Page 110 of A Matter of Time

“Yes,” he said in a low-voiced growl.

“Huh.”

I considered what he’d said. I sat there, not moving, thinking through my options, and though telling him to go to hell was tempting, I instead scooted back in. A moment of bravado would kill our friendship for all time. It wasn’t worth it. The fact that he was counting on me to back down so he could save face was annoying beyond words, but this was my role. I was the one who gave in; he was the one who pressed. So I replaced the files in my lap and looked over at him. His eyes were like pieces of ice, so cold, so clear.

“Okay, so I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

“And if that’s never?”

God, he was really hoping for a knock-down, drag-out fight, and I had no idea why.

“Then it’s never,” I said simply, shrugging for emphasis. “Whatever you want.”

Dark eyes regarded me.

“Will I be sitting here until the Rapture?” I prodded him.

“I need you to call Claude Upton for me.”

I was certain that my long, dramatic sigh could be heard out in the lobby.

He was glaring at me after that. “You have a problem?”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “No, sir. What shall I ask Mr. Upton?”

He stared at me a long moment.

“Well?” I prompted him.

“Nothing. Go back to your desk.”

So I did as I was told and sat there across from Joanna Belian, our new typist. She was very nice, easily in her late sixties, and had brought along some lovely pictures of her grandchildren.

“Is it Jordan?” she asked me after a moment.

“It’s Jory.” I smiled back, correcting her gently.

“Your boss is quite a looker, even though he’s got ice around the edges.”

“Does he?”

“Oh yes, dear,” she assured me. “Cold is the word I’d use.”

“I think he’s just—” I began, but when the office door opened and he leaned out of the doorway, I went mute.

“Do you want to know what happened or not?” he asked me irritably.

I threw up my hands. “I have no idea what you even want me to say at this point.”

He gestured for me, and I got up and went into his office. When I turned around, he walked over to the leather couch and flopped down on it. I couldn’t help scowling. He never flopped; he always sat gracefully.

“What?” He sounded both terse and impatient.

“You’re being so weird.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” I over-enunciated the word for him. “Like, absolutely insane. What the hell is wrong with you?”