The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

by Annika Martin

  “You’d think.”

  She’s staring at me again. “Come on, tell me. What’s your interest in this?”

  “Having my answer without a lot of explanation, ideally.”

  She makes a face at me and clicks again. “I might not get anything at all.”

  She has to get something. I feel her staring again. Willow’s a whiz with computers, but she’s nosy. She always has been.

  “Spill,” she says.

  “Maybe I don’t like unanswered questions. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Oh you’re hardly disappointing. I haven’t seen you in this good a mood in forever.”

  “You think this is a good mood?”

  “For you it is.” She refreshes her screen. “You seem almost happy.”

  “Must be all the baby goat videos I’ve been watching.”

  She sniffs, like that’s a joke, and sits up on my desk.

  Seven could’ve asked anything of me at the moment, and she asked me to watch baby goat videos. It’s insane. And she bakes and meticulously frosts special-occasion cookies. Gives them to her friends or family, probably. Though she doesn’t sound East Coast. She didn’t grow up here; she feels too easygoing, somehow. A transplant. She’d send them to her family. She’d be close with her family. Sentimental.

  I stare at my screen while Willow scrolls through her phone.

  Frosted cookies. What’s the point of pouring time into making something that’s going to be consumed in five seconds? She should have more respect for her artistry if that’s what she loves to do.

  I think about telling her that, challenging her on that, on the next call. She’ll probably think it’s arrogant. She likes to keep control. And then I’d make her touch herself, because she likes to give it up, too.

  “What’s up with the daffy look?” Willow asks.

  “Refresh it again.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s up.”

  “I have this wake-up-call girl that I…have questions about.”

  “Questions,” she says. Like that’s not the right word.

  “Yes, questions. And it’s using up bandwidth I need for solving dehydrated Vossameer.”

  When I look up, her expression is tender, a little bit somber. “You get to have things for yourself,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think you do. You deserve to be happy even if you don’t nail this new formula.”

  I give her a hard look.

  Willow holds up her hands. “Fine. I’m shutting up. Here’s me shutting up, okay?” She stabs the button, refreshing again. “I mean, they may not email back forever.”

  “Judging from the correspondence so far, there’s a better than fifty percent probability they reply in the first ten minutes,” I tell her. “Otherwise, some point today.”

  “Is this something you’ve worked out scientifically?”

  “Not that hard,” I snap.

  She smiles.

  I refresh. “Nothing.”

  The email will come back to both of our machines. She’s set something up where replying to the email I sent will give us information about the location of the sender. A little extra something hidden in the email that will get it to bounce off a specifically honed server. Or something. She’s the computer whiz, not me.

  She thinks we can get the IP address for starters, but depending on what kind of email setup the boss of Hello Morning is using, we could get much more. An intersection. An address. Maybe even a name.

  “I’m just saying, you’re more than your innovations,” she says.

  I give her a dark look.

  “What if it’s an address?” she asks. “Do you march down there?”

  “I’ll know what to do when I see what you get. It would be stupid to decide how to act on information when I don’t know what that information is.”

  “Sorry, Sherlock,” she says.

  “I think of that approach as more Michael Faraday.” I refresh again.

  “Four minutes,” she says.

  I probably will march down there. I picture myself storming into the office. Or maybe it’s some asshole operating out of a shared workspace. Or a storefront in Brooklyn. I’ll see what I’m dealing with. Probably put my PI on it. I said I wouldn’t get involved, but I never said I wouldn’t put a private investigator on it.

  She grins at her phone. “Gotcha!”

  I check my inbox. The email is there. I click it. Terse, as usual.

  Dear Mr. Drummond,

  There is only one type of arrangement: the one you are on currently.

  We appreciate your business.

  Sincerely,

  The cheerful folks at Hello Morning

  I look up. “Did you capture anything?”

  She grabs her own laptop, hits a few keys. “Theo.” She sounds surprised.

  “Don’t jerk me around. What?”

  She lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. “The email is coming from inside the building.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Now you really do have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t have to tell you dick.” I get up and look over her shoulder. I don’t know as much about IT as she does, but it’s not rocket science to see the return IP is Vossameer Inc.

  “It’s one of your employees acting as a wake-up service. It seemed fishy to you because it is. Let me guess, you’ve burned through every wake-up service out there trying to hold to that mad schedule of yours, and some desperate employee took it on herself to do it for you. I hope you didn’t abuse the person too much.”

  “Not too much,” I say, head spinning. I’m thinking about how cagey Sasha acted when I asked for the information. An hour later the Craigslist ad was up. Is it possible it’s Sasha? But then, who else could it be? She’s the one who arranged the service.

  “Mystery solved,” she says, eyeing me. “That’s what’s going on, right? You could tell it was a fake thing because it is.”

  I sink into my chair.

  “So who’s the unlucky caller?”

  “Probably Sasha Bale. In marketing. You’ve never met her. Except the caller didn’t sound like her,” I say hopefully. “This caller has a more raspy voice.”

  “Yeah, there’s an app for that. There’s a dozen apps for that.”

