Page 4 of The Southern Submission

I could fix this for her. It would be so easy. I saw the solution the moment I looked over at her screen. My smile slides off as she wraps her small hands around the laptop and lifts it. Fuck, she’s about to hurl it onto the floor. I quickly place my hand over one of hers to stop the motion, forcing the laptop safely back onto the table.

“I can help,” I say gently, holding back my grin, not wanting to laugh at her tantrum over her tech issue.

She looks up, pretty hazel eyes widening as they lock on mine, plump pink lips that were just set in an angry snarl parting in shock. Something flares behind her assessing gaze, whether in recognition or maybe interest, I’m not sure. She’s difficult to decipher at the moment, and that’s intriguing since I typically read others at a glance. Her eyes roam over my face quickly, taking me in and gauging whatever threat I may present. She lets go of the laptop with the hand not caught under mine and pulls the earbuds out of her ears.

“What did you say?” Her words are clipped. Her attitude meant to end the conversation as she stares me down, unafraid of offending me by not capitulating to the expected niceties of the situation.

“I can help,” I repeat, smiling in earnest at her frigid response. I like a challenge, and, oh boy, is this woman a fucking challenge.

Warily, she unclenches her hand from the laptop and slides it out from under my palm. I liked the warmth of her smaller fingers under mine, so I kept my hand over hers under the guise of preventing a technological travesty. I do hate when people blame a computer for what amounts to user error, but it was nice. It’s also been a while since I’ve touched someone like that. Maybe too long if I’m getting off on manipulating a situation like this.

“Why would you do that?” she drawls, clearly from the South, but not Atlanta, and she’s certainly not charmed by me. She’s wary of my offer and unafraid to question it. She frowns at the laptop, giving the screen of code a dirty look, her fuller bottom lip pouting a bit. I suppress my smile at her hatred. She doesn’t have a great relationship with this machine.

“You’re clearly working and need a functional laptop. I can fix your issue and get you back on task. If youhaveto work on a Saturday, you might as well get it done as quickly as possible so you can continue with the rest of your weekend.” I attempt to keep the humor out of my tone as I gesture at her laptop. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“If you can get this stupid thing to work and get me back to my story so I can meet my deadline, go ahead. Whatever you do, don’t lose my work. I need everything that was on that screen before this piece of crap wanted to act a fool. It’s been janky since I got it,” she grumbles, confirming my theory thatshe’s not a fan of the laptop. She huffs and flops back against the seat, crossing her arms over her chest, her tan skin standing out against her white tank top.

“Story and deadline. I’m going to take a guess and say journalist or marketing job of some sort?” I ask, picking up her laptop and setting it in front of me.

“The former. My editor assigned me a story last minute that needs to be in today because of course he’d give the youngest reporter the shittiest story with the quickest turnaround time over the weekend along with the oldest laptop that hates me.”

I stifle my laugh at her explanation as I type in a series of keystrokes and pop up a command prompt box. “It’s not the worst computer I’ve used,” I offer to soothe her worries.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in familiar code sequences and prompts and quickly scanning the returning messages for errors. This is a piece of cake. She has nothing to worry about. Her laptop has plenty of life left for her to continue a long, dysfunctional relationship with it.

“I didn't realize you’re so tech-savvy,” she says, then snaps her mouth shut and straightens up as if she didn't mean to say the thought out loud.

I glance over quickly. She sits rigidly, tension radiating from her as I work on her computer. I smile politely, hoping to disarm her, but I’m quickly assessing the situation, figuring out what she knows. She’s a journalist and I'm a person of interest. A billionaire. A high-profile businessman who’s well-known in this city.

“I guess I’m at a disadvantage here. It sounds like you know more about me than I do about you, despite just sitting down next to you and offering to help when I noticed you were in computer-related distress. How about you put us on even footing while I fix your laptop?” I still my fingers to show herI can just as easily stop my attempt at fixing her problem and leave her to it, or I can save the day and get her back to making her deadline.

