Oh, Moe, I think as I log onto their server and cue up the terminal window. You’ve already given me everything I need.
5
The Magic Trick
An hour later, I step off the elevators onto the penthouse floor with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
“Do you have an appointment?” The pretty receptionist behind the desk tilts her head at me. Her hair is pinned up in a French-twist or some other elaborate, work-appropriate up-do that looks effortless but I’m sure took at least thirty minutes. Not a single shiny, brown lock is out of place.
Ugh. I can barely manage a freaking pony tail without compressing the nerves in my neck. Right now, I feel the weight of my curls straining against my clip. It’s only a matter of time before it clatters to the marble floor — one more casualty in the war to tame my mane.
“No,” I blurt when I realize she’s staring at me, waiting for an answer. “I don’t have an appointment.”
“Well, I’m afraid Mr. West has no availability to see you today. Fridays are always busy — no time for walk-ins.” She purses her lips as she gestures toward a prim stack of gray business cards to my left. “Feel free to take a card and call the office to make an appointment. Currently, we’re booking into March.”
I stare at her, not moving. “March. As in… three months from now?”
“Mr. West is a busy man.”
“Oh, I’ll bet he is.”
Her eyes narrow at my thinly-veiled sarcasm. “If you’d like to leave a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Uh huh.” It doesn’t escape my notice that she makes no move to pick up her pen. I figure that means the chances of her passing on any messages are nil.
“So.” She rises to her feet and I see the rest of her is as annoyingly put-together as her hair. I feel like an idiot in my thrift-store ensemble. “If you’ll just make your way to the elevators…”
“Yeah, the thing is, March isn’t going to work for me.” I stare her down.
She goes still and her voice lowers. “Please leave and call back for an appointment.”
“Nope, don’t think so.”
“Miss, I will not hesitate to call security.”
“No need to waste their time.” I shrug, turn, and cross to the white leather sofa across from her desk. “I’ll just wait while you call Mr. West and tell him I’m here to solve his computer issues.”
“But—” Steam is going to start leaking from her ears any second. “We aren’t having any computer issues.”
“Really?” I scrunch my nose at her as I settle back against the cushions. “You sure about that?”
“I…I…” Twin spots of red appear on her cheekbones. “I’m calling security.”
“Go right ahead,” I say, searching for a magazine on the end table beside me. They’re all boring business crap — TIME, The New Yorker, The Economist. I glance back at the receptionist briefly and find she’s glaring at me.
I sigh. “You’ll just have to track me down after security escorts me out. Because, as I said before… You’re going to be having some computer problems very shortly, and I have a feeling Mr. West will want to chat with me about them.”
Miss Perfect is practically quivering with outrage at my brazen disregard for her orders. “I’m calling security, now,” she repeats in a haughty tone.
I smile blandly. “You do that. I’ll just sit here and wait. And in precisely…” I glance at my watch. “Two minutes, without lifting a finger, I’m going to make your CEO appear right here in this lobby, like magic.” I sweep my arms through the air like a magician preforming on stage in Las Vegas.
She huffs, pivots on her Louboutins, and struts back to her desk. I have to fight off laughter as I watch her snatch her phone from its cradle with righteous indignation.
Turning back to the magazines, I spy a flash of pink amidst all the black and blue bindings, and pull it from the bottom of the stack. The glossy cover proclaims LUSTER in magenta — one of those terrible girly rags full of articles like “ZUMBA YOUR WAY TO A BETTER BOD!” — and I wonder what it’s doing amidst the snore-worthy business magazines.
My eyes move to the name in the address box.
PHOEBE WEST
I snort. I should’ve known.
I’ve barely flipped past the first page when the elevator doors chime open. Moe and Curly both barrel out, eyes wild and slightly paler than normal. When they catch sight of me on the couch, they slam to a halt and gape with a mixture of shock and fear.
“Hi, boys!” I call, waggling my fingers at them.
“You!” Moe hisses, staring at me. “What did you do to our system?”
“Little old moi?” I ask, batting my lashes. “Why, nothing, of course. I was busy playing Solitaire.”
The receptionist is on her feet, gaze swiveling from me to Moe to Curly with varying levels of alarm. “What’s going on?”
“We need to speak to Mr. West right away.” Curly is wringing his hands and looks like he’s about to revisit his breakfast. “There’s an issue with our computer network. It’s somehow been… crippled.”
The receptionist’s gaze slides to me. Her expression is not a friendly one.
“Ta-da!” I exclaim, making jazz-hands — as any good magician would, in this scenario. Rising to my feet, I drop my words to a whisper. “And now, for my next trick…”
“Patricia, why am I locked out of my computer?” a familiar voice carries from the wide hallway to the left of the reception area. All four of us turn to watch as the tall, golden-haired CEO strides into the room, his features set in a frown. “It won’t recognize my password and—”
Parker’s words dry up when he catches sight of his secretary on her feet. I see his face morph from frustrated to puzzled as he takes in Moe and Curly, who are practically falling over themselves in their haste to apologize.
