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The elevator doors open.
He gestures for me to leave first. “If you’d like, we can get together, talk about code and whatnot.”
“Sure,” I say, figuring that might also be a good time to learn if he’s Phantom without being late to see my manager. “Shoot me an email. It’s fpack at Binary Birch.”
There, work email.
Keeping things profesh.
“Sounds like a plan,” Mike says with a wide grin. “See ya.”
Waving goodbye, I sprint over to Sandra’s cube.
“Things are progressing ahead of schedule,” I tell her once we grab a meeting room and settle in our chairs. “Nothing to worry about.”
She exhales a breath of relief. “Thank you. I’ll have to give an update to Mr. Chortsky this afternoon, so this really helps.”
I redden. He already knows how things are going, but I obviously can’t give Sandra a heart attack by letting her know who my male tester is.
“Anything else?” I ask, eager to run to the pantry to see if he’s lurking there.
She smiles. “I heard from my equivalent in the development department.”
That catches my interest. “And?”
“She says they don’t have an opening right now, but that your code impressed everyone, so when they do get one, you’re going to be the first person they interview.” Sandra lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The feeling I got is that the interview would be a mere formality at that point.”
Yay! They like me. “Do you know how often they have openings?”
She shrugs. “Can’t be more than a few months. Company’s growing.”
My excitement dwindles a bit. That’s forever away. I should’ve asked for the move sooner; the countdown could’ve begun then.
Then again, I didn’t have the app to impress everyone with.
Sandra stands up. “Thanks again. Please keep me posted on further progress.”
“I will.”
I wait for her to leave, then beeline for the pantry.
My heart sinks.
Vlad isn’t here.
How wrong would it be if I just popped into his office?
If by “wrong” I mean “inappropriate,” then very.
Daydreaming about his eyes, I pour myself some hot water. As I’m putting in the tea bag, the cup slips off the edge of the counter, the water spilling everywhere.
Crap. At least I didn’t get burned.
Grabbing some napkins, I bend over and begin to dab at the liquid. My skirt makes a strange creaking noise—it might be too tight for this maneuver—and I feel it rolling up my thighs.
Crap. Is that air I’m feeling on my thong-clad—or rather, un-clad—butt?
I smell citrusy bergamot just as someone clears his throat.
