Page 8 of Tempt Me

“No,” she said. “This whole thing will be forgotten by Monday.”

“No, it won’t,” I said.

She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes widened like she’d forgotten I was there. “Sure it will.”

“You were in theWall Street Journal,”I said. “Mainstream press. Even if they drop it, the tech news outlets won’t. They’ll be on this story like…like…”

“Like ticks on a dog?” Jamila supplied. She faced forward again, her jaw stony. “It’s fine. We handle that all the time. Everything you do is a news story when you’re one of only a handful of tech CEOs of color.”

“You can spin this to your advantage,” I protested. “Why not deal with it proactively like Winslow is suggesting?”

“Because you’re both wrong.” She sliced a hand down. “I don’t spin. I’m a straight shooter. Everyone knows that.” She held open the door of a corner office for Winslow and me. “My office, Natalie,” she said with a grand flourish.

She had every right to be proud of her office. The view was much more meditative than my brother’s office, which looked smack into the high-rise across the street, or Cooper’s, which offered a glimpse of the Bay Bridge between two other buildings. Her office window framed a green lawn that ended at a sparkling pond ringed by evergreens.

Inside her office was a sleek, glass-topped desk with a high-backed cream leather chair. When Jamila settled into it, she looked like a queen on her throne. Winslow plopped into one of the club chairs on the other side of her desk while I perched on the other.

“Pop quiz, Nat. What does Jamilow do?” She steepled her fingers.

“You make apps,” I said confidently. Everyone knew that.

“Apps that do what?” Jamila asked.

I’d never downloaded one. I winced at my ignorance. “Something about advice?”

She smirked. “Not everyone has access to generations of college education or world-class financial advisers. The Jam-In app started back in the day offering college admissions help targeted toward lower-income students. It ranked schools by affordability, ease of getting financial aid, value, and whatnot.”

“But what set it apart,” Winslow said, “was the natural-language search that let students type in what they were looking for. The algorithm took that information and provided a list of target schools and suggested scholarships.”

“It was my baby,” Jamila said with a fond smile. “The analytics told us students were looking for more help, so we expanded into life coaching. Goal setting, accountability, that kind of stuff.”

“That’s when it really took off,” Winslow explained. “We partnered with real-life coaches to provide individual coaching for paid subscribers.”

“And”—Jamila wagged a finger—“we recruited some of our former advisees to be mentors and coaches, the Jammers.”

“Then we got into financial advising. Now we’re expanding to—”

“That’s enough of what we do.” Jamila cut Winslow off. “We have various partnerships that help get the word out. The combination of artificial intelligence and human help is our secret sauce. No one has been able to replicate it.”

“Yet.” Winslow raised his eyebrows.

Jamila pursed her lips. “Yet.” She and Winslow were using some secret language I didn’t understand.

She rapid-fire typed on the keyboard, and a few seconds later, an organizational chart lit the wall-mounted screen behind her. “So, Nat, here’s how we work. That’s me at the top, and Winslow, finance, marketing, and R&D report to me. You said you’re interested in programming, which falls under research and development for our new products or operations for existing products. That’s Winslow’s team.”

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, silenced it, and flipped it over.

“Jamila, you can’t just—” Winslow began.

“Can’t what?” She fixed him with a stare so sharp I was surprised he didn’t flinch.

He regarded her steadily. “You can’t sweep this under the rug.”

“He’s right,” I said. “You should consider a press conference. Nip this in the bud.”

“A press conference?” Uh-oh, now the steely gaze was on me. I felt my shoulders hunch. “There is no bud to nip here. It’s as dead as my Christmas poinsettia. There was one sad reporter out there today. By Monday, they’ll have moved on to whatever the Kardashians are doing.”

“Those reporters aren’t even on the same beat!” I protested. Why was she refusing to see the problem here?

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