by Tiffany Snow
I hesitated, unable to ascertain if she was serious or if she was being sarcastic and making fun of me. That particular nuance was tough to distinguish. Oh well. If she was making fun of me, it wasn’t as though I wasn’t used to it.
“Ravenclaw, of course,” I said.
“Me, too!”
“Really?”
“Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, If you’ve a ready mind, Where those of wit and learning, Will always find their kind,” she recited.
I grinned. She hadn’t been making fun of me.
“People always want to be Gryffindors,” she continued, “but I think that’s just because of Harry. Not everyone is a true Gryffindor, who are brave, yes, but reckless. I totally think Hermione should’ve been a Ravenclaw.”
“I know, right?”
“Every House gets a bad rap except Gryffindor. I’m always arguing on Reddit that each House is of value, not just Gryffindor.”
That launched more discussion as to the Houses chosen for more characters as Mia perused my extensive collection.
It was nice, really nice, to have someone who appreciated a fandom obsession. I had a theory—and thus far it was proven correct in about seven out of ten cases—that tech and science geeks were actually the most creative of all personalities. Not the Hollywood screenwriters or the actors on Broadway. Those who enthusiastically embraced the most outlandish and exotic ideas about life and fantasy were more often in a position to turn those imaginings into reality.
“Okay, so I’ll sleep with you tonight and we’ll get an air mattress tomorrow,” Mia said. “And so long as Tony doesn’t attack me in my sleep, I’ll let him stay.”
Good, because that suit weighed a ton and it had taken two burly deliverymen to get it upstairs for me. I’d tipped them well, but they’d still been muttering under their breath and giving me dirty looks when they left.
Mia and I hauled her luggage upstairs and she set up camp in my bathroom for over thirty minutes. I was just about to head to my guest bathroom to brush my teeth—again—when she finally emerged.
“It’s about time,” I grumbled, moving past her. I stopped short.
It looked like the makeup counter at Macy’s had blown up in my bathroom. Every available surface was covered with bottles and jars and tubes. I felt the kind of dismay every single guy must feel when his girlfriend decides to move in with him.
She’d left me a tiny little corner on the counter that held my electric toothbrush.
“Thanks heaps,” I muttered.
But it was way past my bedtime so I didn’t bother trying to move anything. It was deeply unsettling, as was climbing into bed with her beside me. She had pink earplugs in her ears and a black eye mask with Fuck Off embroidered on it.
Okay then.
I lay down on my back and tried to pull up the covers. She was lying on them. Grimacing, I tugged, but she was a dead weight as a soft snore emitted from her half-open mouth.
Staring at the ceiling, I plotted exactly how much my brother was going to pay for this, until I finally drifted off.
3
My Tuesday morning was immediately thrown off when I woke to find Mia already in the shower. I banged on the door.
“Hurry up! I have to get to work!”
“I’ll be right out!”
I stood there fuming and counting the seconds ticking by. After three hundred and fifty-two of them, I heard the water turn off. Another one hundred and ninety-six seconds later, and the door opened.
“You’re going to make me late,” I snapped. “I need to shower and get ready for work.”
Mia stared at me. “But . . . you don’t have to be at work for an hour.”
“Yes, but I still need to make my coffee, eat breakfast, and read the paper.”
“Did you make the coffee yet?”
“No. I make the coffee after I shower. Not before.”
More staring.
“Are you done in there or not?” I said impatiently.
“Yeah, sure, I’m done.” We exchanged places. “I’ll just go make the coffee.”
I yanked the almost-closed door back open. “Fill the coffeepot with the distilled water, not tap water, to the number ten line. The coffee is in the freezer. Use five rounded spoons—and I mean rounded, not heaping. Do you know the difference?”
She nodded.
“Five rounded spoons of grounds, then put the coffee back in the freezer.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Slightly mollified, I closed the door and rushed through my shower, trying to make up time. I pulled on my jeans, a navy-blue Bad Wolf T-shirt, and layered a white-and-navy plaid shirt over it. It was one of my favorites because it was so soft, a brushed-cotton flannel.
The smell of coffee, and that I was only three minutes off schedule, went the rest of the way to easing my mood. Until I walked into the kitchen.
“You opened the paper?”
Mia was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in the fluffiest pink robe I’d ever seen, her hair still up in a towel. And she had the paper spread open in front of her.
“You said you read the paper, so I grabbed it off the stoop,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I just took the entertainment section. Do you want it?”
“I don’t read the entertainment section.”
“Oh good. Then see? It all worked out.” She smiled.
No, it really wasn’t all worked out. I gritted my teeth and forced a smile.
“Is this your OCD thing again?” Mia asked, her smile fading into a look of sympathy that would have been appropriate for hearing news that I was afflicted with a fatal illness.
“Of course not.” I faked a laugh. Yes, Aunt Chi was weird. Passing her by, I poured myself a cup of coffee. This whole wrench in my routine was upsetting, but Mia wasn’t just anyone—she was family. Surely I could suck it up for a few days . . . even if she had opened the paper first and removed a section.
We drank our coffee in mutually agreed silence, each perusing the paper. Thankfully, she hadn’t taken any of the other sections and twenty-six minutes later, it was time for me to go.
