Page 128 of And Now, Back to You

Jackson nods.

But our escape from the office is delayed by the sudden appearance of an immaculately dressed man in the threshold, one hand curled around the edge of the doorframe. He either doesn’t see us trying to leave, or doesn’t care much about holding us hostage, his attention fixed firmly on Maggie at her desk, still covered with tiny flecks of gold glitter, yellow and pink paper in her blunt bob.

Her face darkens when she sees him. He grins.

“Hello, Margaret.” He glances around the crowded office. “This looks festive.”

His dark hair is combed neatly back, his suit tailored within an inch of its life. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a moderately run-down but delightfully charming local radio station. He looks like he should be smoking a cigar in a dimly lit room. Maybe tying someone to a bedpost.

Sharp, blue eyes. A devious tilt to his mouth. His grin settles into a smirk, forcing a divot to appear in his cheek.

Jesus.

Maggie’s eyes narrow. If looks could kill, the stranger would be dust in the hallway, floating merrily to the ground like the paper from one of Aiden’s confetti cannons.

“How did you get in here?”

The other three people in this office might as well not exist. Maggie and the stranger are two sharpshooters in a spaghetti western, staring each other down along an abandoned stretch of roadway.

“I walked through the front door,” he says, thoroughly amused. “Why? Have you had security installed since the last time I visited your little hovel?” He glances up at the ceiling in distaste. Specifically, at the pieces of confetti that have wedged themselves into one of the air ducts. “Are we celebrating something? Perhaps you received the sponsorship of that fried chicken place your hosts won’t stop droning on about.” Aiden makes an offended sound. “A new desk chair?”

Maggie’s eyes narrow to slits. “Maybe we’re celebrating your completely accidental and easily explained demise.”

“Woah,” Jackson mutters.

But the man just laughs, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. “Lovely as that sounds, it’s not quite time for you to pop the bubbly on that milestone.” He beckons her forward with two fingers. “Come, Margaret. We have reservations.”

A disbelieving laugh sputters out of her. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he says again, voice sharpening. “Unless you’d like to explain to your executive team that keeps the power on in this little shack why you turned down a personal invitation to a brainstorming session from Orion. Six times in a row.” He levels her with a look. “This is what happens when you stop answering your phone, Margaret. I magically appear.”

“Like Beetlejuice,” she mutters.

“Please. I’m much better dressed.” He pushes off the doorway and strides down the hall. “Let’s go,” he shouts over his shoulder.

Maggie seethes silently.

Aiden scratches at his jaw. “Is that—”

“Cooper West? Yes.”

“The acquisitions guy?”

Maggie squeezes her eyes shut. “Yes, the vice president of acquisitions for Orion,” she grinds out. “Fuck my life,” she adds in a whisper. She gives herself another second of silent meditation, then grabs her wool coat and tosses it over her arm. “If I’m not back in an hour, one of us has murdered the other.”

She brushes past us to the hallway. I can hear the click of her heels against the floor. Cooper’s voice, lazily asking—

“Should I drive, or shall we humble ourselves with public transportation?”

“Shut up.”

“I could—”

“I said, shut up.”