Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(12)

Eric gives a snort. “Please tell me that’s not a real assistant who calls you that.”

Bingley answers for himself. “I am very real, sir. I am not, however, human.”

“Well, that clears that up.” He quirks an eyebrow at me over the cover of his Sports Illustrated.

“Bingley is an AI version of a virtual assistant. Nate Kattenberger developed him.”

“Cool.” Eric shrugs.

“I need you to greet him, though. He’s part of my security detail, so he needs to recognize your voice. Bingley, please meet Mr. Eric Bayer.”

Eric scowls. “Hello, computer. ‘Sup?”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance!” Bingley replies in his crisp British accent. “Should you need my assistance, feel free to call me by name. If your request does not conflict with my queen’s best interests, I shall endeavor to obey!”

“I’m flattered,” Eric grunts.

“Thank you, Eric,” I say. “Bingley, fill me in on the evening’s itinerary.”

“Certainly, my liege! When we reach a cruising altitude of thirty-thousand feet, Manny will serve you a sesame chicken salad on a bed of noodles, with gelato for dessert. For our guest, we have a choice of steak tips in wine sauce or Lobster mac and cheese.”

God I’m hungry again already. “Please ask Manny to bring out both.”

“Of course, madame. What would Eric like to drink? We have a selection of beer and wine, and several sodas.”

“Sparkling water, please,” my guest says. “Does the robot serve drinks? That would be fun to watch.”

Bingley answers the question himself. “I may have a silver tongue, sire, but no hands. Your meal will be served by a human. This flight will land once at LAX for a quick refueling. Our estimated arrival time in Hawaii is nine-fifty-two p.m. local time. The time difference is six hours.”

“Thank you.”

“You just thanked a computer,” Eric says from inside his magazine.

He’s right. And it is a little weird. But Bingley is a big part of my new product launch, so I’ve been conversing with him as much as I can. Besides, I don’t like Eric’s attitude. “It’s never wrong to be polite,” I point out.

“Uh huh. The big tech companies have already taught us to clutch our phones all day. Now we need to chat them up, too?”

“Yours probably wouldn’t want to talk to you anyway,” I chirp. “Maybe I should find you a surly virtual assistant to match your demeanor. You could ignore each other.”

“Sounds perfect,” he says with a smirk.

That smirk shouldn’t turn me on, should it? I must be hungrier than I thought.

I sit back and wait for dinner. And I don’t steal glances at Eric.

Not many, anyway.





“Alex. Wake up.” A hand pats my upper arm.

Someone is trying to wake me, but I’m not having it. I screw my eyes more tightly closed and press my face into the pillow.

“Alex, we’ve landed. You need to get up.”

“No.” Whatever the man is saying, I really don’t care. My bed is comfortable, and my body knows it’s not time to wake up.

“The car is on the tarmac. And Manny can’t clock out until you’re out of here.”

I’m too tired to care, though. Oh, well.

Somebody grumbles. And then two strong arms lift me right off the bed. There’s cool air where my pillow should be. That’s inconvenient. But then the pillow is replaced by the firm warmth of a man’s chest. I press my cheek against it. He smells like clean shirts and spicy cologne.

“I’m assuming you had shoes on at some point, Engels?” The question rumbles against my face.

Shoes. Man. Rock-solid chest. And nobody calls me Engels, except…

I wake suddenly to find that I’m in Eric Bayer’s arms. And he’s carrying me down the aisle of the jet. And I startle so violently that my head smacks into his unshaven jaw.

“Ow!” he growls.

“Put me down!” I yelp. “What the hell?” I can’t get off the plane like this. CEOs are not carried off jets like children.

Eric sets me on my feet in a hurry. But I’m wobbly from sleep, so I end up grabbing his firm torso with two hands to steady myself. Good lord, the man is like sun-warmed concrete. Hot and unyielding.

He looks down at me, one eyebrow cocked. “You weren’t listening.”

“I couldn’t hear you!” I holler. “I was sleeping! What time is it?”

“Eleven p.m., Hawaii time.”

“Which is…” I do the math. “Four in the morning New York time.” No wonder I’m so out of it. “Sorry, um, about whacking you in the chin. Let’s roll.”

He chuckles, and then rubs his jaw. “Sure, Sleepmonster. Let’s roll.”

“Hey! You’re the Sleepmonster.” That’s what I used to call him that summer on the Vineyard. I always woke up first. Then I’d pace the second-floor hallway, making noise and generally being a pain in the ass until he finally crawled out of bed.

“Not anymore, apparently.” He turns and exits the plane.

I need a minute to step back into my shoes and grab my carryon. I haven’t thought about that summer in a long time. After he finally got up, I used to instruct him on what we were doing that day. It might be horseback riding, or tennis, or collecting shells on the beach. Or playing board games or asking the Magic 8 Ball stupid questions.