Jax’s silence over the weekend is excruciating.

I spend most of Saturday in the office, checking and double-checking the schedule for next week. Bee tries to video chat twice. I decline both calls and feel wretched about it both times. But I know that if she sees my face, she’ll know I’m barely holding it together.

Every time my phone buzzes I leap to see who it is, even though I know it’s only incoming email.

He could be emailing you, I tell myself in a reasonable tone.

If he’d wanted to email me, he wouldn’t have asked for my phone number.

But Jax says nothing. No instructions. Not even a hello, for two agonizing days. Despite the strange departure of that party on the Fourth of July, he’s sticking to his rules: everything is going to be strictly contained to our daily meetings in his office.

It’s late Sunday night when a message comes in.

At the short buzz that indicates a text my heart skips a beat, and I steel myself for the disproportionate disappointment of finding out that it’s Bee sending me a pregnancy update instead of Jax.

That thought fills me with shame. My sister is pregnant with twins. There’s no reason I should be dodging her. What if the message had been from her, telling me that they were born? Could I be any more of a work- and Jax-obsessed bitch?

But it’s not a message from Bee. It’s from Jax.

Save this number to your contacts as ‘Hunter’.

I do as he says—even though he can’t see me—then tap out a reply. Should I send a screenshot to prove it?

No. Too much.

Saved.

Good girl.

My breath catches in my throat. The phrase sends a bolt of pleasure straight down the back of my neck, down the length of my spine, and lands between my legs.

Can I be that starved for attention and praise?

I can.

I grip my phone, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, for another full minute, but there’s no obvious reply. When I’m beginning to think I should send something, anything, the icon indicating that he’s typing pops up above my thumbs.

For our meeting tomorrow, you’ll be wearing red panties.

My heart beats a little faster. Instantly, I’m taking a mental inventory of my dresser drawer. I have exactly one pair that will work, and they’re skimpy, all lace, something Bee bought me a few years ago as a joke. She knows that beneath all the brand-name pieces, I’m a stickler for comfort next to the skin, which explains my extensive collection of non-red panties that can be worn without lines showing through.

I borrow a lot from the Closet—all the department heads do—but Sandra prefers my wardrobe to be mainly in shades of black, black, black aside from a few statement pieces. It’s not a dress code she’s ever been explicit about, but all it took was a few well-placed comments about the “overwhelming brightness” of a couple of my outfits for me to take the hint and adjust.

Needless to say, red panties have not been high on my priority list.

Will the ones I have be good enough?

There’s no time to shop before work, and my lunch break is barely long enough to get to the ground floor of the building, much less to the nearest Victoria’s Secret.

“Stop,” I say out loud, standing up from my couch and pushing my hair back into a loose ponytail. “You’re being a crazy person. Your panties are good enough.”

Hearing those words come out of my own mouth sends me into a fit of giggles.

I laugh so hard that I cry, and when I’m done I fall heavily onto my bed, suddenly feeling very sober and serious.

When I got promoted to Sandra’s lead assistant a year ago, I moved into my own one-bedroom apartment. Having a roommate was too much of a hassle, and I knew that if I was going to handle the stress of the job, I needed a peaceful place to come home to. For a while, I spent my late nights and weekends making improvements to the space, decorating it carefully, arranging it precisely.

Now I’m wondering if having someone here at the end of the day—not a man even, not a lover—would be better than spending every night alone. Things might be better if someone other than my cleaning lady set foot over the threshold every week.

You know they would only be a distraction.

I’m so exhausted, so on edge despite the giddy laughter, that the thought takes hold more strongly than it should.

Would it? Would it be a distraction to have someone to talk to aside from Sandra and a few of the girls in the office? When was the last time I met them in the cafeteria for lunch? How long has it been since I decided eating at my desk was my only option?

Too long.

But before I can fully convince myself that easing up on my work would probably be the best idea health-wise, the memory of my father’s face after he found out he was being forced into early retirement with not enough money saved in the bank flickers into my mind in full color.

After that, it’s easy to push away my worries about lunch dates and roommates.

I’ll have plenty of time for those things later.

Will you? Really? asks the voice from the back of my mind.

I start to formulate an argument, but the heaviness of my eyelids make it impossible to stay awake long enough to see it through.

The only thing to do now is rest…and make it to 5:00 tomorrow.