Page 8 of Betting on the Brainiac

I turn, hiding a grin at his slightly dropped jaw, and head for the stairs. I’m one hundred percent sure he’s about to google and find out I’m right. He’ll learn a lesson I rarely bother teaching: never underestimate me. I let my smile out.

That was fun.

Chapter Five

Oliver

There is a kindof hot that no one can prepare you for. Madison is that kind of hot.

If I was watching her get out of a limo on my sister’s favorite dating show, I’d peg her as a finalist, even on the first night. Madison had climbed out of a Mercedes in the parking lot, her dark blonde hair pulled up into that messy bun thing girls do. It immediately made me think I’d like to undo it and watch it fall around her.

The rest of her was even better—or worse, for a guy who doesn’t want to notice any of it. She was in a tank top and yoga pants—and bless lululemon for the good work they do. When she got closer, her eyes caught me. She wasn’t wearing much makeup that I could tell, but as she walked up, I noticed those eyes right away. They were big and bright, and I wanted to get even closer to see their color.

Bad signs.

Full mouth, high cheekbones, curves, and skin that’s an even shade of gold everywhere her tank top gives me a view. She has a polish that says she puts in time and effort on her appearance. That kind of glossiness isn’t usually my thing, but I doubt I could find a straight male who wouldn’t have done a double take if they’d seen Madison walking toward them.

I thought I was prepared when Charlie warned me, because Charlie is not usually a guy who comments on that kind of thing. He even gave me a heads-up that she’s funny.

A woman who is hot and funny is lethal. At least to my concentration and my current goals. Right now, someone as hot and funny as Madison is basically a threat to my literal hopes and dreams.

Not to be dramatic.

I open my laptop. Maybe I should keep looking around for a different workspace. Or stick with the office, even. It’ll probably be less distracting than Madison.

I’m about to shut my laptop again and pack up when my phone buzzes with a picture of the password, written on a ragged Post-it. I type it in, not even halfway through when she texts again.

Double check before you hit enter. One time my boss did it wrong and accidentally opened a Swiss bank account. Couldn’t use it because no Wi-Fi.

I snort and input the rest of the password. My gut says this arrangement won’t work—

The Wi-Fi connects, and I check the speed. It’s as fast as at my office.

Maybe looking for another workspace is too hasty.

I lean against the booth seat and do a quick analysis. Pros: this place is quiet, comfortable, and close to work. Con: Madison, who I’ll want to be distracted by. But that’s a me problem, not a her problem. I don’t think Madison has any interest in getting my attention.

Unfortunately.

I smile at my own ridiculousness. Maybe this is what it feels like wanting to have your cake and not have it at exactly the same time?

Pro: cheap rent and internet speeds powered by futuristic space technology.

I hear my mom’s regular advice as if she’s sitting right next to me.Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.

I’m guilty of wanting perfection in anything I do, but I’m trying to lean into the tech mentality of “minimum viable product.” This is a good place to settle fornearlyideal. I’ll just have to figure out how to block out Madison.

Footsteps patter on the spiral stairs, and she appears with an expectant look on her face.

“What do you think? Will the setup work?”

I do not saySure, as long as I ignore you completely,which doesn’t seem possible. I can at least try it. “Are you good with a month-to-month arrangement?”

“Sure.” There’s an ease about everything she says and does, like it’s a given that everything works out. Maybe when you’re Madison, it does.

“Do I need to give you a deposit or sign an agreement or anything?”

“Nope. This is under the table, straight to me, with the owners’ permission. Pay a month ahead of time and bail anytime you want.”

---