Once I reach my floor, I storm through the lab without talking to anyone and shut myself inside my office.

  I sit at my desk, staring at the black screen of my computer, still nibbling at my poor fingers until a knock distracts me.

  “Yeah?” I call out.

  Maria pokes her head in. “Hey, boss, just checking how the meeting with the almighty went?”

  “Terrible,” I say.

  “Oh.” She shuffles in followed by K-2P. “What happened?”

  “We’re being invaded!”

  Maria rounds my desk and sits next to my turned-off computer. “Barbarians? Oh, no, wait. Vikings?”

  “Worse,” I say. “Suits!”

  “No!”

  “Yep.”

  “How? Why? Who?”

  “I’ll have to make an announcement later anyway, but the gist of it is that Emmet Proctor is retiring at the end of next year and our president thinks his son would make a qualified replacement.”

  “Wait, doesn’t Thomas Mercer work in HR?”

  “Communications, I think.”

  “What else is on his CV? Major in college?”

  With a shudder, I say, “I suspect business.”

  An equally appalled shiver runs down Maria’s spine. “Pull up his resume on the company directory.”

  I turn on my computer and navigate the company’s organizational chart until I locate his name under Head of Communications. I click on it.

  A picture of Thomas Mercer pops up on my screen, and I find myself staring into the hazel-green eyes of an annoyingly handsome man with light-brown hair pulled back in an expensive haircut and a jawline so sharp it should be patented as replacement tooling for our lathes.

  His qualifications read: Thomas Mercer, Bachelor’s in Business Administration, MBA.

  His work accomplishments are summarized in two single lines. Deputy group spokesperson and then straight to Head of Corporate Communications.

  That’s all he’s done in the past seven years.

  “Are you serious?” Maria gapes at the screen. “This will be our new boss?”

  She must be as horrified as I am.

  “It appears so.”

  Maria chews on her lower lip. “Well, I wouldn’t mind working under him for a late-night session.”

  “Maria!” Apparently, her mind was on a totally different page than mine.

  “What?”

  “You can’t say stuff like that about the new boss—or any of our co-workers, for that matter.”

  “Why not? I mean, look at him, he’s almost too handsome,” Maria muses. “You don’t think he’s hot?”

  I press my lips into a thin line. “I care more about how unqualified for the job he is.”

  “No, you’re right, he probably has a small pecker to compensate for the chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and that cute little dimple in his right cheek.”

  “Ma-ri-a! We won’t discuss the new boss’s alleged small willy.”

  “Yeah, forget about it, Mercer Junior is probably not worth it,” Maria continues unperturbed. “Even if he had a normal-sized penis, he’s too good-looking to be any good in bed. The handsome ones never put enough effort into it.”

  That’s when K-2P gives his two cents. “The chances of the new boss having a micropenis are very slim. The condition affects only 0.6 per cent of the male population worldwide. In the United States, only approximately 1.5 in 10,000 infants are born with micropenises.”

  Maria chuckles. “You think the new boss is well endowed, K-2P?”

  “Up to 90 per cent of male penises are within an inch of the average size. While only 1 per cent of men have a larger penis between seven⁠—”

  “All right, that’s it.” I interrupt K-2P before he can deliver even more disturbing statistics. “Out! Both of you.”

  I shove Maria off my desk and herd her and K-2P out of the office.

  Alone once again, I close Thomas Mercer’s skimpy resume and pull up the remote diagnostic protocol for cyber-physical systems I was working on last Friday before the email of doom landed in my inbox.

  I open the log file where I left off and start reading through my notes from the weekend, which I spent mostly working. I popped into the lab on both Saturday and Sunday, so I don’t see why K-2P should act so offended. Maybe he knows I re-watched The Force Awakens trilogy without him.

  Soon, I get lost in the improving of the feedback loop, losing sense of time and forgetting all about the hazel-eyed, dimpled, presumably brainless calamity that’s about to rain down on me.