  “It was so realistic—”

  “App,” she says.

  “But the way her voice would—”

  “App.”

  “Damn.” My heart sinks. I loved that voice. The smart, raspy snap of it.

  Time to start your day of being a complete and utter asshole.

  I loved her sassy comebacks. I loved the rich rush of her breath when she was getting herself off. God, it’s embarrassing that it’s partly due to an app. Crushing. An app wielded by a woman I feel no chemistry with.

  Willow’s watching me, waiting for me to say something.

  “I suppose she gets points for resourcefulness,” I say. “It’s just that she doesn’t seem like the type to…”

  “To invent a wake-up-call service out of desperation for her demanding boss?”

  I was more thinking about her heat, her annoyance, the long, interesting conversations. The goat videos. All of it. “She did seem flustered when I asked her about it. Like she had something to hide. I wondered about it at the time.”

  Willow smiles. “And then she writes that ad. After you ask.”

  I was having phone sex with Sasha Bale in marketing.

  I should feel happy I figured it out. Maybe I’ll wake up at night working on dehydrated Vossameer instead of wondering why Seven’s a wake-up-call girl or analyzing the sounds in the background for clues to her life.

  I run through other things she said. Getting her in trouble with her boss by snooping—that, too, makes sense. She didn’t want me to know. I’m her boss.

  Except, in my few interactions with Sasha, the impression I always got was one of very eager admiration. On what planet does this woman make a rude
and abusive wake-up call? Does she have a different personality when she’s on the phone? The way certain people get road rage behind the wheel or become trolls on the internet?

  Willow grabs her coffee. “I gotta go.”

  I heave myself up and walk her to the elevators. She gets in and turns. Wags her finger at me. “Don’t be too hard on her. She was probably desperate.”

  I head back to my office feeling agitated. Sasha Bale? My feelings say no, it can’t be her, but the facts say yes. What kind of chemist would I be if I went with feelings over facts?

  It’s just that I’d felt sure that if I met Seven in real life, I’d recognize her deep down, that I’d feel something powerful—some sort of pull, or an emotional charge.

  A silly notion. I’m a scientist, not a starry-eyed romantic. What’s next? Writing love poetry and learning to play the lute? This needs to stop. I need to confirm my findings and be done with it.

  I sit down and send Sasha an email.

  Are you free for a quick lunch at Siefer’s at noon? I’d like to run something by you.

  I don’t say what. Will she know she’s busted? She’ll suspect it. She’s bright. But what’s she going to say? No? I’m her boss.

  Which is, I suppose, what legions of sexually harassing bosses have thought to themselves. Though I think it’s safe to say that we’ve left sexual harassment territory far, far behind. We’ve traveled galaxies beyond anything HR would ever approve of.

  I settle back into my chair and study some data.

  I guess Sasha wasn’t lying when she said I’m the only one she talks to like that. And the lab coat. There are old images of me in a lab coat online, but it’s what she sees me in every day, so it makes sense.

  I try to put Sasha’s face with Operator Seven’s voice. Operator Seven’s words. The honesty and vulnerability that seems to flow so easily between us.

  I pull up her employee file from the HR database. The file doesn’t contain many personal details. She’s worked in the marketing department of several nonprofits. Attended school at the University of Colorado. Member of the debate team. The knot in my gut loosens as I think about that comment of hers about debate teams. I need to give her a chance.

  Her work has been good lately. Her Instagram ideas. She’s a beautiful woman in her way. Not that it matters. Except I imagined Seven so differently.

  You don’t see what’s right in front of your face.

  Apparently not.

  An email notification pops up.

  I’ll be there. What is it regarding? Should I bring anything specific?

  ~Sasha

  I send a short reply.

  No need. Just a little brainstorming.

  ~Theo

  I arrive at Siefer’s at 11:30, well before it’s flooded by the office crowd that it caters to. I grab a coffee and choose a booth in the corner where we’ll have a bit of privacy. That also enables me to handle some phone business while I’m sitting there.

  But a few minutes later I find myself Googling Sasha. There’s almost nothing I couldn’t have gotten in her employee file. I go to Facebook. I have an account there that I never use, set up by Willow, of course. I’m using it now, though—to look up Sasha Bale.

  I get her picture. Lots of shots of her with a young girl—her niece. Herbs in small pots along a kitchen window. Not much else. To see what she shares with friends, send her a friend request.

  What does she share with friends? Is the real Sasha there on Facebook? Does she swear and laugh and complain about her boss? Does she call people motherfuckers?

  The place starts to fill up with the nine-to-five crowd, some of them vaguely familiar. Employees of mine, I suppose. It’s not as if I make a habit of memorizing their faces.

  I loosen my tie, hot. I’ve worn my lab coat as a little inside joke between us.

  “Mr. Drummond?”

  I look up, and she’s there, smiling.

  I stand. Put out my hand. “Thank you for coming, Sasha.”

  She takes my hand. “My pleasure.” Her eyes sparkle. She pulls off her decorative scarf and drapes it over the back of the chair. “Are you eating? Should we order first?”

