“Not when you’re being dull.”

  “How am I being dull?”

  “By not giving Thomas a chance; he’s a wonderful human.”

  With that scathing nugget of wisdom, K-2P shuts down, and I know better than to try to get him to turn back on. I don’t need dating advice from a machine.

  15

  REESE

  Still, for the entire metro ride home, I dwell over K-2P’s assessment of Thomas. My droid has always been distrustful of my previous boyfriends and with good reason. I’m surprised he’d champion Thomas.

  But maybe K-2P is a better judge of human character than I am. Is Thomas really one of the good ones? From what I’ve seen so far, sure. Maybe he doesn’t take things seriously enough, but that wouldn’t be a drawback in a relationship. I’d be earnest enough for the both of us, and having someone taper my doom and gloom attitude would be a welcome novelty.

  I’m aware of being too much of a buttoned-up worrier. So, yeah, someone with an easygoing personality could help me get out of my shell. But that’s not the issue, is it?

  No, the problem is that Thomas is going to become my boss soon. Already, as a very young woman in a male-dominated field, I have to work twice as hard to get any credit. But I have worked twice as hard. Trice as hard. All my life. And over the years, I’ve built a reputation for myself.

  Now everyone gives me the recognition I deserve. The people in my department are happy to follow my lead—at least the ones who are left. A few of the oldies handed in their resignations when I was appointed head of research and development, refusing to report to a woman under thirty.

  But those who stayed, the new hires I brought in, and the other department heads respect me now. But were I to openly date the CEO, assuming Nolan Mercer was willing to make an exception to the anti-fraternization policy for his son, that would all change in a heartbeat. I’d become the gold digger trying to sleep her way to the top. None of my accomplishments would be my own anymore.

  Already, things get vicious when I have to compete for budget allocations with the other directors; imagine if I were sleeping with the man making those kinds of decisions. No, Nolan Mercer would never allow that. He’d probably suggest I transfer somewhere else, but I don’t want to. And anyway, Thomas is heir to the kingdom. I could be accused of getting favoritism in any role or division at Mercer Industries. Plus, being director of R&D in robotics is my literal dream job. I can’t risk it for a relationship that might fail like all my previous ones. What would I be left with? A broken heart and a crappy job?

  But even if Mercer Sr. didn’t force me to change role, a company is a vicious gossip mill. It’d grind my reputation to smithereens. And I’ve worked too hard to throw it all away on a handsome face and a pair of pretty eyes—smoldering as they might be.

  Right.

  I get home and sit on the couch to eat a depressing tub of plain yogurt.

  No matter that keeping my distance from Thomas is the smart choice, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m attracted to him and that the next eleven weeks are going to be pure torture.

  As I sit there, feeling sorry for myself and licking the spoon after the last mouthful of yogurt, a thought suddenly barrels into my head. I drop the empty tub and the spoon on the coffee table and surge toward the entrance hall where I abandoned my bag on the floor.

  I rummage inside, searching like a crazed person looking for an antidote to a poison they just ingested. Only the thing poisoning my heart is the impossibility of having anything with Thomas, and I’m not sure what I find in my bag will cure me of that disease.

  The handwritten blue note could very well inject fresh toxins into my system.

  Still, I sit on the carpet, sagging against the wall and hugging the note to my chest before even reading it.

  I wait for my heart to stop beating so fast it seems to want out of my chest before I finally lower the note and drink in every word.

  I would comment on your leggings today, but since we’re strictly friends, I’ll abstain.

  The man is a tease, and he’s worn me out, prompting me to do something I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do. I search my desk for a Post-it block and a pen and craft a reply:

  This is a special waiver; you can comment on my leggings.

  The next morning, as soon as Thomas exits the office to shadow yet another team leader, I get up from behind my desk and tiptoe to the door. I poke my head out to make sure no one’s headed this way and close it. The blinds have been down since my striptease last week, so I’m free to sneak to Thomas’s desk and hide the note in his bag.