Panic crosses her features as she quickly understands my meaning. Her eyes dart to the laptop and back to my face before she gives me a look of resignation, her mouth settling into a line of grim determination and a pink tint rising in her cheeks. The rosy flush sets off her smooth skin, hazel eyes flashing at me, and those damn alluring lips that she’s twisting together under my appraisal. She rolls her eyes and huffs, making a motion for me to continue my ministrations with her laptop.

“I’m Ainsley Montgomery, a staff reporter for the Gazette, a small community paper. I know you’re Payton Olsen of Olympus International fame because I occasionally write articles for the business section, and Olympus comes up often. Well, I write whatever my editor tells me to, which is basically everything because he dumps extra work on me due to the paper being underfunded and understaffed.”

As soon as she starts talking I begin writing code for a program that will initiate anytime she types my name and continue until she stops. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, Ainsley Montgomery?” I drawl, liking the sound of her name in my mouth. “Now, where are you from? Doesn't sound like Atlanta by your accent.” I hold my fingers over the keyboard again, prompting her to continue before I free her laptop from the clutches of her code issue.

She bites her lip and stares at my fingers. I want to reach out and free that soft lip from her teeth, but I keep my hands just out of reach of the keyboard she wants me so desperately to type on. Her eyes narrow like she’s willing my fingers to move without having to give more away than necessary aboutherself. Tricky girl. I wiggle my fingers at her as a taunt. She brings her gaze up to mine and I smile at the frustration I see snapping in her amber depths. She’s a prickly one. It’s adorably at odds with her pretty pink pout and hat.

“Charleston, South Carolina.” She sighs. No extra information. Just the bare bones provided in resignation. I only have time to type one line of code this time. I’m thankful for my quick typing skills to manage even that.

“Come on, if I’m fixing your computer and you’re putting us on even footing given you know way more about me, you’re going to have to give me more than that. Why are you working in a café where people prefer to take photos of their magical lattes than drink them?” I prompt.

Her shoulders lower a fraction at the simple question. Her eyes meet mine again but with less hostility this time. “I like the chaos. It drowns out the noise in my brain and helps me think. This place is always busy on the weekends, and I can get lost in the people and shuffle.”

I complete more code while she speaks and stop when she does. “What do you like to write about most?”

“I like human interest stories. Things that give insight into who someone is behind the facade and public persona.” She inhales deeply and lets out a sigh as she looks around the café. “This is pointless. If that laptop is dead, just say so and stop wasting your time. I’ll call my editor and tell him this shitty hand-me-down kicked the bucket and cost him my story, and I’ll go home.”

“Don’t count this dinosaur out just yet,” I tell her playfully, typing in my final series of code that will complete my hastily created—but brilliant if I do say so myself—program and issue commands to finish the sequence, watching as a series of pages flash across the screen, replacing the code.

She leans toward me, gaping at the laptop as her document finally appears, just as it was when the code originally popped up. “You fixed it!” she quietly exclaims, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile that should be seen more often because it’s absolutely stunning. She could get people to do anything she wanted just by flashing that gorgeous grin. It’d be a dangerous asset if deployed correctly, yet she chooses hostility and contention. Interesting.

Ainsley Montgomery just became a puzzle I want to solve.

I don't tell her I had the issue fixed with the second command I typed on her laptop and was using the rest of the time to create a program that will initiate if she types my name. I type a final command and close the prompt box before handing the laptop back to her, regretting having finished the task and likely ending our interaction. There’s no reason for someone young, beautiful, and busy like her to talk to me now. But she’ll certainly be reminded of this interaction should I come up in her writing in the future, and that makes me unreasonably happy.

She takes the laptop reverently and sets it back on her table, still smiling as she scrolls through her document, checking to be sure everything she wrote is still there. She hits the save button three times, her eyes narrowed like she doesn’t trust it to do as she asks.

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