Page 14 of Betting on the Brainiac

I open the car, but before I grab the power cord, I do that body shake swimmers do when they’re getting loose. I stretch my neck from side to side like I used to do before climbing the starting blocks for my races, kick my feet out, and swing my arms back and forth. I even bounce a couple of times.

“What are you doing right now, Locke?” I mutter. “Get it together.” I’m not Mr. Smooth, but I can talk to a girl I like. “You don’t like her.” Need to say that so I remember. Repeat it, even. “You. Do. Not. Like. Her.” I lean in and grab my cord, slamming my car door shut. “You are a coding machine who codes machines. Go code.”

I nod, convinced. Right. Coding machine.

When I walk back in, the office door is open with the light on, and I glance in long enough to confirm that Madison is now at the desk. That’s good. Now I don’t have to figure out how to not be a complete tool like I would if she was still out there dancing. Instead, I nod in her direction and keep going, not even stopping to see if she noticed me.

I work for the rest of the day without an issue, and when I leave, she’s gone except for a Post-it on the back door asking me to make sure the lights and air are off.

The next morning, I’m there first again, and by midmorning I haven’t heard Madison come in. Did she notice me staring at her? Maybe I’ll get a text from her today telling me our deal is canceled and she doesn’t refund money to perverts. Fair.

A text does come in after I eat a ham sandwich I brought for lunch.

I come in around 3 on Fridays bc we’re open tonight. Forgot to remind you. Rest of staff will be early too.

Should I leave before that? Don’t want to get you in trouble.

Lol. No. Just warning you it’ll get noisy.

I remember her mentioning this when she showed me around, but it doesn’t bother me to have less quiet time today. I got twice as much done yesterday as I do anywhere else I try to work—even with the salsa dancing.

Around 2:45, I pack up my laptop and leave for the Azora office—the one I lease but can’t focus in—when I run into Madison. She’s climbing out of her car when I close the club door behind me.

“Hey, Oliver.”

“Hey.” I don’t even get to her name.

“Madison,” she prompts me. Like I forgot it.

I did. But to be fair, I can’t remember my own name right now as I watch her walk toward me.

Lots of tan skin. A hint of cleavage. Legs for miles.

Her outfit is white and dripping with flapper dress fringe, which makes sense for Gatsby’s. But this isn’t a dress. A narrow strip of her abdomen shows it’s two pieces: a top with thin straps and a tight miniskirt that comes to her midthigh. It’s a heck of a uniform. She’s dressed like she could be a VIP guest at any club in the city. She’s fully made up, and it’s a different kind of hot.

So hot that once again, I am standing here robbed of the power of speech. After an embarrassing pause, I say, “Hey, Madison.”

“How was work?” she asks. It’s a polite, friendly voice, one I bet she uses on all her customers.

“Good, thanks.”

“Glad to hear it. See you around next week.”

She strides toward the club, the fringe doing a gentle swing that draws my eyes any place it swishes . . . which is everywhere. I drop them, once again struggling not to be a creeper, but that means I’m watching her feet, which are in some kind of sandals that wrap around her ankles a bunch of times, the heels so high they make her legs look even longer.

I appreciate nice legs, but until this second, I wouldn’t have classified myself as a leg man. I am now definitely a leg man.

I force myself to walk to my car before she notices I’m staring, closing my door as she disappears into Gatsby’s.

We fall into a pattern for the next couple of weeks. I avoid the first floor until I’m sure she’s done working out because I have zero faith in myself not to behave like a clown. Otherwise, I nod when she’s running stairs, something I assured her wasn’t a distraction.

That’s a lie. But I don’t want to get in her way when everything else about this situation is working so well.

A couple of days, we arrive at the same time if I stop by my real office first. When we do, I form complete sentences and don’t let my eyes wander. I should get a medal. Or hazard pay.

I find myself thinking about her after I leave Gatsby’s each day, and before I get there each morning. And kind of any time, which isn’t great. Except that Madison always seems mildly surprised every time she sees me, like she forgets I exist until she runs into me again. There’s this half-second pause every time we cross paths where I see her registering and labeling me, likeThis is the Oliver person who lurks upstairs and uses the Wi-Fi.

Two full weeks after she gave me the first tour, I have to leave after lunch for a meeting at the main office. I head downstairs as Madison closes the office door behind her, her purse over her shoulder.

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