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I shrug and head out of the room in search of java. The little coffee bar built into the side of the hallway is a welcome sight, equipped with sugar, sweeteners, flavorings, along with both powder and liquid creamers. This should make most java drinkers happy. Maybe Sloan is picky.
Since I drink my brew black, I simply pour some into an eco-friendly coffee cup and slide the cardboard sleeve up from the bottom, then head back to the suite. When I return, Sloan has me set on “ignore.” While I stepped out, she opened the email program on my temporary computer, and her message with its zipped attachment has already been delivered. The address she created for me is one with a Reservoir domain name, which is predictable. But the user name she assigned me?
“Satan’s asshole?” I glare her way. “Really?”
“If the sphincter fits…”
“Aren’t you clever?”
She doesn’t reply, and that’s fine. She’s trying to needle me. She’s still pissed off; I get it. But that means she cares.
Nothing else matters to me.
I get down to brass tacks, opening the files and scanning their multiple parts. As I decide where to begin, I reach for my still-steaming java and take an absent sip.
I almost spew the sludge all over my new computer screen. “What the hell is that?”
Sloan not only smiles, she laughs. “Like I said, tar and battery acid.”
“That’s a compliment,” I choke out. “This stuff…”
It’s truly the worst crap I’ve ever tasted.
She rises and crosses the room to a little refrigerator humming under a counter along the back wall, then pulls out a bottle of water and sets it on the table beside me. “Don’t say I’m not nice.”
Gratefully, I twist the cap off and gulp down half the cold liquid. “I would never say that. I think you’re amazing. And this is way better. Thanks.”
“Buttering me up won’t work.”
“I’m simply being honest.”
She levels me with a chiding glare, pointing at the computer. “Get to analyzing. And I don’t need you to tell me it’s a cluster because I already know. I need you to tell me if there’s a way out of this mess and what I need to do to salvage our bottom line.”
“All right. But you understand I’ll work more slowly when I’m not properly caffeinated, especially since my body thinks it’s just after three a.m.”
With a long-suffering sigh, she focuses on her phone, scrolling and tapping. Two minutes later, she sets it aside. “You’re welcome.”
I have no idea what she thinks I should be thanking her for until a crunchy granola dude with a beard and a man bun struts into the room ten minutes later, carrying a cardboard case and a bored expression he turns on Sloan. “Order for Princess?”
“That’s him.” She points my way.
“Cool, dude. Whatever.” He sets the box on the table beside me, along with a handful of cups and a bag of creamers and sugar. “Thanks for using Coffee and Company.”
The minute the door closes behind him, I turn to her. “Princess? Really?”
She grins. “I was convinced you were big and bad enough to be Satan’s asshole…until you whined about having no coffee. So I had to downgrade you.”
She’s not just yanking my chain. She’s tugging and pulling, digging in her heels and wrenching until I want to gnash my teeth. But it all means she still cares. “Fine. Keep coming at me. But eventually, I’ll come back at you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a fact.”
Sloan doesn’t answer, merely focuses again on her work, so I do the same.
Hours pass by while I study spreadsheets that seem like something more suited to a high-fantasy novel than a financial report. Technically, the formulas all work and the numbers add up…but none of it makes sense.
“Who prepared this shit?” I ask, certain there are permanent troughs in my hair from plowing my fingers through it.