“Call your dad today,” I reminded her as I gathered my stuff. “Try to talk things out. You can’t stay here indefinitely.”
“All right, all right,” she grumbled.
“How much school are you missing anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can’t catch up. Besides, I brought my books with me so I won’t fall behind.”
She was unconcerned, and with good cause. Mia would probably be ahead of the class by the time she returned home.
“I’ll call you later,” I said as I headed for the door. “And don’t eat all my Fig Newtons.” They were my guilty pleasure and I had two of them every night before bed along with a cup of chamomile tea.
She mumbled something about “gross” and “disgusting,” but I was already outside. It took exactly thirteen minutes to drive between work and home. Unfortunately, traffic interfered 93.6 percent of the time on my drive to work, but only 17.8 eight percent of the time on my way home since I rarely left before 6:00 p.m.
Today was one of the 93.6 percent days and it took twenty-seven minutes to reach the offices of Cysnet, which still put me there two minutes before eight o’clock.
I was in my warm, fuzzy place as I settled into my chair with my Red Bull and logged in. I was just about to put in my earbuds and crank the tunes when Jackson suddenly loomed over my cube wall.
I choked and Red Bull came out my nose, which burned like hell.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Jackson said, handing me a white handkerchief from inside his sport coat. “Why don’t you come on into my office when you’re . . . ah . . . done here?”
He disappeared, striding toward his office, while I mopped up my face and keyboard. Damn, was I cursed to always look like a complete klutz in front of him?
I locked my computer and grabbed my notebook and my favorite pen. Unfolding myself from my chair, I hesi
tated, then picked up my Red Bull. I still needed the caffeine.
The handkerchief—a real honest-to-God handkerchief—was stained now and had my slobber on it. It even had his initials embroidered on the corner—JMK. I wondered what the M stood for. It needed to be washed before I could return it, otherwise that was just ew.
So when Jackson said “first thing in the morning,” apparently he really meant first thing in the morning. He was seated behind his desk when I tapped on his open door. Glancing up from his computer, he gestured me inside.
“Go ahead and close the door, please.”
I pulled the frosted glass door closed and the edges fit snugly into the rubber casing, providing a solid seal. This helped prevent anyone from overhearing anything said in Jackson’s office. I also knew that his office, just like those of other senior management, was set up with a high-tech audio masking system. Laser listening devices could be used through glass windows from a good distance away, but I had no doubt that Jackson was aware of that fact and was protected.
“Have a seat.” This time he pointed to one of the two chairs in front of his desk, so there was no internal debate on where to sit.
“Give me just a minute to finish this,” he said.
“Sure. Take your time.”
His fingers sped over the keyboard, drawing my eye. People viewed IT and computers as technical, and they were. But coming up with ways to solve problems and accomplish tasks using technology required a unique kind of mind—one that was both intensely creative but also methodically logical.
Jackson was a genius in both areas. Perhaps he was more akin to an artist than anything else in the work he did.
I surreptitiously admired him as he worked. He’d discarded his sport coat and was wearing black slacks and a black shirt with thin gold and burgundy pinstripes. It looked really good on him and I could tell it was made from quality material. The creases on his sleeves told me his dry cleaner was as fastidious about his clothes as Jackson was.
His eyes were intent on the screen, the set of his jaw hard, and I was glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of whatever e-mail he was typing. Speaking of jaw, it was smooth, probably from his morning shave. I wondered if he was one of those exercise nuts who worked out in the morning . . .
That led to vivid Harlequin-inspired images of Jackson inside my head. He was pumping iron, shirtless, with sweat glistening on his chest—all it needed was a wind machine and sound track . . . what would suit him working out? AC/DC? Def Leppard? Bon Jovi? Mmmm . . . You give love a bad name . . . yeah . . .
I was abruptly yanked from my fantasy by Jackson saying, “All right, that’s done.” His gaze swung to meet mine.
I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks. Dammit. Thank God telepathy didn’t exist.
“Yeah, great!” I said brightly, smiling for all I was worth.
He gave me that odd look again, the one I couldn’t decipher. I figured it either meant: She’s just so weird or I’m a bit gassy today.
“Here’s the database schematic I sketched out last night,” he said, handing me a trifolded piece of paper. I opened it to its full length, pushing my glasses up my nose as I inspected the tiny print. There were roughly a hundred tables or more on the sheet. “It’s pretty rough,” Jackson continued, “but I thought that would give us a starting point in addressing some of the issues they’re having.”
Picking up a small remote, he dimmed the lights slightly, then a projector above us came on. The database he’d just given me was displayed on the opposite wall. Another button and the walls on either side of a large whiteboard folded up like an accordion, making the whiteboard huge.
“We can set up the rest here,” he said.
Okay then. Time to get to work. I could almost feel my brain shutting down the social/personal interaction section—which was underdeveloped anyway—and the technical part of my brain taking over, immersing itself in the labyrinth of connections.
For the next three hours, we discussed primary keys, inner joins, outer joins, and reference tables. By the time my stomach growled so loudly even Jackson could hear it, the database had grown to three times the original draft he’d created.
