"She did leave a Post-it on my desk with the words 'smile more' underlined three times."
Karina laughs."Bold move."
"The note also included a handwritten hashtag: #KiltsGetThings."
"Even bolder."She studies me, lips quirking."You're warming up to her, aren't you?"
"I am not."
"You remembered her scheduling system.And you noticed the Post-it.For someone who seems inherently distrustful, that's practically a friendship bracelet."
I scoff."She's efficient.That's all."
"Well, efficient or not, she's right about the gala."Karina leans forward, eyes brightening."It's perfect, actually.A controlled environment where we could make Duncan sweat a little."
"We?"
"I could accompany you."She says it casually, but something in her tone shifts."As your Marketing Director, of course.We could present a united front, maybe drop some hints about what we know."
I consider the suggestion.
Having Karina there would certainly make the evening more bearable.
And watching Duncan squirm has its appeal.
"You'd willingly subject yourself to four hours of Seattle's elite congratulating themselves on their philanthropy?"
"For the chance to make Duncan MacTavish nervous while advancing our Guardian narrative?"She grins."Absolutely."
"It's black tie," I warn.
"I own a dress."
"There will be dancing."
"I'm Armenian.Dancing is in my blood."
I blink."Fine.We'll go together."
"Excellent."She looks pleased with herself."I'll coordinate with Alana on the messaging strategy.We should arrive separately but leave together—gives the impression of a working relationship that extends beyond office hours."
"Very strategic.”
"Always."She turns back to the laptop."Now, about these server locations...We’ll hone in on this.And in the meantime, like we discussed, change the narrative.”She starts typing rapidly."We reclaim the hashtag, redirect it toward the Guardian angle we discussed."
"How?"
"We strategically leak information about your philanthropy work.Highlight corporate protection initiatives.Position you as Seattle's digital protector, not its kilted bachelor."Her fingers fly across the keyboard."The whole 'Guardian of Tech' concept."
I find myself watching her hands—elegant, capable, with short practical nails and a tiny crescent-shaped scar on her right thumb.
"What happened there?"I ask before I can stop myself.
She glances up."Where?"
"Your thumb."
"Oh."She flexes it."Broken glass.When I was twelve.A dish slipped, and I tried to catch it."
