Page 6 of Betting on the Brainiac

“You asking for real or you want the bullet points?”

“Bullet points.”

I sum it up for him, but every summary is the same: there’s a ton of money on the line and an excellent software product in the works, but I’m its architect and there’s not enough of me to do all the work by the deadline. And yet it has to be done.

“Sounds tough,” Charlie says.

This is one of the things I like best about Charlie. He doesn’t try to one up anyone or convince them that their hard thing isn’t hard.

He gets up from the sofa. “I hope the Gatsby’s thing works out, man. I’m going for a run but come over later for a beer or something.”

“Will do.”

He leaves, and it’s me and my laptop again.

I sigh and force myself to get back to debugging an issue that popped up when I ran the code at the office this afternoon. It’s a good example of why I need a different space to work in. I swear I’m not a delicate flower or whatever, but I can’t think well in loud environments, and music is just as distracting, so earbuds won’t help. I could have fixed this bug much sooner if I didn’t have so many disruptions.

I can work at home, but I hate it. It makes me feel like there is no separation between my home and my job. There barely is, to be honest, but I grew up on a ranch where home and job are the same thing, and it’s hard. I’m clinging to every buffer I can find.

I’m hoping Gatsby’s works. Weird to think a nightclub that probably looks shabby when it can’t hide in low light might end up being my Nirvana, but I’ll take it.

Chapter Four

Madison

Wednesday morning at 9:00exactly, I park at Gatsby’s and spot Oliver waiting at the back door. I assume it’s Oliver, anyway, because that’s where I told him to meet me. This guy is the right age, wearing a hoodie and Jordans, glasses, and a navy baseball cap.

I cut the engine of my Mercedes and climb out to meet him. I don’t love sharing what I’ve come to think of as “my space” during the day, but Ruby made it clear this guy will blend into the background.

“Be right there,” I call before I grab my gym bag from the back seat.

“No rush.” His voice is deep but soft.

Closer to the door, I can see that he’s medium tall, fairly thin, clean-shaven, and average-looking. Ruby wasn’t lying; he’s not remotely my type, and this is not a setup. I like my guys buff andpretty-boy bearded—or at least rocking the ironic moustache eighty percent of guys in Austin grow—wearing trendy clothes and hair too well-styled to mess up with a ball cap.

I squint at Oliver’s hat. It’s not even for a team. It looks like corporate swag that companies give out at industry events but no one picks unless the good stuff is gone.

I reach the door and punch in the code. “Hey. You’re Oliver, right?”

“Yeah. Madison?”

“That’s me.” The keypad beeps and the lock disengages. I pull the door open and smile at him. “Welcome to Gatsby’s. I’ll show you around and you can see if it will work for you.”

He blinks at me a couple of times.

“You wanted a tour before you decide, right?”

He gives his head a small shake. “Yeah. Yes. I do.”

Socially awkward. That tracks. The tech guys are one extreme or the other. Either all swagger with no self-awareness, or self-aware to the point of making everyone else feel awkward.

I wave him in ahead of me and let the door close behind us, arming the lock again. “We’ll talk about the security system if this works out, but for right now, just know we keep it locked during nonoperating hours even if staff is in here because of all the top-shelf liquor we stock.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything. Guess I’ll be carrying the conversation, but that’s fine. It’s why I’m good at my job. Well, that, big hair, and cleavage.

“This is our stockroom,” I tell him. “It connects to a kitchen, but it’s only for bar snacks and tapas. No cooking, really.” The office is next, a neat if boring space, and I gesture to the metal cabinet against one wall. “We have basic office supplies. Feel free to use them. Pens, printer paper. If you use a lot, just replace it.”

“Thanks.”

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