jackson’s real estate connection told them they’d have if they ever decided to sell this place. It’s on a corner, three-thousand square feet and two stories connected by a spiral staircase with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street that were probably okay for a book club but are perfect for a night club.
“I think we should call it Fitzgerald’s,” Jackson says, as he rolls the blueprints out on the counter near the back. “He’s my favorite American writer.”
Jackson is one of the smartest guys I know, without question, but I’ve never seen him crack a book or even mention F. Scott Fitzgerald. “Name one thing he wrote other than The Great Gatsby and I’ll consider it.”
“I don’t know. Something about bullfighting. I don’t remember titles.”
“That’s Hemingway,” I say.
“Who died and made you librarian?” Jackson says.
“I used to come down here in high school sometimes,” I say, looking at the empty built-in shelves that line the walls. “I read The Catcher in the Rye in that corner there all in one afternoon.”
“Wow, Ryde,” Jackson says, grinning. “I never pegged you for a nerd.”
“The girl that worked the register here was hot and she recommended it,” I say. “Gave us something to discuss between make-out sessions in the back office.”
“What’s on Cassie’s reading list?”
I can’t separate her name with the memory of her smooth thighs squeezing my head as she came from my tongue, and I twist my mouth, trying not to let it turn into a smile that would give me away. “How would I know?”
“Seemed like y’all were having a pretty intense meeting of the minds the other night in the back office.”
“We were about to have a meeting of something,” I say, remembering the promise of Cassie’s hand starting to undo my jeans, her soft fingertips brushing my granite-hard erection. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for barging in, by the way.” I punch him solidly in the bicep.
Jackson rubs his arm. “The undefeated Ryder Cole still has it.”
“Can we talk about our business,” I say, gesturing around the would-be nightclub, “instead of my business?”
“Hey, we’re partners. Your business is my business. Especially when it involves an employee.”
“It’s just fun and games, Jacks,” I say. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
“Cool,” he says. “Then you won’t mind that I’m going out with her tonight?”
“What?” I say. “Since when the fuck has this been happening?”
“Since never the fuck,” he says. He shakes his head, chuckling. “I know you, Cole. And I know when you’re into a woman. I called it with Caroline, like, a month before you two got together, remember?”
“Yeah, great job with that one,” I say. I walk to the front of the store and skim my index finger across an empty shelf, the old dust adhering to my skin, too sticky to brush off easily. “What are you thinking about these shelves?”
Jackson crosses to me. The shelves cover the full length of most of the side walls, with no break between the top and bottom floors. “On the blueprints, I had them taken out for space, but now that I’m seeing them again, I’d probably say leave them. We can wire some interesting lighting in there.”
“Maybe keep a few lower ones open for people’s drinks or purses or whatever.”
“I like that,” Jackson says. “Usually in architecture we say form follows function, but this is kind of the reversal.”