  Three hours later, I’m so engrossed in my work, that I don’t notice when the lab door opens.

  “Hey, Reese.”

  I jump, startled by my colleague’s voice. “Garrett, what’s up?”

  “Sorry for bothering you.” The process technology team leader steps into my office, scratching the back of his head. “Everyone is heading out for lunch, and I was wondering if you wanted to join us.” He blushes tomato red.

  Garrett seems always over-nervous around me. Like now. Besides his flushed cheeks, his hands are trembling as he brushes a strand of hair away from his face. And all just for a simple invite to lunch?

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Where are we going?”

  “TGIF.”

  On a Monday. Isn’t it ironic?

  I stand up and immediately get reminded how moving comfortably and wearing a suit are mutually exclusive. “Let me change into human clothes and I’ll catch up with you at the restaurant.”

  “I can wait for you if you want.”

  “No need,” I say.

  “All right, see you there, then.”

  As he exits, K-2P rolls in. “That guy has a major crush on you,” the droid announces.

  “Shhh. At least close the door before you start gossiping.”

  K-2P fumbles with the handle, his flat fingers gaining a clumsy hold, and shuts the door.

  “Just because he asked me to lunch and was a little flustered around me, it doesn’t mean he likes me.”

  “Please. I bet the only reason he hasn’t asked you out is that he’s your direct report.”

  I join K-2P by the door and pull the blinds down. “Just because my ex dumped me the moment I got promoted to a better job than his, it doesn’t mean all men aren’t supportive of their partners’ careers.”

  “I was talking more about the anti-fraternization company policy, forbidding romantic relationships between executives and their subordinates.”

  “Oh, that.” I nod, glad the policy exists. Garrett might be an excellent engineer, but he’s always given me the creeps. “But I’m not sure he’s into me; he’s weird around everyone.”

  “But he’s only obsessed with you.”

  “How’d you reach that conclusion?”

  Condescending beep. “I’m your droid and he tried to alter my speech drive to only say positive things about him.”

  I gasp. “He. Did. Not.”

  “Did too.” K-2P swirls indignantly, his previous grudge toward me forgotten now that he has found a new enemy. “Here’s a list of the catchphrases I had to self-scrub from my system: Garrett is a good listener, Garrett is a great problem solver, Garrett is the most reliable and hard-working person I know.”

  Laughter bubbles out of me. “You seriously had catchphrases about Garrett stored in your memory?”

  “My operating system was violated and you laugh about it!”

  “Violated? Now you’re being dramatic, as always.”

  “I’d like to see how you’d feel if someone tried to force-imprint the following phrases in your brain: Garrett is an outstanding leader who inspires his team; Garrett is incredibly smart and has a great sense of humor.”

  “Okay, I get it. Please stop.”

  “No, I have several more to recite. Garrett is always on top of things, Garrett is reliable, Garrett is an inspiration, Garrett has a magnetic personality…”

  Since K-2P doesn’t seem intent on quitting his disclosing of all of Garrett’s unique traits, I put in my earbuds and blast R.E.M. at top volume before I have to listen to a single other of Garrett’s alleged admirable qualities. Swaying in time to the notes of “Losing My Religion,” I begin unbuttoning my pants getting into the groove and shaking off the morning’s worries.

  5

  THOMAS

  The retirement ceremony for Mercer Industries’ longest-standing worker starts at 10 a.m., but my schedule kicks off at eight as I have to do a tour of the factory—the production floor in particular, shake hands, compliment the workers, and chat up the middle managers.

  Despite hating early mornings, today I made an effort to have time to talk to everyone. These people work for us, are loyal and dedicated, and we’d be nothing without them. The least I can do is show up early and make sure everyone I interact with has my undivided attention and feels properly cherished.

  Tour over, the official tribute starts.