  He won’t read it until tonight. And I’ll have to wait until tomorrow evening to read his reply. The wait is going to be excruciating. And the game I’m playing is extremely dangerous. But I can’t help myself. For the first time in my life, I’m acting recklessly, I’m willingly playing with fire. But, gosh, getting burned never felt so tempting.

  When I arrive home that night, I find another note in my bag. It says:

  Why is your hair pink at the tips?

  I grab a pen and write my reply on a separate note:

  Because pink is fun.

  The next morning when I arrive at the office, I know Thomas has found my note from the day before from the way his eyes linger on me a little longer than usual, smoldering away. I pretend not to notice and go about my day like an innocent little engineer who’s not secretly flirting with her future boss.

  But that night as I arrive home, my fingers are itching to read his note, and I’m delighted when I see it’s on the longer side.

  Thought I had to lure you out with a direct question, but I see that’s no longer necessary. Thank you for the special waiver allowing me to comment on your legwear. I wanted to say that while your butt looked truly spectacular in those leggings, it didn’t need any extra support. PS. I still want to know why pink. PPS. Are we still being friendly?

  He doesn’t know I already answered his question, so I tease him a little.

  Keep up, Mercer, you already have the answer. And that’s all you had to say about my leggings? Yes! Still being friendly. Friends can compliment each other’s appearances. Like you can say I have a nice butt, and I can say you have pretty eyes without crossing a line.

  Thursday night’s note is brief but searing:

  My idea of fun and yours are pretty different.

  I tease some more:

  What’s your idea of fun? Do you need a special waiver to elaborate? Have a nice weekend, Mercer.

  He’ll read this tomorrow, on Friday night.

  And as the moment arrives, I take out my own Friday night note filled with trepidation:

  Just pretty? I thought my eyes were smoldering. And the things I have to say about your butt wouldn’t just cross the line, they’d obliterate it. So my hands are tied here. Have a good weekend, Campbell…

  I grab a notepad and recompose our two separate threads of conversation. I stick his notes to the sheet of paper and write the answers I gave below. Once I’m finished, I re-read the first one.

  Why is your hair pink at the tips?

  Because pink is fun.

  My idea of fun and yours are pretty different.

  What’s your idea of fun? Do you need a special waiver to elaborate? Have a nice weekend, Mercer.

  And then the second.

  This is a special waiver; you can comment on my leggings.

  Thought I had to lure you out with a direct question, but I see that’s no longer necessary. Thank you for the special waiver allowing me to comment on your legwear. I wanted to say that while your butt looked truly spectacular in those leggings, it didn’t need any extra support. PS. I still want to know why pink. PPS. Are we still being friendly?

  Keep up, Mercer, you already have the answer. And that’s all you had to say about my leggings? Yes! Still being friendly. Friends can compliment each other’s appearances. Like you can say I have a nice butt, and I can say you have pretty eyes without crossing a line.

  Just pretty? I thought my eyes were smoldering. And the things I have to say about your butt wouldn’t just cross the line, they’d obliterate it. So my hands are tied here. Have a good weekend, Campbell…

  Yeah, I’m afraid that line is already wobbling dangerously. Good thing next week I’ll be mostly gone to a conference in Rome. I leave on Wednesday, 1 November, so I’ll be at the office only Monday and Tuesday, which is great as I won’t miss Halloween. We don’t have an official company party, but 31 October is still a fun day at work. Everyone dresses up and, at the end, we vote on the best costume. The winner earns bragging rights for the entire year, a ring of power replica that gets the champion a boon from each of us, and an ugly-ass trophy with the words “Top Nerd” etched on the base that they get to display at their workstation until the next vote.

  Last year, I earned second place dressed up like a ghostbuster. This year, I’m planning for something slightly more feminine. I was thinking of going as Rey from Star Wars.

  I wonder what Thomas will dress up as.