“Did you get breakfast?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
I thought of Randall and the bacon, egg, and cheese McMuffin probably cold and congealed on my desk.
“Not today,” I said.
“Then let’s grab an early lunch.” He hit the same buttons and the wall closed over the whiteboard, the lights came on, and the projector turned off. The fan still whirred, cooling the machine.
“Back in an hour?” I gathered up my things, my Red Bull can long since empty.
“We should be. There’s a Mexican joint right around the corner. I go there a lot. You’ll like it, if you like Mexican. You do, don’t you?”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. We were going to lunch? Together?
He was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Um, yeah. Of course! I mean, who doesn’t?” I laughed awkwardly. “I mean, I practically live at Taco Bell.”
There was that look again. That had been an appropriate response, right? Taco Bell was Mexican. Sort of.
“Well, hopefully it’ll be better than Taco Bell.” Jackson slipped on his sport coat and held the door for me. I put my notebook back down and walked out of the office. I heard the snick of the lock as he secured the door behind us.
My nerves hit full force as we headed to the parking garage. I fell into step behind him as he walked toward his car. Now his car . . . his car I could appreciate without getting his weird look. It had been hard for me to get a good look at it last night in the dark, and he parked on a special level reserved for management. As we got closer, I could see why.
“Oh my God. Is that the 2017 Cabriolet?” I asked, my voice filled with awe.
Jackson glanced at me, his lips twisted in a little smile and a question in his eyes. “You know it?”
“Mercedes stopped making the Cabriolet in 1971,” I said. “Is this the AMG S63?”
“Yep.” He reached for the handle and the door automatically unlocked.
I stood on the passenger side, staring at the most beautiful car I’d ever seen. “Wow,” I breathed. I heard a slight chuckle as Jackson got in.
Sliding inside the car was as close to a religious experience as I’d ever had. The interior was brick red with leather seats and black trim. Jackson flipped a switch and the soft top folded back on the convertible. The purr of the engine made my eyes drift close.
“This car can do zero to sixty in three point nine seconds,” I said. “It has five hundred seventy-seven horsepower and a peak torque of six hundred sixty-four pounds per foot.”
The car didn’t move and Jackson didn’t say anything, so after a moment, I opened my eyes to find him looking at me.
Oh no. Had I said something wrong? I went over my last few sentences in my head, but could find nothing offensive about them. And he was still staring. I pushed my glasses up my nose and cleared my throat.
“Really amazing that you got your hands on one early,” I said, pulling my lips back in my best smile imitation. I wished I was one of those people who could pull off a genuine smile on demand, but experience had shown I just sucked at it. But societal convention meant I had to try. A lot.
Jackson visibly winced. “Why do you do that?” he asked.
My fake smile disappeared. “Do what?”
He backed out of the spot, talking as he drove. “Use that awful fake smile.”
“People expect smiles. It makes them feel more comfortable.” My mother had drilled that into me before her death.
“Screw what people expect. Their expectations aren’t your responsibility to fulfill.”
I blinked at him. That had always been what I thought, but had never dared to speak aloud.
“And you certainly don’t have to fake it with me,” he continued. “I value honesty more than worrying about expectations.”
H
e slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses that, combined with being behind the wheel of such an amazing car, made him look incredibly sexy. Mia would probably say he was smoking hot. As if Jackson needed help in that department. Unfortunately, I felt like the frumpy little sister in the passenger seat next to him.
I overlapped the edges of my flannel shirt, hugging it to me. Rarely did I contemplate my looks. I’d come to terms a long time ago that while I was cute, I didn’t have the patience or ambition to spend a lot of time on things like hair, clothes, and makeup. I had good hair, thick and long, but never knew how to style it so always settled on a ponytail.
My dad had tried to get me contacts when I was in high school, but I couldn’t get the damn things in. Not even the optometrist could pry my eye open long enough to push the little lens inside. I didn’t really care. The idea of sticking my finger in my eye twice a day grossed me out anyway. Yuck. I’d stick with my glasses, thank you very much.
Seeing Jackson’s nice clothes reminded me of my own, and I glanced down at my faded jeans. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone shopping. I ordered all my stuff online and if it was too big—which the jeans usually were—I just used a belt and rolled them up. My wardrobe consisted of about five dozen T-shirts, numerous jeans in various states of wear, and a rainbow of long-sleeved shirts I used for warmth (I was perpetually cold)—and to conceal my less-than-curvy figure.
The only things I wore that were expensive were my bra and underwear.
I was on an ongoing quest to find a bra that would actually make my (barely) B-cup chest look like I had actual cleavage, and I stalked Victoria’s Secret on a regular basis. And I couldn’t buy the pretty bras without buying the matching panties and I certainly couldn’t wear a mismatched set, which meant every day I wore ridiculously expensive lingerie underneath my T-shirts and jeans.
Though I’d yet to find that perfect bra, I didn’t mind searching.
Jackson seemed content to let the wind rushing by fill any need for conversation, which suited me just fine. I was nervous enough as it was, just thinking about having to carry on casual conversation during lunch without also stressing about what to say while he drove.
