“Black, long, no sugar.”
He buys two cups, a double for him and anallongéfor me, and leads the way out of the cafeteria. I follow him into the elevator. He pushes the button for the top floor. While we ride, I will myself to focus on the delicious aroma of the coffee and ignore the sexy scent of Max. The task is as easy as turning on Netflix and picking a documentary about oil prices over a new episode ofThe Crown.
At long last, the sliding doors open, and we cross the hallway. Max opens a nondescript door, and we step out onto an unexpected rooftop terrace.
I look around, breathing in the fragrant and balmy spring air. “Wow.”
A chic white aluminum pergola with retractable blades protects a wood deck covered with potted trees, wicker armchairs, floor cushions, coffee tables, and juterugs. This is hands down the best spot in the entire building! Yet there isn’t a soul in sight.
Weird…
“Restricted area,” Max explains, reading my perplexed expression.
He guides me to a belvedere with a beautiful, unobstructed view not only of the 11th arrondissement where we are, but also of the Île de la Cité and the Left Bank. Max smiles and sips his coffee, letting me enjoy the panorama.
But my rapture doesn’t last long. As always, a suspicion that some kind of monkey business is afoot sneaks into my mind and ruins the moment.
If he wanted to talk about work, why bring me here?
Standing taller, I half-turn toward him. “I’m so glad you wanted to discuss my assignment, Boss!”
“Oh, please.” He winces. “Call me Max.”
I don’t like where this is going, but I comply. “Max.”
“Actually, I wanted to brief you on a new assignment?—”
“Wait,” I interrupt him. “Before you do that, can we talk about the one I’ve been working on?”
He furrows his brow, as if he had a hard time recalling what it was.
Let me jog your memory,Max!
“You asked me to map all the antique shops in central Paris,” I say, “including the names of owners, addresses, and contacts. Remember?”
He gives me finger guns and a grateful grin. “Right! Thank you! I remember giving you that task clearly, like it was yesterday.”
“Itwasyesterday.”
“Yes.” He adopts an expression of polite curiosity. “Have you made any progress?”
“If you’re asking whether I’ve compiled a table and a map, then no.”
He blinks, visibly taken aback.
I soldier on. “But I realized fairly early in my information gathering that the National Syndicate of Antique and Art Dealers has one such database. So do the Proantique and the Antiquité en France sites. All very complete, mapped, and searchable.”
“Really?” His eyes widen in a textbook example of bad acting.
“Oh yes,” I confirm before delivering thecoup de grâce. “Not to mention the online Yellow Pages.”
His eyes are round now. “Who would’ve thunk it?”
“Was that assignment a joke or some kind of test?” I ask, tilting my head to one side.
His expression grows serious at once. “No. I promise, Lucie, it wasn’t to make fun of you or to test you.”
“Then why was I made to do something so utterly pointless? And how does it tap into myuniqueskill set MINDFUCH supposedly hired me for?”
