Page 21 of Meet Me at Midnight

Shit.Is he going to leave the chat? Is he going to tell me fuck off? Is he—

ThunderStruck: All right, I believe you’re legit now, based on your knowledge of how shitty Seth golfs. And I believe you’re not him, because there’s no way he’d ever admit that himself, even if it was to take me down.

Phew.

ElizaBeth: See? I know things.

ThunderStruck: What else do you know?

ElizaBeth: Well…nothing, actually. But I’ll keep an eye out.

ThunderStruck: And who did you say you were again?

ElizaBeth: I didn’t.

ThunderStruck: Maybe you should change that…

ElizaBeth: Uh-uh. I’ve never heard a story of a whistleblower who didn’t disappear. Mysterious car accident. Building explosion. High-speed boat chase during a hurricane. I’m not risking it.

ThunderStruck: Haha. You’re not dealing with nuclear codes. You’re dealing with ad marketing campaigns. Surely there’s no risk to your life with this.

ElizaBeth: You never know. Money and power are involved. Some people get desperate.

ThunderStruck: But if you told me who you were, then I could protect you…

Beau Banks protecting me?I picture him in a cute, regal uniform with a sword at his side and a cartoonishly big smile. Other people would look ridiculous, but he still looks good.Too good.

So good I consider stringing him along a little longer just so I can pretend.

“Snap out of it,” I mutter to myself. “Now isn’t the time to think with your tits. This is his career.”

I shake my head and type out another message—one I can be morally proud of.

ElizaBeth: I’m good. Thanks.

ThunderStruck: So, that’s it?

ElizaBeth: That’s it. Goodnight, Beau.

ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Whistleblower. Stay away from cars, buildings, and boats, okay?

Is he…is he flirting?I swipe out of Midnight and burrow myself under my covers, my whole body shaking.

Maybe thinking with my tits isn’t such a bad thing?

“Where in the hell have you been?” Avery asks, peeking around the corner of the wall between our cubicles and startling me into a jolt.

Not only was she not at her desk when I walked by it a minute ago, she hasn’t been in the office all morning. I’ve been running around like a headless Chicken Little to cover both our asses, so I would know. Her questioning my whereabouts is the height of irony. The Mount Everest of irony, really.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, my voice playfully jeering. “Taking notes for Mr. McKenzie in his call with Big Energy in London, running to Starbucks for the whole exec wing, toting spreadsheets for Tom in Accounting, running to the fourth floor for Carla with changes for Digital Marketing for the commercial that goes live next month for Langley, and sorting throughouremail box to see what needs to be done next.” I’ve been hustling my little ass all morning, but the real travesty is that I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to check in on Beau or ascertain if our messages last night are on his mind at all.

Avery just stands there, her work-averse mind refusing to digest the words that just left my lips.

“Where in the hell haveyoubeen for the last two hours?” I ask, and a secretive smile crests her lips.

“You know Luke from Copywriting?”

I shake my head, but my eyes are focused on the screen of my laptop, organizing emails into folders and assigning myself tasks in Asana, our company’s work management platform. If I stopped what I was doing every time Avery showed up with a story, I’d end up getting the same amount of work accomplished as she does.

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