Page 4 of Due Diligence

“Is she less appealing to you now that you know I don’t want her?” I inquired. I posed the question but we both knew the answer was yes.

Alex pulled his lips together in a line. He didn’t respond.

“She’s not my type,” I clarified.

“Nobody is,” he countered, which—whatever. Not worth it. I did my six-second reset and decided to bite my tongue. My Monday was off to a rough start already; no need to open up old wounds with Alex.

Instead, I continued to watch this woman through the glass—this woman who summoned up the audacity to be late today. I studied her. I soaked her in, observing her mannerisms and noting the way she was delicate with her own body. When she tucked a lock of long, straight blond hair behind a pearl-adorned ear, her touch was gentle. Careful. She looked docile—boring, even. And somehow, she looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place her.

“So,” Alex tipped his gaze in my direction. “So, are we going to keep shamelessly watching this poor girl like we’re not all sitting in glass rooms, or are we going to go over there and start this meeting?”

“Give me another minute,” I responded as I crossed my arms. My jaw clenched of its own volition as I let my eyes linger on her face, circling doe eyes that I felt like I would remember without pause.

I knew her. Idefinitelyknew her. The question washow, and the opportunities were limitless. She could have applied for a job at Libra, could have come to a demo over the last decade—and frankly, it was possible she could have showed up with a gaggle of socialites at any of those coke-filled parties Alex threw so well.

After several seconds, it was no use. I had no choice but to admit defeat. I’d met way too many people to remember every face. While this one tapped the triangle, she didn’t ring a bell.

“Fine. I’m ready,” I announced. I rounded back to my desk and grabbed my coffee—my second one of the morning. I could already tell it was going to be a three-cup kind of day.

A few moments later, when Alex and I entered the fishbowl, the analyst didn’t remove her eyes from her cell phone. In fact, she went so far as to keep typing—and smiling as she did it.

“Am I interrupting?” I questioned, forgetting to manage my tone. I didn’t often forget to do that, but she was 0 for 2 this morning.

When I snapped at her, she looked up. To my surprise, her motions were swift, borderline casual. She wasn’t startled; she clearly knew I was standing right there. Big brown eyes met mine. When I raised an eyebrow, she smiled at me. Perfect teeth—socialite white, as I liked to call it.

“Hi there.”

Hi there?

“I’m Marcus Fitz,” I said when I held out my hand to shake hers. Her hand felt bony in mine, like if I squeezed just a little harder it would make her wince.

Next to me, Alex leaned past me and extended his arm. “Lex Larson.” He flashed that ten-million-dollar smile.

To her credit, the analyst didn’t widen her eyes and flush pink like every other woman did when they were on the receiving end of Alex’s gaze. Somehow, she managed to temper her reaction to those deep blue eyes and that chiseled face of his. She simply nodded politely and shook his hand. While this was all happening, I held back a sigh and an eye roll. It had been ten years and I still couldn’t take Alex seriously when he used that stupid nickname. Lex.

“Cassandra Pierson.”

I stopped suddenly when I heard her name. Realization began to dawn on me. And when I said realization “dawned on me,” what I actually meant was that it punched me in the face with a set of brass knuckles. Hell, realization may as well have smashed the end off an empty beer bottle and held the jagged edge up tomy neck. At once, my heart rate began to quicken and my jaw clenched, pressing my teeth into my gums.

My therapist, Dr. Jensen, referred to this as a “trigger” moment. It was a moment when some external factor managed to incite a reaction from me, typically fight or flight.

Most people had triggers, and it was worthwhile to explore them in order to prepare for them. For example, one of my triggers was public humiliation: I didn’t do well with being the butt of jokes or being teased in front of other people. For some, it was no big deal. For me, it brought back childhood memories. Dark ones. Memories of omnipresent foster siblings who seemed to loathe me for no reason other than my presence.

However, thanks to self-awareness and therapy, I had trained myself to manage that reaction over the years. So now, when Alex made jokes at my expense at tech panels being streamed around the world, I knew how to take a deep breath, laugh it off, and remind myself it was all in good fun—no need to fight or take flight.

Apparently, Cassandra Pierson, orCassie, was one of my triggers though. And that was a revelation to me. I hadn’t thought about her in years—ten years, to be exact. In fact, I had strived to block her out, along with a slew of other memories from my youth that did nothing but fester.

Yet there she was—sending me on a tailspin so fast that the world was a blurry haze. Again.

“You good?” Alex asked, his hand firm on my shoulder. I realized I was glaring at Cassie, who was looking up at me with an expression of confusion steadily deepening on her face. She shifted, keeping those big brown eyes locked on mine—and she was clearly uncomfortable.

Good.

Unfortunately, words had abandoned me. Soundlessly, I nodded and pushed out a weak smile, which was enough to makeher break her gaze. Cassie was in my usual seat, so I ended up taking the chair on Alex’s right side, while he sat at the head of the table. It was poetic, metaphoric, significant—and annoying as hell.

Once I was sitting, I continued to stare at her, wondering what the odds of us reuniting like this could be. I was admittedly not the mathematician in this duo—that would be Alex. But one in a billion, I guessed. Maybe more.

For a moment, as Alex and I got settled with our laptops, I wondered how the hell I missed this. I may not have been the mathematician in this duo, but I was the details guy. The reliable one. The thorough one. The one who kept his pulse on everything that happened at Libra. Bottom line: I was the one who never missed a cue, and yet somehow I couldn’t recognize Cassie until now.

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