  While someone else makes the introductory addresses, I check my speech one last time, adjust my tie, and wait for my turn. When it comes, I fold the written speech back into my suit’s pocket and stand on the dais. I deliver my piece, awarding the retiring worker with a watch and a plaque for his distinguished service. Then I shake his hand for the cameras, pose for pictures with the staff, and go back to my seat to listen to the closing remarks.

  A few good words from the CEO of our automotive division himself, followed by a round of enthusiastic clapping from the audience, and the event is over.

  On a normal day, I’d linger behind and share a few more words with the workers in an informal setting. But today, the applause still hasn’t died down and I’m already halfway out of the door, heading back to my office.

  Is this what my routine will become with the new job? Rushing from one commitment to the next? Not a fan, not going to lie.

  Thanks to bad traffic, it’s already lunchtime by the time I arrive at Mercer Industries’ New Jersey headquarters, where the admin offices and R&D facilities of the robotics division are located. I could go grab a quick bite before I check out my new tutor, but I decide to see if the head of R&D is still in her office. Maybe I could invite her to lunch. Break the ice before we start working together by getting to know each other in a less formal setting.

  I ask the receptionist in the lobby where Dr. Campbell’s office is, and the unfortunate answer is: in the basement, within the robotic labs. Guess another perk of my new position will be being stashed away in a dingy, subterranean dungeon with no actual sunlight while surrounded by brainy nerds who will probably look down their bespectacled noses on a business major like myself.

  I picture my light-filled corner office on the thirty-fourth floor and have to suppress a groan.

  Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot.

  Before I head down to the torture chamb— err R&D department, I check with the security guard on the ground floor to see whether Dr. Campbell has already left for her lunch break or not.

  The guard consults the log and confirms that she’s still in the building.

  All right, on to the dungeons then.

  The robotics lab is a vast underground facility that gets just a teensy bit of natural light from awning windows lining the top portion of the walls along the entire perimeter.

  Given the hour, the lab is empty. No one is manning the various desks, or tinkering with the miscellaneous electronic parts scattered over the workstations, or toiling with the actual robots of different shapes and sizes scattered all over.

  Most of the space is divided into a handful of smaller stations, each equipped with state-of-the-art computer systems and innovative machinery. Whereas a massive robotic arm dominates the center of the room. Its practical application, I couldn’t fathom.

  Lining the walls are back-to-back racks of shelves laden with tools, manuals, and different mechanical and electrical components.

  The only boxed-in office with a door is at the back of the room. As I meander through the various workstations, the Mercer Robotics screensaver—the company logo rotating on itself—greets me from all the darkened computer screens.

  I reach the office door but can’t see inside since all the blinds are pulled down. But the plaque next to the door reads “Dr. Reese Campbell”. I’m in the right place.

  I knock.

  “Come in,” a weird, almost metallic voice replies from inside.

  With my hand on the handle, I hesitate, checking the laminate glass walls and wondering if glass can distort a woman’s voice like a stormtrooper helmet would.

  I shrug and open the door.

  My eyes widen in shock at the sight on the other side.

  A woman is shaking her—pant-less—booty to an unheard tune. She has her arms swaying up in the air, causing her black blazer to raise to her waist and leaving me an unobstructed view of her pastel blue cotton panties and firm buttocks.

  I stare hypnotized as she slowly undoes the tight chignon at the base of her neck and liberates a cascade of brown locks with neon-pink tips.

  I don’t know what tune she’s dancing to in her head, but I’m imagining something out of the Fifty Shades of Grey soundtrack.

  For a moment I’m too shocked to talk or move. When I get my bearings again, I mumble a hurried, “Sorry.” And I’m about to retreat and leave the lady some privacy when someone speaks to my right.

  “She can’t hear you.”

  Not someone. Something. A forty-five-inch-tall droid, who wouldn’t look half-bad in a Star Wars movie, rolls toward me on his wheeled feet.

  “She always listens to music too loud,” the droid elaborates.

  “Are office stripteases another habit?”

  “No, but she’s taken up Zumba lately and it must’ve gone to her head.”

