It’s just code—lines and lines of the stuff in the typical developer environment. Not my code. Not my problem. But the mess on the screen is all wrong. It’s inefficient and poorly organized.
I nudge her yoga ball abruptly, scooting her out of the way so I can pull the laptop toward me. “This is so wrong. Jesus. Who taught you how to code?”
She sucks in a pissed-off breath, reaching for the laptop. “That’s mine.”
I shoot to my feet, balancing the laptop in one hand, typing like a fiend with the other. Delete. Delete. Delete. I scroll down, check a line, scroll back up. There aren’t even any unit tests—does she really believe testing is optional? Lola yanks furiously on my arm, but not only am I much, much taller than her, I also spent a year commuting between San Francisco and Santa Cruz on the train. I’m a master at typing while the world around me sways, lurches and violates my personal space.
I hit Save at the same moment the laptop flies out of my hand. Lola glares at me from the top of the conference room table she’s climbed so she can repo her hardware. Score one for her. She transfers the glare to her screen and anger morphs into visible outrage. Whatever. I drop back onto my blue ball and smirk up at her.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Love me, hate me, or plan to bury my body in the alley behind Calla—but I’ve just fixed a major showstopper of a bug in her code. She knows it, too.
Hippie Chick chooses this moment to stick her head in the conference room door. “Are you done?”
Not a chance.
But Lola jumps off the table, laptop clutched to her chest. As she lands, her hip not-so-accidentally checks my shoulder hard enough to rock my ball.
“You bet,” she tells Hippie Chick.
“No,” I snap at the same moment.
I’m supposed to discuss the reasons that brought me here. Read her the riot act. Make her life generally unpleasant and ensure that she never, ever touches anything of mine again without permission. Spank her for being a bad girl.
“He’s hired,” Lola announces as she strides out of the room. “He’ll start tomorrow.”
Wait.
What?
Hippie Chick fist pumps. “Welcome aboard, new summer intern.”
Lola
“ASS,” I HISS under my breath. Exaggerated sibilance sounds way less cool than, say, when a wizard is speaking Parseltongue. Yes, I’m a nerd with a Harry Potter fixation (House Ravenclaw, naturally), and yes, some days it sucks being the girl boss. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, though, so I don’t scream the truth to the rafters of Calla’s amazing three-story loft space. If I did, that truth might deafen the departing ass.
My newly hired nemesis, Mr. Devlin King. My intern.
My Friday night crush.
I’d worked my clit feverishly remembering his muscled thighs and stern face. Even though I apologized for crash-landing on him and his magnificent lap (at least I think I did—the details are fuzzy), he’s holding a grudge. He certainly doesn’t seem to have spent his weekend fantasizing about the mystery woman who gave him a free lap dance.
He’s still impossibly gorgeous, though. To preserve what remains of my sanity, I retreat to the kitchen and pretend to deep-dive into my code while what I really do is watch Dev walk away from me for the second time: tall, built and still in possession of the most amazing backside I’ve ever ogled. He totally owns his ridiculously expensive suit. He’s also quite possibly the most brilliant programmer I’ve ever met, having solved in seconds what a team of Calla engineers has been wrestling with for a week. Unfortunately, a continental-sized ego and the suave manners of Attila the Hun accompany his stunning good looks and big brain. Working with him will be impossible, but there’s no viable alternative. The man is a genius and he works for peanuts, almost literally. Naturally, I’ve already forgotten whatever was on his résumé—UC Santa Cruz?—but he’s definitely a college student with a willingness to intern for almost nothing. Given Calla’s financial state, personality is negotiable.
Nellie woofs, poking her square white head out from behind the trash can. Nellie is a scaredy-bear and she hides whenever she spots intruders. She resembles a miniature zeppelin on squat legs. Bringing her to work with me is the perk of being the boss.
I reach down to stroke the soft fur on top of her head. “The coast is clear.”
Like me, Nellie prefers to people in small doses. Another surreptitious peek reveals I’ve been overoptimistic in my estimate of Devlin’s leave-taking. He’s still on the premises, talking up Katie, Calla’s receptionist.
As Nellie eases out to say hello to me, Devlin nods at Katie. Not a smile, nothing pleasant, just a brusque tip of his gorgeous head that makes parts of me long to grab him by that stupid tie and yank his head down to mine. I should look away but I can’t. I blame the way his shoulders stretch his dark suit jacket, framing all those delicious muscles. It’s too bad the man ever has to open his mouth. If he could just work and glower in silence, seen but not heard, he’d be perfect. If he could do that with a Scottish accent and a tartan, I’d come on the spot.
Katie clearly agrees with me about the pretty boy factor. She stares at Devlin King, her mouth working like a fish. I can practically hear the stunned pop, pop, pop from my hiding place as she drinks in our intern’s brand of hotness. His voice rumbles, low, rough, way too sexy. I can’t catch the words, but Katie beams as if he’s actually, finally said something nice. Finally, our sexy troll steps out into the San Francisco sunshine and is gone.
No, thank you. No excitement. Definitely don’t let the door hit your mighty fine ass on the way out.
That man is trouble, and not just because we’re an all-girl team and he’s the lone slice of chocolate cake. Diversity is good. A roomful of people who think the same way does not solve coding problems. But because Calla is on the edge, one nudge in the wrong direction will also send us careening to our doom. After getting turned down by the last venture capital firm I approached for financial backing, we’ve burned through our remaining operating capital and yet electricity and flushing toilets remain nonnegotiable items for my team members. I not only need to launch soon, but I need the launch to be a success. It would be even better if someone left a sack of large-denomination bills on our doorstep. Wishful thinking. I’m a master.
A test version of Calla’s website is up and operational in a sandbox, I remind myself. We’ve just finished integrating our new e-commerce platform. That platform is a thing of beauty, although I’m also secretly grateful I didn’t have to tell anyone how I obtained it. My small budget inspired an equal measure of creativity and embarrassing desperation.
Nellie whines, alerting me to incoming humans. I mentally flush my thoughts of Dev—mooning over my much younger intern is crazy—and find myself face-to-face with Valerie. Valerie is our director of international marketing. At twenty-three, she has a degree from UC Berkeley, pink hair and glossy pink lips that match the hair. She was an “influencer” before we landed her, which means she posted carefully curated content to Instagram and other social media. Her brand, she’d informed me during our
