After pulling up my message app, I pass my phone to him.
He scrolls up and down, looking for his text. But his eyebrows knit together in the most adorable way when he realizes I wasn’t lying.
“I don’t understand,” he says, puzzled.
“I don’t think I ever got your number. And I don’t receive text messages from numbers that aren’t in my contacts,” I explain.
His frown deepens. “I didn’t even know that was a thing,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess that’s a security measure only the rich and famous have,” he murmurs to himself—but I still catch it.
“Anyway, I’d be happy to save your number in my contacts if that’s something you’d like,” I offer, extending a small olive branch.
He looks at me for a beat, the wheels in his brain likely working on his next move.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“I think it’d be smart,” he says, already reaching for my phone. “I mean, since we’re coworkers we should be able to communicate.”
I nod, pretending that doesn’t sound way more official than it needs to be.
My gaze drifts to the mess I made on his desk. “Yikes. I should probably help you clean this up. Do you have paper towels or—”
I glance around his office, finally taking in how bare it is. Desk. Two chairs. File cabinet. That’s basically it.
“No, I don’t have anything,” he says, handing my phone back. “But I’ll figure it out.”
Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and a sharp jolt runs through me, catching me completely off guard.
“Ugh, I hate the static this time of the year,” I say quickly, grabbing my bag and coffee, suddenly needing to put some space between us.
I’m talking out of my ass. There’s no way that was static energy. The sensation lingers longer than it should, spreading in a way that has nothing to do with dry air or the weather and everything to do with him.
Him—the one I can’t have because that's what we agreed on.
One time.
And that was supposed to be it.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Miles says as I reach the door.
I turn back and give him a tight smile before stepping out, leaving him—and the inconvenient pull I still feel toward him—behind.
“What do you mean the accounts are frozen?” I ask, tapping my pen rapidly against the desk.
I’ve been trying to run payroll all afternoon, but every bank account I manage is locked. Millions of dollars just sitting there, untouchable—and I can’t access seventy thousand to pay people? I’m about to lose my mind.
“Yes, Ms. Levine. There has been a worldwide cyberattack. At this time, all assets—across all institutions—are temporarily inaccessible.”
I close my eyes and release a slow breath through my nose. How is this still happening? With all this technology—every safeguard, every system—at our disposal, how are we still at the mercy of people who know how to break them?
“Okay. Okay,” I say, steadying my voice. “So none of my accounts are available. Correct?”
If needed, I can front the money myself and reimburse it once this is resolved.
“No, ma’am. I’m really sorry. There’s nothing we can do at the moment. But rest assured, our IT team is working diligently to restore access.”
Of course they are.
“I will personally notify you as soon as the issue has been resolved,” Peter, my assistant, says on the other end.