  “I’ll handle it. Do you know what you want?”

  She looks up at the chalkboard menu. “Are you eating?”

  This feels all wrong already. I want us to talk the way we do on the phone, the feeling of being in perfect sync. Maybe it’s too much to expect. Willow always talks about social niceties, how I don’t pay enough attention to social niceties. They comfort people, she always says.

  Social niceties, then. I check the menu. “I’m having the soup of the day.”

  “Tomato basil. I was thinking about that. Make it two.”

  “Any dessert?”

  “I’ll see how I feel.”

  I nod and head to the counter, feeling as if I’m in the dating version of Jekyll and Hyde. It’s her voice. Her hesitancy. Even her order. Seven’s such a contrarian, she’d never match my order. But maybe she loves tomato basil soup. What do I know?

  The line moves slowly. I look over to where she’s sitting. She smiles. She really is pretty. I should be glad. She wears a blue suit. Brass buttons, with a little trio of ribbons on the front pocket. Like a sexy admiral.

  I put in my order and pay. The kid gives me a number on a small stand. I grab the silverware and head back to the table.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I didn’t know you came here.”

  “I don’t, typically.”

  “The soup here is always delicious. And they have this rosemary bread that’s incredible,” she says.

  I search her eyes for that spark of connection. “Excellent.”

  After an uncomfortable silence where I think I need to say something, she updates me on the Instagram behind-the-scenes lab journal. It’s tedious, and I’m barely listening.

  Is Sasha playacting? Is she just that confident her cover isn’t blown?

  A woman comes by and sets down our soups.

  “People love a story,” Sasha continues, settling her napkin into her lap. “They love a little drama. They love to pull for the underdog, and this lets them in on that. We’ve identified a few junior chemists who already run things for you who could log your daily progress—nothing proprietary, of course. We’d get an image of the day—papers and beakers or whatever. Communications could tweak the write-ups to get them into layman’s terms.”

  I break off a bit of bread. Steam rises up. I note the flecks of rosemary. I try it. When I look back up, she’s watching me intently.

  “Yeah?” she says.

  It takes me a moment to understand that she’s talking about the bread. I give her a nod. A quick smile. It’s just food.

  “Right?” She starts in on the soup. “So this Instagram story, maybe we create a header or a name.”

  This is me, I want to say. You can be real. I clear my throat, preparing to change the subject, but she keeps on.

  I give up and try the soup. “I like that it’s about the process and the product,” I say. “That’s what people should focus on.”

  “Exactly.” She smiles. “But I guess that’s not why you called me here, is it?”

  “I think you know why I called you here,” I say.

  She cocks her head, spoon poised over the fragrant soup. Outside the window, the world rushes on. “To brainstorm…” she says, conspiratorially.

  “The calls,” I say. “I know, Sasha.”

  “Are they…still working out?”

  “You know they’re working out.”

  She studies my face. All innocence. “Do I?”

  “Drop the act. They’re amazing, and you know it, because you’re the one making them. They’re my favorite part of the day. Let’s talk about the calls.”

  She studies my eyes, as though searching for something. Then she smiles, and in that moment, she looks beautiful. “You’re right. I think they’re amazing, too.”

  “So come out to dinner. You know you want t
o.”

  Her eyes widen a fraction.

  “I get it, I’m your boss,” I say. “If you don’t want things with me to move that way, then I’m fine to drop it here and now. But if your constant refusal to have dinner or to let me help you is because you think there might be some trouble at the company…look, I’ll rewrite the corporate rules right now.”

  She studies my face.

  “One dinner. See how it goes.”

  She stares at me strangely. Say something, I think.

  “It is tempting.”

  “So…” I say.

  After an awkward silence, she says, “I knew you would…figure it out.” She tilts her head. “But just out of curiosity, how did you?”

  “You corresponded with me as Hello Morning from inside the Vossameer building.”

  Her eyes sparkle. “Oops.”

  “The way you sounded when you were making yourself come this morning…Sasha…”

  She sucks in her lips. What is she thinking? She’s so hard to read. She looks around. “This place…I feel like we’re in a fishbowl…”

  “So come to dinner.”

  “Hold on, I just felt my phone go.” She pulls her phone from her purse. “Work meltdown. I absolutely have to handle this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing that needs to be your problem.” She stands. “A fire to put out.”

  “Dinner,” I say. “Tonight. Does seven work?”

  She grins. “Am I crazy to say yes?”

  “Probably.”

  “Fine. Let’s do this! Name the time and place.”

  I stand. “I’ll text you. You’ll have to unblock me, of course.”

  She narrows her eyes. “You know what? Email would be better. Way better.”

  “You’re not going to unblock me?”

  “It’s a long story.” She looks at the door, back at me, seeming torn. “I really do wish I could stay.”

  “I’ll email you.” I watch her leave.

  Nineteen

  Lizzie

  * * *

  I’m working on the Instagram strategy when Sasha messages me to meet her in the marketing meeting room.