“We don’t need any help,” I answer, but his door swings open and he steps out. The traffic lights change, and his town car rolls off with the rest of the waiting vehicles.
“Have you taken a good look at yourself?” he asks me.
“What?” I ask defensively. “It’s just a bit of mud.”
He shrugs off his spring jacket and wraps it protectively around my shoulders. “It’s not just mud. You’re soaking wet. And you’re freezing.”
“It’s no big deal. Really, I’m—”
“Just come with me,” he says, cutting me off. “You and Vivian’s mutts can dry off at my office.”
“It’s fine,” I try to convince him, but we’re halfway to the crosswalk already. Daisy and Bailey are no help at all, following at my side with zero resistance. Even Sheba’s tail is flicking against my arm. He likes this guy?
The crosswalk lights change, and Jackson puts an arm on my shoulder, guiding me across the kitty corner to the entrance of an office building. “Sterling is my driver. He’s finding a spot in the underground parking for now. I’ll make sure he gets you home once you’re cleaned up.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Knight, but we’re all right. Besides, nothing at your office can get these mud stains out. And it’ll take hours for my clothes to dry off. We’re okay. Really.”
“You’ll dry off, get a change of clothes, and my driver will take you home,” he repeats more firmly as he swipes his building access card over an entry control.
“But I—” I start, however he flashes me a glance that tells me he won’t give in to my resistance. Jackson gestures toward the glass entrance door, so I follow his eyes in that direction. “What?”
“Take a look at your reflection.”
Adjusting my focus to the dark reflective glass of this ultra-modern office tower, I check myself out, and have to cover my mouth to quiet the horrific gasp that leaves my throat.
Good Lord.
I’m not just a mess.
I’m a disaster. My hair is dripping wet, there are brown, dead leaves and mud everywhere, and shit, a small piece of tree branch it sticking out of one side of my head, just above my ear.
“Fine,” I tell him, and the hot shame of his seeing me this way hits me hard. I bow my head and keep my eyes focused on Sheba and the leashes in my hand.
“And you’re welcome,” he announces, leaning down to me with his lips close to my ear.
“Right. Thank you for…helping me out.”
Jackson nods over at the two security guards at the building lobby information desk. They politely wave him up, doing their best not to react to the sight of me. We take the first of two side-by-side marble elevator bays and step into the waiting elevator. Using his swipe card again once we’re all loaded inside, he presses the button to the fiftieth floor. I can’t look directly at him, but I know he’s watching the dogs and me, and he’s more than just a little amused.
“Do all your pre-veterinary classmates take these kinds of torturous pet-sitting gigs, or is this your thing?” he asks when we’re halfway to his floor.
“It’s not torture.”
His eyebrows raise, adding to his quizzical expression. “Okay. Dangerous.”
“Caring for Vivian’s dogs isn’t dangerous either. Sure, Sheba’s a bit of a handful, but they’re well-behaved, mostly.”
On hearing his name, Sheba crinkles his little nose and stretches his body out in Jackson’s direction. It’s his way of letting people know he likes them and wants them to pet him. But Jackson doesn’t pay him any mind.
“Sheba’s the handful?” Jackson asks. “The little puppy? Not this huge one that’s almost as big as a horse?”
I nod. “Daisy takes her cues from Sheba.”
“You’re missing the point, but okay. Follow me.”
The company name, ‘Knights Capital Management Group’ is written in huge, silver letters as soon as the elevators open onto the floor. He leads me past a large, open-concept reception area, which is empty, and I assume it’s because we’re here on a Saturday.
“Gemma, are you around?” Jackson calls out as he turns the first bend to a row of large fishbowl-styled offices—rooms devoid of any privacy at all, where all four walls are made of glass.
“Yes, Mr. Knight,” comes a voice at the end of the long hall. “Good morning.”
A middle-aged blonde about my size emerges from one of the fishbowls and catches sight of us. I’m fully expecting her to size me up with a cold, judging glare. After all, I’m in the hallway of a classy, expensive office, soaking wet, tracking in filthy mud, and I have three dogs, not just one. The woman’s eyebrows do raise as we make eye contact, but I immediately relax because her face shows genuine concern more than anything else. She looks over at me and smiles politely. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“Hi.”
“Gemma, you’re not afraid of dogs, right?”
“Um, that’s right, Mr. Knight,” she answers.
“Great. This is Dahlia. Dahlia, Gemma.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Gemma greets me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss Gemma,” I answer.
“Take my neighbor’s pets and help get them cleaned up for me, will you?”
“Of course, Mr. Knight.” She reaches out and takes Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes from my hand, then gives me a nod as she cradles Sheba in one arm. “Hi puppy,” she says to Sheba, who goes willingly. “I’ll be in the break room. They look thirsty.”
“Great. Thanks. Is Jace here yet?”
“Yes, sir. He’s in his office.”
“Thanks, Gemma.” Jackson turns back toward where we came from. “Come with me, doll,” he instructs me.
“I shouldn’t leave them alone,” I tell him as we go past the elevators and take a bend down another corridor. This one is lined with frosted glass walls and mahogany doors, with boardrooms on one side, and larger, more private offices on the other.
“The dogs aren’t alone. They’re with my assistant.” He stops at the office with his name etched onto a sign on the door. Jackson Knight. Senior VP, Investment Strategy. Pushing it open, he steps aside to let me enter. “I have to take care of a few things. Check the closet on the left for some clean shirts and slacks. They won’t fit you, but it’s better than what you’re wearing right now. The door beside the closet is my private restroom. Wait in here when you’re finished. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I don’t know what to say to him as I manage to make eye contact with his piercing blue eyes that stare down at me, but the words “thank you” tumble out, and I shyly slip past him to get myself put together again.
Jackson walks off, and his office door closes behind me. I’m alone in his office, an unusual mix of glass, modern leather furniture and classic mahogany bookshelves, and one large desk.
Just as he explained, I open the door on the left and find a walk-in closet with several business suits in dry cleaning bags on one side. There’s also a column of shelves with socks, toiletries, and brand new men’s office shirts still in their packaging. Grabbing a shirt, a pair of socks and one of the dry cleaning bags, I carry them into his private bathroom and hang them on the hook behind the door.