“Mr. West, we take full responsibility—”
“We had no idea she was going to—”
By the time those hazel eyes finally lock on mine, my heart is pounding so hard inside my chest I’m sure it’s audible twenty floors beneath us. I see a flash of recognition in his stare as he takes me in, from the top of my head all the way down to my cheap-ass heels.
“You,” he says, cutting off Moe and Curly’s rambles with a single word. His voice is low with amusement and something else — something that makes my pulse quicken.
I clear my throat. “Me.”
His mouth twitches. “I had a feeling you’d be showing up.”
My eyes narrow. “You took something of mine. Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
“Darling…” He shakes his head. “There’s always a choice.”
Not in the mood to deconstruct that comment, I tear my eyes away from him and glance over at Patricia, the receptionist, who is staring at me with open hostility.
“Like magic, right?” I stage-whisper just to piss her off. “Tickets are available at the box office. I’m here till next week.”
“Mr. West.” Moe takes a hesitant step toward Parker. “I can explain.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “This woman is an imposter! A deceiver!”
“Moe, this isn’t an episode of Game of Thrones.” I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest. “You can just say she tricked us into helping her.”
“We didn’t help you!” Curly looks queasier than ever. “Sir, I promise you, we were in no way a part of her schemes—”
“Could you two be more dramatic?” I roll my eyes. “Schemes. As if flirting with you for two seconds until you folded like a lawn chair and gave me access to the secure network took any brain power at all.”
“She— she— we didn’t know…” Moe trails off uselessly.
“Oh, cheer up, Moe.” I sigh and shake my head. “You’re not the first one who’s fallen for the damsel-in-distress shtick. You certainly won’t be the last.”
“My name is Marvin,” he corrects coldly.
“Of course it is.” My e
yes swing back to Parker, who’s watching this exchange unfold in silence. I can’t read the expression on his face, though the twitching of his lips suggests he may be fighting off a smile.
“Listen, Curly and Moe are innocent bystanders,” I inform him. “As is Larry. I think he’s still downstairs.”
Parker opens his mouth to respond, but the chime of the elevator arriving cuts him off. Two beefy security guards step into the fray, eyes scanning the room for potential threats.
“Sir.” The larger of the two inclines his head to Parker. “Patricia called down and told us there was a woman causing a disturbance up here, who needed to be removed from the premises.”
Parker glances at me. His lips tug up at one side. “You cause a lot of trouble for someone so small.”
I shrug. “It’s a talent.”
“Sir?” The security guard edges closer to me. “Should we remove her?”
My eyes are locked on Parker’s and I can’t help but notice the green flecks in his irises, brought out by his emerald tie.
“That won’t be necessary.” He pauses. “She’s with me.”
She’s with me.
His low decree sends everyone into motion — the guards back into the elevator with brisk nods, the receptionist back behind her desk with an annoyed huff, the tech boys back to the bank of couches, where they hover in awkward suspense. The only point of stillness in the room is me, frozen to the floor as Parker slowly closes the distance between us.
I don’t move — I don’t even breathe — as he comes to a stop less than a foot away. The air between us seems to hum with tension.
“My office.” His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a brief moment. “Now.”
“That was pretty good, playboy. You almost sounded like an intimidating CEO.” I tilt my head. “Almost.”
His eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to respond, but Moe’s shrill, nervous voice interjects.
“Sir, what would you like us to do about the computers? The entire network is frozen— no one can log in or access their work stations.”
“Patricia,” Parker says, never shifting his eyes away from mine. “Send everyone home.”
“What?” I hear her gasp. “Sir… it’s only just past lunchtime. We have more than one hundred employees on site—”
“Patricia.” He turns his head just a fraction of an inch and shoots her such an intense look, I’m surprised she doesn’t keel over. “Send everyone home.” His head moves again and he unleashes the look on Moe and Curly. “That includes you.”
“But, sir, the network—”
“I’ll fix it.” Parker looks back at me and I see a muscle working in his jawline. “Or, I should say, I know who’ll fix it. So, have a nice afternoon. Consider it paid vacation. I’ll see you all on Monday.”
Without another word, he takes hold of my arm, turns on the heel of one extremely expensive leather shoe, and drags me down the hall to his office with all the gentleness of a rugby player.
The opaque glass doors close soundlessly at our backs, entombing us inside the enormous space together. There’s an incredible panoramic view of the entire downtown sprawl, but I don’t bother looking. All my focus is used up by Parker.
As soon as we’re inside, he releases his grip and puts a few feet of distance between us, crossing to lean against his desk with both arms folded across this chest. The sun beams shining through the wall of glass behind him surround his frame with a glowing halo, like he’s some sort of angel.
I know the truth — he’s no angel. He’s a lion, ready to pounce.
King of the jungle.
And I’m a fucking gazelle.
His gaze is intent, almost intimate, as he stares at me in silence. I know I should say something to shatter it. In fact, I spent all morning carefully rehearsing exactly what I was going to say to him when I got him alone. And yet, staring at him now… all my words have fled.
