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Her mouth flattens. She’s angry too. How quaint. “She was with you.”
I smile without humor. “I’m sure you can find it within you to drop the moralistic act for a few hours.” I raise my brows. “Chop, chop, Thompson.”
I let her get to the door before I say idly, “Oh, and I want that wrap again today. But it took you too long last time. The lettuce was soggy.”
She tenses before turning neatly on her heel. I want to shout in triumph. “It’s a special,” she says crisply. “They have it Mondays and Thursdays. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days they have a full construction crew at the new building on 6th Avenue. You and the construction workers have the same taste in sandwiches. If you want a fresher sandwich, choose something else. Or somewhere else.” Her voice is even, even though her eyes flash. She’s probably imagining throwing something at my head.
“How did you figure that out?”
“I’m observant.”
She’s damn observant if she gleaned all of this from ten days on the job. “What else do you recommend?”
“You want a recommendation from me?” She smiles. “You hate me. I don’t think we have the same taste in sandwiches. Where else do you like?”
My mind is blank. I don’t know any other places near the office. I’m a creature of habit. She tilts her head, and I swallow uncomfortably. Never has the gulf between us seemed so large. I usually don’t walk in Midtown, except to get into or out of my private car.
“I’ll get you something you’ll like,” she finally says, putting me out of my misery.
“Thanks.” She’s being nice. Weirdly nice. That must be why I offer, “Why don’t you get yourself something as well?”
She freezes. For a second, she looks like she would like nothing more. “No, thank you,” she says carefully, and walks out.
* * *
By five p.m., it's apparent Callie Thompson and I are playing a game. I ask her for help and she replies with ever-increasing speed. She’s halving the time between responses. Just to piss me off, I imagine. Little does she know that efficiency makes me hard.
She flips her hair over her shoulder and huffs a little breath every time I send an email. I send one telling her to come into my office, just so I can watch her get annoyed. She stands in a rush and flounces in. I press my lips together to keep from smiling at her annoyed expression and pink cheeks.
“You know, I would be able to spend a lot more time on the dossier if you sent fewer emails.” She glares at me.
“I didn’t send that many emails, did I?”
“11:34 a.m. You asked for a coffee from the in-office barista. At 11:44 a.m., you told me it was the wrong order and asked for a new one. At 1:07 p.m., you wanted me to call and make a reservation for dinner for you. I begged the hostess at The Charlatan for a table until she relented. At 1:11 p.m., you asked me to call and cancel it.”
She sucks in a breath to continue and I interrupt with, “Impressive recall.” It is impressive. If I let myself be impressed.
She snaps her lips shut and glowers at me.
“What have you found on Green Media?”
“I filed a FOIA request.”
“A what?”
She huffs, like I really should know what it is, but says, “A Freedom of Information Act request. The Green Media and Hartley Telecom merger last year was approved by the FTC. That means lots of public documents. Have you filed one before?”
“No,” I say shortly. “We didn’t. And we probably should have.” Talk about a massive fucking oversight. How did I miss this?
“You should have,” she agrees.
“How long for the results?”
She frowns. “It could take months. It’s coming from a federal agency.”
Not good enough. I need information and I need it now. “I want you to follow him. Tonight. See what you can find.” While I follow you. I want to figure out Callie Thompson’s connection to these people.
She opens her mouth to argue and I raise a brow. “Problem, Thompson?”
