I wink. “You get me, Boss Lady,” I say, using the nickname I gave her my first week here. The one she swears she hates…and secretly loves.
She shakes her head and looks back at her computer screen, which is now behaving like it has some sense. “Omg, what am I going to do without you while you’re off at that damn romance conference?”
“I’ve hired you very capable help. And don't say the conference like that. I can hear you judging me.”
“I didn’t say a word,” she says innocently. “I’m just pointing out that for someone who used to roll her eyes at book clubs and book boyfriends, you sure are going out of your way to meet your favorite authors and narrators. In Canada, no less. Where they currently do not care for Americans.”
“I think they’ve always secretly hated us and were just too polite to say it out loud until now. And for the record, I did not roll my eyes at book clubs. I simply said I didn’t understand the hype back then.” I shrug, a small smile tugging at my lips. “But thanks to you and the beloved Cockpit Chix book club, I’ve learned to value the sisterhood built around these stories.”
There is a specific kind of healing that happens when Black women gather. I love being able to let my hair down, to be girly, silly, and unapologetically giddy with women who have fast-tracked their way into being family. They are a soft place to land in a world that demands we be hard. These women champion your right to be loved and your need to feel safe, guarding your right to peace with a loyalty that, while it can occasionally come off as a little unhinged, is exactly the kind of fierce community I never knew I was missing.
“Plus,” Timantha adds, leaning back. “Canadian side-eye aside, I actually think it’ll be good for you to get away. You do everything for everyone in your life. You deserve a break.”
I take a slow breath. “You’re right. I do deserve one. I just hate the idea that something will fall apart without me.”
“I know you think you’re Superwoman, Max,” she says gently, “but you’re not God. You can’t be everywhere, and you can’t prevent every disaster. Sometimes you have to let things wobble so people can figure out how to stand without you.”
She’s right. My therapist would co-sign that immediately. I have a terrible habit of trying to be everything to everyone while asking for nothing in return. And even though I know I need this time away, and I’m actively working on loosening my grip, part of me is already spiraling at the thought of something unraveling the second I step back.
Letting go has never been my strong suit.
I let out a resigned sigh. “I know you’re right. I just need to keep telling myself until it actually sinks in.” I straighten, shifting gears. “Let me go sit with Reese and take a look at those security logs. Something about this attempt doesn’t sit right with me.”
We’ve been getting an increased amount of attacks on our servers lately. Every company deals with them—phishing, ransomware, constant low-level probing from people looking to slip through a crack and grab whatever they can. I’ve been quick enough to stay ahead of it, putting new safeguards in place as fast as new threats surface.
There are always bad actors hunting for personal data, credit card numbers, or anything they can use to steal an identity. That part isn’t unusual.
Whatisunusual are these attempts I’ve been seeing on Timantha’s. They’re minor on the surface, easy enough to shut down—but there’s something off about them. The timing. The pattern. It feels less like a smash-and-grab and more like someone testing the edges, watching, waiting.
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got my favorite nerd on the case.”
I shape my hand like a gun, aim, fire, then blow the invisible smoke from the tip. “Maxine Palmer, 007…Bitch”
She shakes her head. “You’re weird, Nerd!”
“And you love me, Boss Lady.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Make me!” I yell over my shoulder, shaking my head at my boss who became something like a bestie.
There is a Purr Deep Down in My Panties
Max
Iam a certified, card-carrying nerd. I love learning, and I love taking whatever new information I pick up and adding it to my skill set like another tool in my arsenal. Reading gives me a break from data, code, symbols, and numbers, which is why people who know me always look confused when they find out I love romance. Even more so when they learn I attend romance conferences like some pink-floral Trekkie.
I used to be much more girly. I used to write notes to my friends in school, folding the paper into those special envelopes. I used to play M.A.S.H. on the city bus while we rode downtown to the mall. I even daydreamed about being kissed until my knee popped just like in the movies.
But somewhere along the way, the soft, lovey-dovey version of me short-circuited and was replaced by a sassy, crass-talking one. And while I genuinely like Sassy Max, I sometimes miss the girly version of myself, even if bringing her back would leave most people not knowing what to do with me.
When I make it back to my office, Reese’s fine-ass is there looking at pictures on my bookshelf.
I clear my throat so he knows I’ve entered the room but he doesn’t turn around.
“You and all your friends are unfairly beautiful.”
A small blush creeps up my neck and I’m suddenly glad he’s not facing me.