The silence between us feels heavy, hard to swallow — like the summer runs I take along the Charles, when it’s nearly impossible to haul humid breaths into my aching lungs. I stiffen my spine, telling myself he’s not intimidating at all, leaning there like some Greek god sent down from Mt. Olympus to fuck with my head.
And possibly other parts of my anatomy.
He’s watching me with that same look in his eye he had last night, the first moment we met — with razor-sharp curiosity, as though he’s never seen anything quite like me before. The thought makes my throat start to close. I swiftly decide I’ll happily lose our staring contest, if it means not being the subject of his study for another moment.
I drag my eyes from him and examine the office around me. I thought it would be soulless, colorless — the space of a corporate drone. Instead, I find myself surrounded on all sides by photographs. They line the walls in a kaleidoscope of color. Intrigued despite my better judgment, I wander a little closer to examine the ones on the nearest wall.
There’s no discernible pattern or theme — every frame is a different size, a different subject. There are massive canvases that take up several feet of wall space alongside tiny frames no larger than a postcard. Some are portraits — young faces, wrinkled features, every age in between. Some are places — recognizable streets of Boston, entirely foreign lands I couldn’t think to name.
Close-ups. Landscapes.
Unfocused. High-resolution.
They’re all unique. In fact, they only have one thing in common.
They’re all amazing.
Whoever took them knows their way around a camera lens, that’s for damn sure. Some of these should be hanging in museums, not a CEO’s office.
“Wow,” I murmur, stopped in my tracks by a particularly vivid shot of a couple hand-in-hand on a cobbled street, surrounded by thousands of pigeons in flight with a blazing, orange sunset in the background.
“Piazza San Marco, in Venice.” His response is quiet — I didn’t realize he’d heard my hushed exclamation. “I was cutting through on my way to dinner and just happened to have my camera with me. Some shots you wait all day for — that one unfolded totally on its own. Right place, right time.”
I glance at him. “You took this?”
He nods.
Spinning in a slow circle, I look around at the dozens of frames on his walls. “You took all of these,” I marvel.
There’s a beat of silence. “Did you come here to look at my pictures?”
The amused question draws my gaze back to him.
I suck in a breath. That half-smile of his is killer.
Focus! You’re here to get your flash drive back, not make moony eyes at the man or compliment his dreamy photography skills.
I fold my arms over my chest to mirror his pose. Sadly, I doubt I’m equally intimidating.
“I don’t care about your photos,” I say, wishing my voice didn’t sound so breathy. “That’s not why I came.”
“So, I’ll just have to assume you were desperate to see me again.” His grin is sinful. “Can’t say I blame you.”
I scoff.
He makes a tsk noise. “First you sexually harass me last night, then you track me down at my office… Do you have a crush on me, snookums?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Fine.” He chuckles. “How about boo-bear?”
“How about I shove my foot up your ass?”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a maybe.” His head tilts in thought. “Pumpkin?”
“Eat a dick.”
“Cuddles?”
“Go die.”
“Cookie? Sugar? Snickerdoodle?”
“Why are all of these food-themed?”
“I’m hungry.” His grin widens. “Want to go grab lunch?”
“Are you seriously asking me out right now?”
“Of course not.” He pauses. “Why, would you say yes if I did?”
“No.”
“We’ll get something light. Chinese food.” His forehead creases. “I’m always starving thirty mi
nutes after I gorge on Chinese. Why is that?”
I glare at him in lieu of a response.
“Okay, no egg rolls for you. Got it.” He continues as though I’m fully engaged in the conversation. “Appetizers and drinks.”
“Stop.”
“Fine, fine. Just the drinks, then. You convinced me.” He pushes off the desk and takes a step closer. His eyes gleam with good humor. “Unless you change your mind and want to grab dinner afterward, of course.”
Shameless. The man is completely, totally, one hundred percent shameless.
I wonder why I find that so sexy.
“You’re trying to distract me again,” I say in an uppity tone.
“Is it working?”
“No.” Yes.
“Most girls would love to have dinner with me.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He laughs and the sound pools in my stomach like a warm shot of whiskey. “You’ll cave eventually. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m extremely persistent when I find something I want.” He takes another step in my direction. “Like the time I was in Thailand and I wanted a massive quarter-pounder with bacon and American cheese. It wasn’t easy, I had to drive almost a hundred miles… but I found a burger place. And damn if it wasn’t the best burger I ever had.”
“Do you take anything seriously?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Not if I can help it.”
“So you aren’t at all concerned about the fact that the entire WestTech server is down?”
He sighs. “You want to know what I’m concerned about?”
“Not really, no.”
“Cronuts.” He gestures at the plate of leftover baked goods on the sleek coffee table to his left. “I mean… is it a doughnut or is it a croissant? Who decides these things?” He shakes his head, as if deeply troubled. “What if someone put a gun to your head and made you separate all baked goods into categories? What then, huh? Where the hell would the cronuts wind up?”
I pause. “You think that’s a likely scenario?”
“Highly probable.”
I shake myself out of doughnut-related thoughts and contort my face back into my Ice Queen mask. “You’re distracting me again.”
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 6
