The three other men at the table stiffen.
“They’re out, by the way.” I peer at them over my glass of kombucha. Raspberry mint. Rather delicious. “We had a fascinating brunch yesterday morning. Them. Me. My attorney. Their attorneys. I can honestly say I never knew civil litigation had so many complex layers to it.”
We’re on the deck of one of my favorite San Diego steakhouses, overlooking the marina while I lay out the terms of their surrender to me.
And yes, I meansurrender.
The cost of them replacing me after I left the research world will far outweigh the cost of them selling their company to me at a loss. Especially now that the venture capitalists funding the start-up that Vince was supposedly a silent partner for have decided they no longer have interest in working with people who would fuck over their only researcher.
And once I own the company, I own my research again.
Once I own the research again, I can finish it.
While I’m building a new lab where I won’t have a business partner but will have a life.
I haven’t slept since I left Snaggletooth Creek. I’ve eaten, but only when I’ve gotten lightheaded and realized what was wrong. I’ve asked questions. I’ve gossiped. I’ve dug and dug and dug for what I needed, and I found it.
Proof that owning my research but not owningmeif I refuse to do more research puts this company in a pickle.
“Offer expires at midnight,” I tell them. “I’d take this one if I were you. The next one will have at least one less zero attached. Enjoy dinner. It’s on me.”
I start to rise as a commotion breaks out behind me. “Excuseme, do you know who I am?” a startlingly familiar voice says.
I whip my head around.
“No, madam, I have no idea who you are,” the maître d’ replies.
Sabrina Sullivan, the goddess who has haunted my every ten-minute nap in the past three days, lifts her nose high while her massive dog gives a joyful bark. “Good. That means you won’t be able to tell them who just brought her dog in here. I love being a nobody.”
“Ma’am,” the maître d’ snaps as Sabrina strolls past him.
Am I hallucinating?
Is this what not sleeping and getting proper justice will do to a man?
Or is Sabrina marching past the maître d’ stand, spotting me and turning into an avenging angel of gossip and destruction while her eyes narrow and flames shoot out of her ears?
Is she wearing anAvengerssuit?
I blink.
No, that was definitely a fantasy-based hallucination. But the sundress and the strappy high-heeled sandals and the way her curly red hair is blowing in the wind is sending me straight to my happy place.
She’shere.
“Ma’am, you need to stop,” the maître d’ repeats.
But I’ve been spotted by a very large brown-and-white Saint Bernard, who woofs joyfully and lunges toward me.
People at the few occupied other tables turn. One woman scoots out of the way.
“Ma’am. I am calling the police if you don’t—”
I finally find my voice. “She’s with me.”
“Oooh, youwishI was with you,” Sabrina retorts as Jitter reaches me. “What in thehelldo you think you’re—stop recording this right now, because if you think I won’t toss that phone over that balcony and then dig up every secret every person on this earth has ever known about you and use it against you to haunt you for the rest of your days, you are dead wrong. I’ve done the viral thing once andI am not doing it again.”
She scans the deck.
