One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(16)

“I know why,” Luca mutters. “I’ve seen that black dress.”

I blink. “What?”

“Never mind.” He clears his throat. “Just let me know how it goes.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

He clicks off, leaving me listening to dead air.

I hate when he does that.

Ten minutes later I’m out of the dark subway tunnels, squinting as afternoon sunshine glares off the towering glass skyscrapers of the Financial District. This part of the city feels foreign to me — too new, too tall, to modern for Boston, a place steeped more strongly in history than the tea we once dumped into our harbors to piss off the British. These towers all look the same, totally devoid of charm and character. I head for the one with the WestTech logo on the side and step through the glass rotating doors, keeping my head held high and my strides confident.

The first rule of blending in anywhere: act like you belong and people will assume you do.

Luca’s been saying it since we were kids. Fake it till you make it, babe.

The lobby is jammed with people returning from their lunch breaks, just as I’d hoped. Amid the chaos, I note the entire space is decked out in holiday decorations, complete with a fifteen foot Fraser fir and massive ornaments suspended from the ceiling, like model airplanes at a museum.

It takes effort not to physically recoil at the show of Christmas cheer.

In ten days, it’ll be December 26th and all these painful reminders of the things you’ve lost will be packed back in their boxes for a whole year and shoved away in attics and basements, out of sight.

Ten days. 240 hours. 14,400 minutes.

You can make it, Zoe. You always make it.

I fall into step with a group of women on their way back from lunch. The uncomfortable heels I bought at PayLess for fifteen bucks on my way here are giving me blisters, but I don’t pay them any attention. I trail behind the chatting women, trying to look like I’m part of their posse, and remind myself not to tug on the lapels of my navy blazer or white skirt.

Fidgeting is a dead giveaway.

I’m past the security desk and in line for the elevators before anyone has time to give me a second glance. When the doors open, I slip inside and stare down at my phone so no one has the urge to make small talk with me. The words are a blur on the screen — I can’t focus on anything except the knowledge that in another twenty-seven — ding! Make that twenty-six — floors, I’ll be face to face with a man I’ve been fantasizing about since last night.

The crowd thins as we slowly ascend, stopping to unload passengers every few floors. My pulse starts to skyrocket the higher we climb, as though my blood pressure is somehow linked to altitude.

Or proximity to Parker.

I swallow hard and tighten my grip the phone, trying to remind myself this is about business, nothing more. Plus, I’m not just going to walk into his office, wag a disapproving finger in his face, and say, “Return my flash drive, or else!”

Give me a little credit. I have a plan.

I get off on the twelfth floor, which — according to a quick internet search — houses the Tech Support Department, and push the chunky, cat-eye glasses further up the bridge of my nose as I make my way down the hall. The lenses are clear glass — just a prop — but they’ll help me get the leverage I need.

Techie boys can’t resist the allure of cute nerd girls. It’s a scientific fact.

I follow a short hallway until I find their office and step through the doorway. A trio of IT guys sit amidst a bank of computers. Satisfaction thrums though my veins when all three men look up and take notice, going still at their desks as their eyes sweep me from head to toe.

What did I tell you — cat-eye glasses and knee socks?

Nerd-boy kryptonite.

They’re all in their mid to late twenties, pale from too much time in front of a computer screen and in serious need of some wardrobe advisement judging by their crumb-covered khakis and lopsided ties. I fight the urge to sigh. This is exactly why computer geeks never get the girl.

(At least, not until they make their first million.)

I linger in the doorway and watch as the three of them slide off their noise-cancelling headphones and pivot in their squeaky computer chairs to get a better look at me. The sound of fingers clacking against keys fades into silence and the air fills with hushed excitement. I can almost see the red alert messages flashing inside their brains.

GIRL. IN. OFFICE.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

“Can we help you?” the bespectacled man closest to me asks. The other two are leaning forward in their seats, looks of anticipation on their faces.

The Three Freaking Stooges, in the flesh. This is going to be almost too easy.

“I seriously hope so.” I jut out a hip as I pull a laptop from my bag. “I’m Sandra — I work up in accounting. I spilled something on my keyboard this morning and I will be, like, eternally grateful if one of you can salvage it.” I pause for effect. “The girls upstairs were like, ‘Oh, you should take it to the geniuses at the Apple Store’ but I was like ‘Um, don’t you know we have a whole department of geniuses right downstairs?’” I grin when I see Larry, Moe, and Curly are hanging on my every word.

“So…” I swivel my gaze around the office. “You think you guys could help me? If you’re too busy… I guess I can go to the Apple store…”