Page 13 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Sorry I missed you,” I tell Kaitlyn, making for the front door. “Gotta go.”

“Madison, stop it.” Kaitlyn’s voice is sharp.

I stop but I don’t take my hand from the knob. Kaitlyn is three years younger than me, but she’s often acted like she’s my third parent. I could ignore her, but she’s relentless. I’ve learned to hear her out and do what I want anyway. Exactly like with my parents.

“Stop what? Leaving?”

“Yes. Stop leaving after ten minutes every time you come over here.” She walks closer, composed as always. She shops in the same departments my mother does at all the high-end stores. Their wardrobes are interchangeable. Today, she’s wearing black pleated trousers and a silky white button-down blouse.

“How about you tell Mom to stop dragging me over here every time I take too long to pick up her voicemails?”

“We all have family responsibilities,” she says. “It’s not too much to ask you to do yours in exchange for all the perks of being an Armstrong.”

Up until now, this visit has only been annoying, but Kaitlyn is pushing my buttons, and she’s chosen the nuclear option.Thisis the Armstrong Way: forced compliance through manipulation. My mom throws in her imaginary illnesses for style points, but the core move is always Manipulate With Money. They have used it as both carrot and stick my entire life, but I’m nobody’s jackass.

“I don’t take a dime from them. I mean this sincerely, Kaitlyn: back off.” I walk out, not bothering to close the door behind me.

She watches me climb into the car, every line in her body communicating her disappointment. But it’s not even the kind that makes you feel like a crappy big sister and want to turn around and apologize. It’s that judgy kind that makes you want to peel out of the driveway to prove how much you want to get away.

So I do. I don’t bother checking my rearview mirror to see if she’s turned to go back inside with another deeply judgmental look on her face. I already know the answer, and I don’t need to see it again.

Chapter Seven

Oliver

Day Two of workingin Gatsby’s, I almost put on a button-down shirt. Instead, I reach for another hoodie.

I only wear a button-down if we’re meeting with investors or I have to do something more executive than code all day. The fact that I wanted to wear a shirt I look good in to see Madison is a bad sign.

It’s not give-up-this-quiet-space bad, but I shouldn’t care about impressing her. I’m not her type anyway.

I shove my arms through the hoodie, grab my laptop bag, and head out, relieved when I’m the only car parked behind Gatsby’s. I let myself in and climb up to my new desk. An hour later, the rear exit opens, followed by the light footsteps of someone walking onto the main floor. Madison, I’m sure. I force myself to stay in my booth and keep working through a section of code.

She doesn’t come up to check on me or say hello. Good. This is the footing we should be on. Separate. In our own worlds, doing our own things.

It stays that way for almost forty-five minutes until I realize I’ve left my power cord in my car, and I go down to get it. I reach the first level and stop, not at all prepared for what I find.

Madison is dancing. She’s wearing earbuds, so I’m not sure what she’s dancing to, but I’d bet our whole next round of funding that it’s Latin music. And she’s good. She’s in sneakers and yoga pants, but she’s up on the balls of her toes like she’s in heels, doing the forward and back step with the weight switching from foot to foot, her hips swinging, elbows moving in a dead giveaway that she’s doing a salsa. She could teach it, she’s so good, fluid and fast, like this is in her bones, her low ponytail swishing against her back, damp with sweat. She does a hip circle that points her booty my way, and I swallow hard.

I should say something, let her know she has an audience, but I’m too transfixed when she thrusts a leg out and does this bouncy hip shake thing that makes my mouth go dry. It turns into a fast three-sixty with a head fling, and it’s too late. She’s spotted me, and I should apologize, but instead of freezing, she does another half turn so she’s facing me, grins, and finishes out a few more steps with another pop of her right hip in my direction.

I am now sweating. I am sweating so much. Much sweating. Madison dancing solo to music I can’t hear is a fantasy I didn’t know I had. I’m glad I’m in a dark hoodie that won’t show any pit stains.

She takes out an earbud. “Hey, Oliver. Am I too loud?”

I shake my head. Even the soft squeak of her sneaker soles hadn’t reached me upstairs.

“Okay. Is there something else?” Her expression is quizzical now.

“I, uh . . .” Why did I come down here? I glance around, and the door to the stockroom catches my eye. “I was going to my car to get my power cord.” I stand there, not sure what to do next. Apologize? Compliment her? I don’t know how to not be creepy right this second.

“Sounds good. Do you need anything?”

I shake my head. “No!” I fight not to cringe at my awkwardness. “That is, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

She aims a smile somewhere in my general direction, already putting her earbud in again. “Sure. Let me know if I’m being distracting.” Then she’s right back into her salsa, like I don’t exist.

I hurry out to my car. She’s a thousand percent distracting—her hips are a deadly threat to my concentration—but that’s on me. I trespassed on her area of the club.

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