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“Oh, don’t worry. And thanks for passing along my code. I already got some feedback.”
“That’s great,” she says. “From who?”
“They used screen names. But maybe you know… Is there anyone in the office who likes the Phantom of the Opera a little too much?”
She rubs her chin. “Rose, in accounting?”
Rose is pushing ninety, so if it’s her, more power to her.
“My guess is that this is someone in the development department,” I tell Sandra.
She frowns. “No one comes to mind.”
“Okay, thanks.” I stand up. “If that’s all, I’m going to get some tea and head home.”
“Good idea,” she says. “My official directive to you is to rest.”
“Got it.” I give her the same crisp military salute I gave the Impaler, but this time as a joke.
She grins, and as we leave the room, she says, “My unofficial advice is to keep improving your coding skills.”
Is that another hint about my fate? I almost ask outright, but I don’t want to put her on the spot.
When I get to the pantry, I grab a chamomile packet and pour hot water into a cup.
Before I can dunk the tea bag into the water, I feel a presence enter the small room, creating a disturbance in the Force that gets my Spidey senses tingling.
As I look up, a pair of lapis lazuli eyes capture my gaze, making my stomach flutter.
“Ms. Pack,” the Impaler says, his accent stronger than usual. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Hi.” The syllable comes out as a husky whisper that should be in an HR rulebook, filed under “inappropriate for the corporate environment.”
“How do you feel?” He pours himself a cup of water.
I finally drop my chamomile packet into the water and pray that something about teabagging isn’t about to escape my lips. “I feel ready for work again.” There. I can be appropriate when I focus very, very hard.
Speaking of, I shouldn’t say the word hard either.
“Ready for work?”
It must be a Russian superpower to imbue such a short question with that much skepticism.
“Ready as a tropical storm.” I lift my chin. “Isn’t Project Belka urgent? You said that—”
“Not here.” He frowns at the pantry entrance.
Sure enough, Britney is standing there, her eyes narrowed.
Was she a ninja in her past life?
“I understand,” I say.
“Did you eat lunch yet?” he asks me.
I shake my head, struck mute by the question.
“In that case, it’s my treat.”