  16

  THOMAS

  Friday evening I’m alone at home. Alone if you don’t consider the droid currently exploring the depths of my apartment—as if something significant might’ve changed from last weekend—and softly beeping in the background.

  Tonight, I didn’t even try to go out with my usual crowd of friends. I’m just not in the right head space. What would’ve been the point? Go to bars I’ve already been to a million times? See the same faces I see every time? Talk about the same inconsequential stuff? Being hit on by women who don’t have eyes of the clearest amber brown, a tumble of dark locks that end in pink tips, and a brain so amazingly sharp no one can keep up?

  Been there, done that. I’m over it.

  As I sit on the couch in front of the dark TV screen, I flip Reese’s last note through my fingers over and over again. I stare at the barely legible words crafted in the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. Cursive letters curl in on themselves in jagged, too-compressed lines that are barely interpretable—both literally and figuratively. She’s told me not to flirt and then she’s giving me waivers to do it?

  What’s your idea of fun? Do you need a special waiver to elaborate? Have a nice weekend, Mercer.

  How do I reply? Waiver or not, I can’t give her any of the answers I’m itching to pen. I compose a million opening lines in my head and scratch each one as potentially inappropriate, crass, or downright obscene.

  When I can’t bear it any longer, I stand up, wish K-2P a good night, and go to my bedroom. I stick the note on the door of my closet together with the others, so they’re the first thing I see in the morning when I get dressed. No matter the demanding challenges of upping my robotics savviness, going to work has never felt less of a chore.

  It’s the weekends that suck.

  Once in bed, I take forever to get to sleep, and even when I do, it’s a disturbed rest. So much so that I sleepwalk through all of Saturday. Partly because I’m tired, and partly because I don’t know what to do with myself.

  When Sunday morning comes, I’m even grateful for having to go to my parents’ for brunch. At least I’ll kill a couple of hours there.

  But when I arrive at my parents’ penthouse, I’m utterly flabbergasted when I find Gabriel already there, holding Blake’s hand as they sit on the couch. The couch that is usually reserved for me.

  This is unprecedented. My brother has never, ever brought a woman to a family event. And I can count the ones he introduced to my parents on the fingers of one hand. But Blake is different, she has been from the start.

  “Thomas.” Mom stands up to greet me with a crushing hug, then she pulls back, studying my face. “How’s the new job? Is the new position stressing you out?”

  I flash her a smile. “To the contrary, I feel revitalized.”

  “Happy to hear, son.” My dad stands, too, and pats me on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Are you finding the R&D department stimulating?”

  Gabriel coughs from the couch, getting up and pulling Blake along. “Bet he’s plenty stimulated.”

  He’s giving me shit about admitting I like the department head, so I discreetly flip him behind my father’s back. In response, he scratches his eyebrow with his middle finger. Blake smiles while simultaneously rolling her eyes.

  “It’s challenging but rewarding,” I tell my dad.

  I’m not proud that my enthusiasm for the new job is not strictly professionally driven, but I couldn’t have found a better incentive than wanting to impress Reese to up my game. Not that my average mind could ever make an impression on her. But I sure want to show her I care about her work, that she won’t have to regret Emmet Proctor retiring, and that I can be a great CEO as well.

  Mom steers us toward the dining room, and we sit at our usual positions except this time, Blake and Gabriel share the long side of the table opposite mine.

  Dad brings around a bottle of champagne and uncorks it with a loud pop. The cork flies to the chandelier, making the crystals tingle before landing in a corner while Dad pours the bubbly liquid into high-stemmed glasses and passes them around.

  Blake tries to refuse hers. “I shouldn’t drink; I have a ballet class to teach in a few hours.”

  “Just a sip,” my mom encourages, and Blake reluctantly accepts the glass.

  “A toast,” Dad says once everyone has a glass, raising his. “Blake, welcome to the family. We thought we’d never see this one settled down and we couldn’t be more honored to have you here with us today.”

  Blake blushes, and Gabriel gives her hand a reassuring squeeze above the table.

