Page 17 of Take It Offline

It’s too late to say this, but capitalism was definitely a mistake.

And I say that as a man who’s spent more than I’m comfortable admitting on ties and wingtip shoes.

Every day, my patience is tested by companies whose profits could fund humanitarian causes, but instead line the pockets of eccentric millionaires.

“Sea-tec?” I ask Drue.

He nods. There’s a sunburn peeking out from above his collar and a twitch in his eye that he always gets when he’s almost certain he’s fucked something up and needs me to save him.

“No,” I say, “they’ll hold their IP hostage until after final investment. You’ll only get the renditions for now. Don’t even try for the natives unless you want to be trapped in a room with Pegrum while he drills their confidentiality clause into your skull.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” He lets out an uneasy chuckle. “Okay, so I should just map the PDFs for migration?”

I feel for him. Drue is the only other DC in Operations, and he’s the only one on level twelve now, which means he’s fielding the majority of face-to-face visits from disgruntled engineers.Not that half of them haven’t found their way up to see me despite that.

“Send me the doc schedule. I’ll tee up something with pre-ops and the DAT team and flick you an invite. They won’t be happy about the tag to doc stuff, but they’re good guys. And if we can’t get them over the line, a few beers will.”

“Thanks, Charlie. I owe you.”

He owes me a few, but I won’t hold him to it.

“Course, man. I’ve got your back.”

The new building feels like a spaceship.

Each desk curves like the monitors we use. They all rise to standing and are set up with Bluetooth accessories and built-in phone chargers.

There’s even ambient noise playing overhead. All day, every day.

HR calls it sound-scaping, which is just about the wankiest title I’ve ever heard. Reese and I have spent hours debating what kinds of sounds Starfleet would use.

Her money’s on black noise, but I like to think Kirk’s a Slash fan.

The building is nice, but all the fancy technology in the world can’t disguise how impersonal it is.

No artwork or color of any kind. No name tags or photos to tell us whose desk is whose. No forgetting that we’re replaceable.

All it would take is a few strong-armed security guards and a wet wipe, and bam. Clean slate.

Of course, there is one perk to my new location. The view.

Emma’s layers come off at the start of the day, when she has the most steam. By three p.m., they’re back on, and when shethinks no one is watching, she’ll warm her fingers by trapping them under her thighs.

It’s enough to give a man ideas.

There are other things I’m noticing too.

She never takes a lunch break unless Ivy forces her to. Most days, the only time she’ll stop working is when she makes her habitual trips to the kitchen. Often, I’ll find her, arms crossed, staring out at the city skyline, lost in thought, during the three minutes it takes for the coffee machine to finish.

I’ve taken to not looking out the window too much while working here. Too much temptation, too many exit roads.

I’ve worked in Operations for six years, which makes it the longest I’ve spent anywhere. It’s making me antsy, eager for a change.

I’m convinced I’m not the settling down type. No matter how much Reese and I talked about it as kids, I’ve never been able to shake the itch to pick up and go.

Where the hell does someone like Emma go? And why do my feet ache with the urge to follow her there?

Back at her desk, she throws her head back and groans. It elongates the mile-long stretch of her neck, which I’ve been distracted by all morning. Glamorous is the only way to describe her. Sharp, serious, infuriating… and utterly sexy.

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