“Exactly. It’s the professional thing to do.”
She huffs out a disbelieving sound and considers me for a few seconds, arms folded over her chest, before finally appearing to come to a decision. I don’t trust her sudden smile. “All right. Back to the rules we go.”
“Good,” I reply.
“Good,” she says before stomping out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Grant
IT HAS BEEN Along week. I’ve done nothing but work, attempt to sleep, and when that failed time and again, I’ve jerked off thinking about the breathy sound Rae makes when she comes.
So, of course, first thing Friday morning, I step in what looks like mouse entrails as I walk out my door. Another gift from my cat admirer. I’m starting to believe Dorothy when she says there’s more to what’s happening here than your run-of-the-mill trolling. A haunting? The little bastard’s wily.
I should have turned around and gone inside immediately after that, but no. I have shit to do. Sixteen days left, and I’ve found no sign of the breach. Nothing at all.
Usually, at this point, there is some trace of wrongdoing. But my vulnerability assessment has turned up exactly zip. How can I address the security breach if there’s no sign of weakness in the company’s systems? No SQL issues, no malware or malicious code. And because Dorothy’s business model is centered on a human-centric approach instead of a machine-led one, growth is minimal compared to other tech companies I’ve worked with.
Against all outward appearances, Sugar’s protocols are robust, which leaves very few possibilities. All of which I’ve got to verifyafter I go by the hardware store for one of those humane traps. Either there’s no breach and this company is squeaky clean, or whoever accessed the company’s data is on the inside.
As I leave the store, the smell of a good dark roast lures me into the kind of upscale coffee shop I usually avoid. I get to the counter, and right smack in front of me is a cutesy sign telling me that pumpkin spice is everything nice. Of course I think of Rae. Again.
I order my regular large black coffee, and then, for some inexplicable reason, ask for one of the sickeningly sweet seasonal drinks at three times the price. Then I wait, sipping at my coffee while they dump half a gallon of fancy syrups and swirly creams and powders into a cup and wondering what the hell has gotten into me.
It’s a peace offering to a colleague. That’s all.
Liar. This isn’t about peace.
It’s about the sound Rae makes every time she sips at pumpkin spice coffee. I swear I’m not a masochist, but dammit, I want to see the expression that goes with those happy little moans.
That sound is just one of a list of things I’ve unconsciously compiled this week. So far, it reads:
When Rae listens to music, her entire body wants to move. (I no longer believe this is purposeful.)
Is loved by all and feeds them like it’s her job. Which it isn’t.
Works her ass off.
Saysyesto absolutely everyone.
Swings her feet under her desk because they don’t touch the floor.
When she comes, her expression is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to religious rapture. I can’t stop thinking about it. This has become an issue.
I’m distracted by that last item as I walk into the office and don’t immediately notice that it’s Rae seated at reception today instead of Sam. Only after I see her do I narrow in on the man lurking in the lobby, way too close to Rae for comfort—both mine and clearly hers. With her arms crossed, chin jutting, and eyes narrowed, she is the very definition of defensive.
The second she sees me, her expression goes through a gratifying transformation from that one-step-closer-and-I’ll-smack-you look to unadulterated relief. “You’re here!”
“Yep.” I hold up her coffee, ignoring the man, who is unsubtly sizing me up. He’s a tall, lanky, stereotypically handsome guy with light brown hair that swoops over his brow and an easy smirk. He’s wearing a plaid button-down that looks expensive, a sleeveless, green puffer vest, and khakis with the kind of pristine white sneakers I’ve only ever seen straight out of the box.
“You want this here or at your desk?”
“You… brought me coffee?” Rae says in the tone of voice I imagine she’d use if I’d shown up with a puppy. I don’t hate it.
“Where’s mine?” The guy chuckles.
My head swivels slowly his way as I set Rae’s drink in front of her. “Have we met?”
