Just this week, I had to talk Josie off her high horse about my AI assistant. Convincing her I’m not out to steal human jobs was harder than a Senate hearing, and getting her to commit to today’s meeting felt damn near impossible. I have a hunch mytwenty-minute delay has gotten her climbing right back into the saddle, even though she now knows I employ hundreds of people. She was all spit and vinegar about AI Jack—apparently, I’m not only bringing on the end of days but doing it with bad manners.
If he weren’t AI, I’d have sacked Jack’s ass on the spot.
After that start, it’s a goddamn miracle that she showed up.
I knew I was cutting it tight this morning, but I didn’t have a choice. Petrov was a right brute, keeping his girls in line through sheer force, and his business trafficked women into the country through Miami. With him gone, it was time to move on to the rest of the crew and get the girls transported to safe houses immediately. All I can hope is that now they can cut loose with enough—
The elevator doors pop open, and Josie’s standing smack in front of me. Green eyes blazing like two hot pokers. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, and the light from the window catches the red, setting it aglow.
She looks like a character fromThe Avengers.
“I’ll have you know,” she starts, “that I had to rearrange my whole day around this top secret cloak-and-dagger meeting where, supposedly, you’d present your so-called proposition. Which, by the way, you are nowtwenty-two minuteslate for. So forgive me if I fail to grasp whatever bizarre system you use to manage your priorities.”
“Easy, lass.” I take her gently but firmly by the elbow, but she’s stubborn and won’t walk, so now she’s got me rooted to the spot.
I’m not sure what to do. My reaction to her is ridiculous. She’s pure temptation; I want to press myself against her body, revel in every last bit of her curvy, peachy softness. But she’s here for a business meeting, and I’m undressing her with my eyes.
Bloody ridiculous, I am. Not to mention unprofessional.
“Also, don’teasy, lassme,” she says in a terrible Scottish accent,which makes me want to laugh. “That’s like telling someone who is stressed out to relax. Doesn’t work. Never works. Not once. Not ever.”
“Are you stressed, lass?” I ask, thinking about how she’s always so chummy with everyone else and so feisty with me. I enjoy being the exception. It’s like I have a backstage pass to the real Josie. “It was a scrimpy twenty minutes! You should really just relax—”
“Oh my God,” she says, her chin up. Still, I sense a ghost of a smile.
We’re in a stare-off and I cannot look away. Is this why I always say the wrong thing? Because I can’t stop staring at her?
“I’d better go. I don’t know why I came in the first place.” She breaks eye contact as her finger presses the elevator call button. Her pointy nails are painted a glittery silver and look like cute, tiny knives. The door opens, Josie gets in, and I stride after her. This time, before she can pressdown, I pressup.
We’re off.
“FYI, this is the old freight lift,” I say, watching Josie’s face twist in confusion. It’s a rookie mistake, aye, but a common one—especially if you park in the old lot and come in through the back of SynthoTech. Not like the sleek front lifts, but now we’re both stuck in this wheezing old bastard, crawling its way skyward.
“As soon as we get to the top, I’m going right back down,” she says, all business. I’d wager that her nipples are a softer, rosier shade of her strawberry-blonde hair—and now all my blood is going to my dick instead of my brain.
I should have more sense than this.
“Sounds lovely,” I reply with a grin. “I like the ride both ways.”
She presses her lips into a thin line. “I knew this was a bad idea. This is madness.”
“Nah, lass. This is Shelton.” Ach, another terrible line. No shame, MacKenzie. But I’m too distracted for shame.
“Honor told me to hear you out.” She sighs, clearly exasperated. “I was looking for a sign I shouldn’t be here—and then you showed up late, so it’s pretty clear—”
“Josie. Please,” I interrupt, hoping logic will outweigh her superstitions. “My being late isn’t a cosmic sign of anything, all right? It just means air traffic control had us stuck on the bloody tarmac, and afterward, I needed a shower.”
“Air traffic control?”
“I started my day in Florida. Let me explain,” I say.
“You were in Florida? Today?”
“The Everglades, yes.”
At that, she looks a bit curious.
“This morning?”
