I brace myself. “Yes?”
“How are you?”
“Ready to work on something,” I say, doing my best not to sound insubordinate.
She shifts in her seat. “The order from the top is that you’re only to work on Project Belka.”
I raise the patch of skin where I drew one of the eyebrows. “So I can just resume that?”
Sandra clears her throat. “Not until you’ve been deemed rested.”
“Do I not look rested?” I take out a mirror and make sure that I don’t have bags under my eyes—and that the eyebrows are still in place.
She glances furtively in the vague direction of the Impaler’s office. “I’m not the one who has to decide.”
“I see.” I drum my fingers on the desk. “So let me get this straight: I can’t work on anything but the project that’s on hold until I’m miraculously rested. And to top it off, if we want to talk about said project, it has to be face to face?”
She nods. “Sorry you ended up coming here for nothing. I was actually hoping you’d have an update for me.”
Ah. She might be a little sore that I ended up interacting with her boss directly. She doesn’t realize that was by accident.
I sigh. “I didn’t mean to criticize you.”
She gives me a slight smile. “I know. I’m sorry again that I got you into this mess in the first place. He wanted my best person on the project and—”
“Oh, don’t worry. And thanks for passing along my code. I already got some feedback.”
“That’s great,” she says. “From who?”
“They used screen names. But maybe you know… Is there anyone in the office who likes the Phantom of the Opera a little too much?”
She rubs her chin. “Rose, in accounting?”
Rose is pushing ninety, so if it’s her, more power to her.
“My guess is that this is someone in the development department,” I tell Sandra.
She frowns. “No one comes to mind.”
“Okay, thanks.” I stand up. “If that’s all, I’m going to get some tea and head home.”
“Good idea,” she says. “My official directive to you is to rest.”
“Got it.” I give her the same crisp military salute I gave the Impaler, but this time as a joke.
She grins, and as we leave the room, she says, “My unofficial advice is to keep improving your coding skills.”
Is that another hint about my fate? I almost ask outright, but I don’t want to put her on the spot.
When I get to the pantry, I grab a chamomile packet and pour hot water into a cup.
Before I can dunk the tea bag into the water, I feel a presence enter the small room, creating a disturbance in the Force that gets my Spidey senses tingling.
As I look up, a pair of lapis lazuli eyes capture my gaze, making my stomach flutter.
“Ms. Pack,” the Impaler says, his accent stronger than usual. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Hi.” The syllable comes out as a husky whisper that should be in an HR rulebook, filed under “inappropriate for the corporate environment.”
“How do you feel?” He pours himself a cup of water.
I finally drop my chamomile packet into the water and pray that something about teabagging isn’t about to escape my lips. “I feel ready for work again.” There. I can be appropriate when I focus very, very hard.
Speaking of, I shouldn’t say the word hard either.
“Ready for work?”
It must be a Russian superpower to imbue such a short question with that much skepticism.
“Ready as a tropical storm.” I lift my chin. “Isn’t Project Belka urgent? You said that—”
“Not here.” He frowns at the pantry entrance.
Sure enough, Britney is standing there, her eyes narrowed.
Was she a ninja in her past life?
“I understand,” I say.
“Did you eat lunch yet?” he asks me.
I shake my head, struck mute by the question.
“In that case, it’s my treat.”
Taking my affirmative reply for granted, he strides toward Britney, whose eyes are catlike slits at this point.
For a second, I wonder if he’ll be forced to tackle her.
But no. She moves out of the way.
As I hurry past her, I can feel a cloud of malevolence emanating from her, like poisonous mercury fumes. I don’t have a chance to analyze it, though, because I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’m going to lunch with the Impaler.
Me.
And him.
Eating together.
Like on a date?
No, that’s stupid. This isn’t a date. It’s a work lunch, one that might be a ploy to fire me outside the office so I don’t cause a scene.
Still. I feel giddy, like I’m going to prom—and I never actually went to prom.
Now I wish I were better dressed and had those premium human hair eyebrows glued on.
The Impaler stops by the elevator, and I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I slam into his back.
Holy cow. I just felt some seriously hard muscle.
Waving away my mumbling apology, he jabs the elevator button.
I stand there not thinking about licking his finger.
Nope.
Not me.
When the elevator doors open, he gestures for me to go first, so I do.
Realizing I’m still holding my tea, I gulp it down, the heat burning my insides. He mirrors me by downing his water in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and I want to lick it.
Stop fantasizing about licking random body parts.
His phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says and checks the screen.
Frowning at whatever message he’s just received, he types out a reply with the speed a teenage girl would be proud of.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he looks up.
“Yes, but I only have fifty minutes for lunch. Is that okay?”
Even if it weren’t okay, which it is, it’s not like I’d tell him so. “You’re a busy man. I understand.”
We exit the building and cross the road, his long legs taking such wide strides I have to speed-walk to keep up.
Before I get sweaty, he stops next to a place I’ve never been to—because it’s one of the best restaurants in New York City, and maybe the world. Or if not the best, then certainly the most expensive.
The Impaler pulls open the ornamental glass door. “After you.”
Swallowing my awed disbelief, I step inside. As soon as the host sees the Impaler, he fawns over us as though we were royalty, leading us to a well-positioned table by the window—no doubt next to C-level executives of all the major corporations in the downtown area.
Boss squared must be a regular here.
Before I can say “nice to be in the top point-one percent,” our glasses are filled with wine that no doubt costs more than I make in a year.
“Where’s the menu?” I whisper, not wanting to sound like a rube to the nearby CEOs.
“I usually order the chef’s choice,” he replies, matching my lowered tone. “Want to risk it with me?”
Nodding, I take a sip of the amazing wine and check out the impeccable tablecloth in front of me.
This place is fancy. Too fancy to take someone if you wanted to fire them. Or just talk to them about testing sex toys, for that matter.