him with alacrity no book or challenge or mystery had yet managed.
He felt those burnished eyes on him long after he’d left the darkness of the station and headed into the grey light of the chilly Melbourne winter’s day.
EVIE GOT LOST—twice—while trying to find the front door to the Game Plan offices.
For starters, she’d stayed on the train till the next station. No way was she about to follow Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit. If he’d seen her and was smart—and he certainly appeared to be—he’d have called the police. For oh, how she’d bungled that conversation royally.
Once she’d found the funky, arty little alleyway listed on the Game Plan website, she walked to the end and back without finding the door.
Not her fault. She blamed those stormy blue eyes. That accent. The scent—mysterious, masculine, drinkable. The serious don’t-poke-the-bear vibes rippling off the man like a mirage. Wondered if the ten-day stubble sweeping over his hard jaw was rough or soft. How could she make thoughts when he’d held her by the elbow and her nerves had been replaced by fireworks?
Every second of the encounter had been cringeworthy and it had all been for naught.
Born with a talent for seeing patterns in numbers, in lines of text, in architecture and nature, Evie did not have the same gift for reading people—a theory backed up by her choice of boyfriends in the past. But she had no doubt Hot Stuff believed her a chip short of a motherboard.
As to whether—or not—he’d written the poem... Who knew?
Stupid fortune cookie. Whether its powers were mystical or merely persuasive, she hadn’t been the same since she’d set eyes on it. The sooner she put the whole thing behind her and got on with her life the better.
She stopped in the middle of the alley, looked up into the overcast sky and breathed. “Get it together, kid. And fast.”
When she looked back down she found herself in front of a white door tucked into the white brick wall. It had to be the place.
“Okay. You can do this. You want this. You need this.”
She’d only just started making a name for herself, working on government contracts, really intricate work. She was most proud of finding and fixing a fissure in the Federal Reserve’s security system. One they hadn’t even known was there.
But after the way things went downhill in her last job she was tainted by association. Most of her contacts wouldn’t take her calls. Those who did wished her luck and got off the phone. Fast.
She had to convince Game Plan to give her a chance by sheer force of personality alone.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted a finger to press the buzzer when the door opened. Of course, they had video surveillance. This was Game Plan. Meaning somewhere some security dude had seen her talking to herself.
Super.
Her heart played a staccato against her ribs as she stepped into a waiting area with white walls, bright fluorescent lighting, potted plants. Needless to say, her jaw dropped an inch when instead of an HR clone an invisible door finally opened to reveal Jonathon Montrose, Mr Game Plan himself.
He looked exactly like he did on the jacket of his autobiography. Rugged. Imposing. Tall. Not as tall as Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit, mind you.
Really? You want to go there now?
No, I don’t!
Then focus.
Evie whipped her beanie off her head, and once more felt the static turn her into a human generator. Madly patting her hair back down, she walked to the man and held out a hand.
“Mr Montrose, I’m Evie Croft. It’s an honour. Your Code of Ethics textbook is my bible.” Evie imagined Zoe holding out both hands, urging her to pace herself.
“From what I hear you can also tear apart code like a demon.”
Evie’s heart whumped, wondering who he’d heard it from. Her ex-boss? Her ex? The federal police? No way was she getting the job. Nevertheless, she said, “You hear right.”
“Shall we?” Montrose held out a hand, ushering her through another door. “Welcome to the Bullpen.”
And, while she would have liked to appear even slightly cool, her feet ground to a halt a metre inside the room and she gawped at the sight before her.
Despite the modest entry, the place was gargantuan. Two storeys of glass-walled offices circled the outer rim of the floors above, while the ground floor looked as if it had been hit with a paintball explosion. White walls and floors were splattered with brightly coloured beanbags, cubicles, desks, couches, exercise balls, computers, TVs and in between slouched dozens of guys in jeans, T-shirts and baseball caps, laughing, arguing, creating.
When she found her feet again, Evie followed Montrose along a wall of nooks filled with gaming rooms, VR rigs, darts, pinball machines. One room had rows of bunk beds like a camp dorm.
“When can I move in?”
Montrose laughed. While Evie took it all in—every rivet, every light fitting, every gumball machine, in case she never saw its like again.
Right when Evie felt as if she’d hit sensory overload, Montrose led her up a set of stairs to a huge but relatively subdued office on the second floor, tinted windows looking over the Bullpen below. When he shut the door, everything went quiet.
Evie breathed out in relief when the first woman she’d seen in the place popped her head into Montrose’s office and said, “I’m grabbing a coffee. Can I get you guys anything?”
Evie shook her head, frantically gentling her mind. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“Nothing for me. Thanks, Imogen,” said Montrose, and the woman walked back out the door, leaving them alone.
Montrose motioned to a leather tub chair. Evie slid her backpack to the floor and sat.
Montrose sat on the edge of his desk—very much in the power position—crossed his feet at the ankles and began. “Tell me, Evie, why did you leave your last job?”
Evie opened her mouth to give the sensible answer Zoe had forced her to rehearse. Something along the lines of, After several years of loyal service, I felt I’d achieved all I could and needed a new challenge.
But she’d always been sensible. Taken small, considered steps. Choosing work she could do with her eyes closed, saving her pennies by sleeping on Zoe’s futon. And it had all come crashing down around her ears anyway.
Because luck was out of her hands. Just ask the fortune cookie.
Hang on a second. If losing her last job ticked off the career part of her fortune’s portent of “bad luck”, this opportunity was uncontaminated. Clean. A fresh start.
And
