13. Press Relations and Other Disasters
13
PRESS RELATIONS AND OTHER DISASTERS
MACKENZIE
Seattle in early December meant two things: holiday lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets and the tech industry's annual rush to prove they'd achieved their yearly diversity goals. This year, Drake Enterprises was leading the charge with the "Future of Tech" press conference - a major media event where Alexander Drake would announce the company's comprehensive culture reform initiatives.
The same initiatives I'd helped create while secretly blogging about the industry's problems.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
"The Post-it note revolution has spread to the third floor," Lucia announces, dropping a stack of reports on my desk. Outside my office window, fat snowflakes swirl against a slate-gray sky, adding to the two inches that had fallen overnight. "Keith's manifesto about the new biometric coffee machine is now available in three languages."
Two weeks have passed since Alex's college roommates had visited, two weeks of me trying to pretend I haven't seen the way Grayson Dixon has been studying me like I was a particularly interesting piece of code. Two weeks of avoiding Alex's increasingly thoughtful looks while simultaneously helping him prepare for this press conference.
Two weeks of pretending Roberto's baby news isn’t eating at me every time I check my email.
"Has the PR team approved the final talking points?" I ask, shuffling through the reports. My office, usually a model of organization, looks like a war room. Press packets compete for space with holiday party planning documents and employee feedback summaries.
The Christmas Gala looms just four weeks away, and between that and the press conference, I’m running on pure caffeine and determination. Assuming I can get past Keith's coffee station blockade.
But first: Get through this press conference preparation without either exposing my blog identity or getting distracted by how Alex looks in his new suit.
"Your talking points on salary equity need work," I tell him, pacing his office while he practices his speech. Four weeks until the Christmas Gala, and this press conference can make or break our reform initiatives. No pressure. "You're coming across too defensive."
"I'm not being defensive," Alex says defensively, loosening his tie for the third time. "I'm being factual."
"You're being a typical tech exec who's uncomfortable admitting past mistakes." I move to fix his tie, then catch myself. Personal space. Remember personal space . "Try it again, but this time with less 'we're implementing changes' and more 'we recognize the need for improvement.'"
Second issue I might want to address: The fact that my latest blog post about wage gaps just went viral isn't helping. Neither is the way Alex keeps looking at me when he thinks I'm not watching.
"Fine." He straightens, adopting his CEO pose. "Drake Enterprises recognizes?—"
The door bursts open, revealing Keith from DevOps in full revolutionary mode. He's wearing his signature beret and clutching what appears to be a manifesto written on the back of sprint planning documents.
"Comrade Drake!" He brandishes his papers. "The people demand answers about the coffee machine's latest bourgeois upgrade!"
I close my eyes briefly. "Keith, we've talked about this. Knocking exists for a reason."
"Knocking is a tool of the corporate oppressors!" He waves his manifesto. "And the new coffee machine requires biometric authentication! This is clearly an attempt to monitor our caffeine consumption patterns!"
"It's a security measure," Alex explains with admirable patience. "After someone—" he glances at Keith "—tried to 'liberate' the premium beans by hacking the old machine."
"The beans belong to the people!"
"The beans belong to Accounting's budget," I correct. "And they're still traumatized from your last 'liberation attempt.'"
Right on cue, my phone buzzes. A notification from Twitter:
@MizzByteMyAlgos's latest post about tech companies using "wellness initiatives" as surveillance tools has been shared by three major tech news outlets. The post specifically mentions biometric coffee machines as an example of "corporate overlords watching even our espresso habits."
A post I wrote last night.
Before the new coffee machine was installed.
Which I definitely didn't know about when I wrote it.
Alex's phone buzzes too. He reads the notification, and I watch his expression shift from annoyance to thoughtful consideration.
Oh no.
"Interesting timing," he says slowly. "Keith, we'll discuss the coffee situation later. Ms. Gallo and I need to finish press conference prep."
Keith leaves, but not before taping his manifesto to the door and declaring something about "caffeine equality for all."
"So," Alex turns to me once we're alone, "about that blog post..."
And just like that, my carefully constructed house of cards starts wobbling.
"Security breach," I say quickly. "Obviously someone leaked information about the new coffee machine. We should investigate?—"
"Mac."
Oh no. God, why can’t I keep it together when this man uses my name?
What is it about the way the nickname rolls off his tongue that makes me want to close my mouth on his? That makes me appreciative and not even guilty about it, especially when he's looking at me like he can see right through my professional facade to the mess of guilt and attraction underneath.
"Your tie's crooked again," I deflect, stepping forward to fix it because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation. My hands tremble slightly as I reach up, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck. His cologne, carrying a hint of woodsy and citrus notes, wraps around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
He smells good. Too good.
Too good for me to think the thoughts that are starting to take over. Sexy, sensual, filthy kinds of thoughts.
Especially when his hands catch mine where they're fiddling with his tie. "Mac."
And now we're standing too damn close. My hands are caged against his chest. The quiet thump-thump of his heartbeat drums against my fingertips, and suddenly it’s like the air has decided to exit the room .
Our eyes meet, and Alex doesn’t blink.
Oh no. No, no, no. No. This is exactly the kind of situation I've been trying to avoid since the meditation room incident.
"The press conference," I repeat weakly.
"Can wait five minutes." His thumb draws small circles on my skin. “First, we need to talk about?—"
The door flies open again. Because of course it does.
"Mr. Drake!" Emma rushes in, then stops short at our position. "Oh. I... the PR team needs to confirm some numbers for the press conference. And Keith is trying to organize a sit-in at the coffee station. And Brad's now journaling about the biometric scanner rejecting his fingerprints..."
I jump back from Alex like I've been electrocuted. "I should go handle Keith."
"Mac—"
"Press conference in two hours!" I practically flee his office. "Practice those talking points!"
In the hallway, I lean against the wall, heart pounding. This is getting out of hand.
The almost-moments with Alex, the blog posts that keep coincidentally aligning with company events, the way my mission to expose corporate culture problems keeps getting tangled up with actual positive changes...
My phone buzzes again. Another notification:
@TechCrunch: "Anonymous tech industry blogger raises concerns about corporate surveillance. Drake Enterprises CEO Alexander Drake to address corporate culture reform in press conference today. Coincidence? #TechNews #CorporateCulture"
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I head for my office, already composing my next blog post in my head. Something about the tech industry's obsession with coincidences and pattern recognition. Something clever and general that definitely won't make Alex's suspicions worse .
But first, I need to stop Keith's coffee revolution before someone gets hurt with a French press, help Brad with his fingerprint crisis,…and figure out why my heart does that stupid fluttery thing every time Alex says my name.
Oh, and then maybe I can somehow manage all of this without exposing myself as the anonymous blogger who's been critiquing tech culture for months.
I’d say I've handled worse crises. But then again most of those crises didn't involve me wanting to bite the earlobe of the man I'm supposed to be investigating.
My phone buzzes one more time - a text from Lucia:
"Nonna wants to know if you're bringing Alex to Sunday dinner since you're 'practically engaged' according to Brad's now viral journal. Also, Keith just tried to start a coffee-related chant in Italian. Please handle that before Nonna hears about it and adopts him."
I turn off my phone.
Some problems can wait until after the press conference, starting with a coffee revolution prevention. Because if there's one thing I've learned in twenty years of tech industry experience, it's that caffeine-deprived developers are more dangerous than any corporate scandal.
And some problems – like my growing feelings for Alexander Drake – might not have solutions at all.