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If I’d gotten on my original flight, I’d be back in Atlanta on time tonight.
But I won’t be. And I’m as angry with myself as she is with me.
I round a corner and sigh with relief when I spot the pink and orange neon sign. The surrounding gates are packed with weary travelers—looks like AmeriJet is having bigger problems beyond our flight.
As I wait in a lineup that would make an extreme bargain hunter on Black Friday shudder, I catch a glimpse of a vaguely familiar man ahead. Slight build. Blond hair with a touch too much gel. Hawkish eyes giving off a slight predatory vibe. Glued to his cellphone to the point where he’s not even registering the line moving in front of him.
Ah, yes. I saw him at Algorhythm several times this week. It may be Boston’s biggest tech conference with tens of thousands of attendees, but I remember this guy specifically because he was a bit, well…
Slimy.
The type of guy that thrives on surface-level social interactions, shaking so many hands and rubbing so many shoulders that you can imagine they must have grease flowing from them to slip around so seamlessly.
It’s the polar opposite of how I operate, which might be why I picked him out from a mile away. But honestly, I was the wrong person to be at the conference this week anyway. It should’ve been Luke, he’s so much better at this stuff—loud, and cheerful, and great at first impressions.
I’m not good with first, or second, or even third impressions. My sister, Lana Mae, likes to say I’m an acquired taste. Like an anchovy.
I hate anchovies.
But at least, it’s over. I got through it. And I managed to talk at length to the reps from Tim Wiseman’s office. Which is really why I was at Algorhythm in the first place.
Tim is one of the tech industry’s most infamous billionaire playboys, and he’s got a fat (Bitcoin) wallet full of crypto to spend on a good idea. He’s everything you could ever want in an angel investor, and if I have any hope at launching a successful Version 2 of the app my company created, we need his investment. Thanks to my attempts at “schmoozing” (really, just a lot of forced smiles and passionate speeches), I know exactly what I have to do:
Step 1. Create a strong, data-driven, realistic vision for the future of our company.
Step 2. Get our human resources in order.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really understand the fuss around the HR stuff. We already have a manual for employees to follow, but apparently human resources these days also constitutes things like free coffee, morning donuts, and team bonding activities—as all the other tech start-ups seem to be doing.
Seems a bit pointless to me, but if that’s what Wiseman wants to see, then that’s what we’ll do. It’s within reach.
And if—when—we get the funding, having to spend a week making—ugh—small talkat a conference, missing Legs’s big day, and getting stuck in an airport for a million hours will have all been worth it.
I’m feeling a little more positive by the time I get back to the departure lounge, and I settle into my orange plastic chair. I take a sip of coffee—black, bitter and burning hot, just the way I like it.
It’s only then that I realize everyone around me is getting to their feet, collecting their bags.
Finally.
Must’ve missed an announcement. It looks like we’re on our way.
3
ANNIE
After what feels like an eternity spent in the departure lounge, I’ve finally successfully tuned out the world.
I’m calm, zen. My focus is on a paint chip on the wall across the room, and not on how much I would rather be anywhere else right now.
But then, Liam comes into my line of vision and my attention zeroes in on him like a sniper.
He strides over to the customer service desk, spreads his big hands across the counter like he means business. He’s not red-faced, or yelling, or making a scene. He doesn’t even appear to be saying anything. He’s almost rigidly calm, his body tense, his expression carved from stone. Only his eyes betray any inkling of heat, and an inferno rages in their depths.
The Liam brand of “I get what I want and I want it now” is much more advanced than the average broody hot guy’s.
Frosty Lips is behind the desk, doing something between a cower and an eyelash-flutter—an expression I’ve never seen in the wild before—while saying something I can’t hear, but can imagine to be a promise of VIP treatment.
Everyone else in the departure lounge is doing good old run-of-the-mill whining and complaining. Theatrically making passive-aggressive phone calls to loved ones while shooting furtive dirty looks in the direction of the nearest AmeriJet staff member.