  “To Blake,” my mom chimes in. “May you have a long and happy relationship with our son.”

  “To Blake,” I echo, lifting my glass. “May you survive being saddled with the family grump.” I tilt my flute toward Gabriel.

  Everyone laughs, while my brother, true to his reputation, scowls.

  We all take a sip of champagne, but I notice how Blake discreetly spits hers right back into her glass. I raise my eyebrows and look up at my brother. He’s watching me watching her, and his eyes simmer with a silent threat—don’t you dare say a word. My jaw slacks open.

  Blake is pregnant?

  And then, just because I’m an ass, I decide to rock my brother’s boat a little.

  I wait for our maid to serve the salads and for everyone to have gotten a few forkfuls down before I say, “Blake, welcome to the family again. Do you plan on having a big one?”

  “A big what?” she asks, an innocent little lamb taking the bait.

  “A big family,” I say, smirking. “Gabriel has always wanted many kids.”

  “Is it true, Gabriel?” My mom frowns. “Why is this the first I hear of this, sweetheart?”

  Gabriel’s nostrils flare. “Because he’s just being a smartass.”

  In the meantime, Blake has lost the ability to speak and her cheeks match the shade of the tomatoes in our salad. I wink at her and go back to eating the food on my plate.

  But now that I’ve poked the bear, Gabriel won’t just let me sit quietly and enjoy my lunch.

  “So, Thomas,” Gabriel says, all fake politeness. “What’s the best part of the new position? Met anyone interesting?”

  “I was pleasantly surprised; R&D is totally not what I knocked it up to be.”

  “Why? Has robotics seduced you?”

  “It sure is a field gravid with opportunities.”

  At this point, Blake grabs her glass of water and downs it in a few long gulps.

  “What about your co-workers?” Gabriel goes for the throat. “Anyone in particular you fraternized with?”

  Dad frowns. “Boys, what’s going on?”

  With matching innocent grins, we turn toward our dad, saying in unison, “Nothing, Dad.”

  He rolls his eyes, while my mom reaches over the table to squeeze Blake’s hand. “At least now I’m not alone in having to deal with their shenanigans.”

  Blake chuckles in response. “I don’t know how you managed with these two when they were little terrors.”

  My mom winks. “We have an air horn for emergencies.”

  The entire table laughs, and after that, the meal proceeds with no further covert taunting between me and my brother.

  Gabriel, Blake, and I leave the house together and pause to say goodbye on the curb.

  I drag them a safe distance from the doorman, who’s a notorious gossip, and say, “Guess congratulations are in order?”

  Blake flushes. “You can’t tell anyone. We literally found out only yesterday. Before we tell people, we want to make sure everything is okay because a lot of pregnancies⁠—”

  “Relax,” I interrupt the nervous rant. “Your secret is safe with me.” I pull her into a hug and pat her shoulders in mock pity. “But I’m sorry you’re going to be stuck with the family grump for all of eternity and a minion replica, too.”

  Blake’s smile is radiant as she pulls back. “Oh, I can live with that.”

  I squeeze my brother’s shoulder next. “Congratulations, old man.”

  He gives me a nod and a somewhat appreciative grunt in reply.

  “How’s it going with your super smart lady?” Blake asks next.

  I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. “She’s started responding to my notes.”

  “You finally discussed them?”

  Hands shoved in my pockets, I roll on the balls of my feet. “No, she’s sending secret notes in response, but we never acknowledge them other than in writing.”

  “Oh, that’s so romantic. Is she flirty in the responses?”

  I keep smiling like an idiot. “Yeah, definitely.”

  Blake smiles, then scowls. “But you’re keeping your messages strictly friendly, right? Remember, she has to make the first move.”

  I think of the million inappropriate responses I want to give to Reese’s last message and sigh. “Yeah, I’m keeping it friendly. Totally PG-13.” Then with a wink, I add, “Except for when she gives me waivers.”