  The dance the woman is engaged in doesn’t look like any Zumba class I’ve ever seen.

  My gaze flicks back to the dancing queen just as she turns and, hands grabbing either side of her white shirt, she parts the fabric in a wild jerk, flashing me a pale blue bra to match the panties, and a toned stomach.

  Then, just as quickly, she screams, pulling the lapels of her black blazer together and crossing her legs, trying to cover as much of herself as she can. With her other hand, she removes her earbuds and shouts, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you knock before coming in?”

  “I wanted to invite you to lunch, and I did knock; you told me to come in.”

  “I. Did. Not,” she responds, outraged.

  “I invited him in,” the droid clarifies.

  We both stare at him for a second before the woman shouts again, “Well, get out now! Out!”

  Technically, I’ve never even come in, I’m still standing on the threshold, but I refrain from being fastidious. I raise my hands, take one step back, and close the door behind me. Then I go and sit on the workstation nearest her office, and, crossing my arms over my chest, I wait.

  6

  REESE

  Still in shock, I drag my hands through my hair. Then turn my rage on the only other being in the room.

  “Why would you tell him to come in?”

  K-2P swivels. “It’s the polite thing to do when someone knocks on a door.”

  “No, it’s not. Especially not if I’m getting undressed and am not wearing any frigging pants. Oh, gosh.”

  I rub my forehead.

  Thomas Mercer has seen my butt. I flashed him my boobs. Oh, gosh, oh, goodness gracious, I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. He’s my new boss, and he’s seen me half-naked.

  I glare at K-2P. “How long had he been standing there before I turned?”

  K-2P, who’s programmed to log and measure all changes to his surrounding environment, gives me a punctual answer. “Ninety-three point two seconds.”

  I sag back against the desk, gripping the edge until my knuckles turn white.

  “You’ll have to come out eventually,” a deep voice calls from outside.

  Oh, good grief, he’s still out there.

  “In a minute,” I shout back.

  “Take your time.”

  His voice sounds like warm massage oil being poured over cool skin and then spread with big, rough, calloused hands. And the body that accompanies the voice is no joke either. In person, Thomas Mercer is even more impressive than in his picture, which didn’t convey how tall he is.

  I hate tall men. How they tower over me and the way they stare down their noses at me.

  And his face? I scoff. If someone asked me this morning, I would’ve told them Thomas Mercer is a very photogenic man. If they asked me now, I’d say that profile picture looks like a crappy sketch made by a three-year-old compared to the real thing.

  The big boss’s son is the breathing, walking, talking personification of a GQ magazine cover.

  Brainless, I add. Most probably an unintelligent, arrogant, spoiled, self-centered, vain, cocky moron. Let’s concentrate on that.

  “Ughhhh,” I groan, and grab my sweatpants, hopping on one foot to shuffle my right leg into them. Keeping my back to the door, I remove my blazer and button-down shirt and pull on the plain white T-shirt and the white unicorn hoodie I’d prepared on my desk. Next, I pull my hair up in a messy bun.

  Even when I’m fully decent again, I don’t go outside. I remain entrenched in my office, hoping that if I stay locked in here long enough Thomas Mercer will just go away.

  And why is he still hanging around, anyway? Does he plan on humiliating me some more?

  “Maybe you should go ahead to lunch and we should meet afterward,” I call to the man still outside my office.

  In response, there’s a pause. And then, “Nah, I’ll wait. You need help with a zipper or something?”

  That does it for me. I’m angry now. In two quick strides, I cross the office and fling the door open.

  Thomas Mercer is waiting for me on the other side, casually draped on a desk, with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

  His stupid, perfect hair is gorgeously tousled, almost as if, while he was waiting, he’s been raking his fingers through it.

  I stop dead in my tracks while his hazel-green eyes lock on me, forcing me to notice the speckles of gold in his irises. Thomas tilts his head and flashes me a dimpled smile, causing my breath to hitch in my throat.