Page 19 of Take It Offline

Look, if hell and heaven and all that crap actually existed, meetings like this are without a doubt someone’s cosmic idea of torture. What’s the saying? Death by a thousand cuts? Yeah, like that, but in expensive business wear.

“Did you realize that the system runs 40 percent slower on average at our sites than at headquarters?”

She presses her lips together. “I didn’t.”

“I only mention it because when we remove the—granted, arbitrary—file-size limit, we risk allowing files so large they can’t actually be opened. If that document was, say, a safety-critical piping diagram during a shutdown, well…”

I let the implications paint their own picture.

The real solution would be to improve the site tech, but that’ll never get across the line. It makes zero sense to me and will be the first debate I have with management once I’m the lead.

But I can sell the best solution later. Right now, I only need to get her to agree with me.

“Look, I’ll be honest,” I continue, “there’s only a slim chance of a safety incident, because regulations state that hard copies of all critical documents must be on site, but do you really want to take a risk on a slim chance?”

By the way her lips purse, it’s obvious I’ve landed it. No one wants their name coming up in an audit.

“No, I don’t. All right, what would you say is the best option?”

And sold, to the scrappy fighter from the north.

After eight hours of back-to-back meetings and dealing with half a dozen engineers who can’t understand what Do Not Disturb means, all I want is to shove something greasy down my throat before I pass out. Add a few beers, and I’m good. I’ll drink them lying down. I don’t care.

The only good part about my job is the paycheck. Every cent I haven’t saved has been spent on the essentials—clothes that make people take me seriously, and a memory foam mattress I’d commit crimes for.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Reese doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m not lonely; I’m fine.

I’ve got a decent life.

Gym, work, home. Visit the shelter a few times a week or a bar if it’s the weekend. If I’m lucky, I get laid.

It’s not as bleak as she makes it out to be. I’ve come a long way since the days of electricity roulette, hoping we wouldn’t short out the building if we rolled the dice and used the microwave at the same time as the toaster.

I bet Emma has never had to worry about that sort of thing.

Weeks of working together, and still, nothing about her makes any damn sense.

With a name like Conway and the sort of money she comes from, she should have a seat on the board, not be sweating her ass off in a low-level position.

I, however, have scraped every win together with my teeth and fingernails.

With me, she’s everything she’s always been—cold, harsh, entitled—but to everyone else, she’s a different person. Sweeter, joyful. It rubs. What the hell do I have to do to get her to smile at me like that?

(Unfuck that briefing, probably).

I just wish I could stop thinking about her damn eyes.

CHAPTER 9

THESE HEELS WERE MADE FOR CRUSHING YOU

EMMA

Yesterday, when Charlie joked that I couldn’t last a day without caffeine, I was cocky. This morning, I regret everything.

Holding my eyes open has become a feat as challenging as separating the jaws of life. I can’t remember ever being this tired before, including the nights spent panic-cramming for exams.

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