18. Identity Crisis
18
IDENTITY CRISIS
ALEX
The morning after Mackenzie Gallo thoroughly demolished my self-control in my office, Seattle decides to demonstrate its mastery of meteorological mood-setting by delivering a mix of snow and freezing rain that turns the city into a treacherous snow globe.
Perfect weather for questioning every decision I've made in the past twenty-four hours.
"TechCrunch wants a statement," Emma announces, dropping the morning briefing on my desk. It's barely 7 AM, but crisis management waits for no CEO. "They're running a feature on anonymous industry watchdogs, specifically focusing on @MizzByteMyAlgos's impact on corporate culture reform."
I scan the email, very aware that my office still smells faintly of Mac’s…everything. "Who's writing it?"
“Amelia Zegen.” Emma's expression suggests this should mean something to me. "She's known for unmasking anonymous industry critics. Last year she exposed that hedge fund manager who was secretly rating corporate holiday parties. "
Well, this just keeps getting better and better.
"There's more," Emma continues, though her tone suggests she'd rather be dealing with Keith's revolutionary choir. "Ms. Zegen has apparently traced several of the blogger's posts to IP addresses within Drake Enterprises."
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my mouth. "When did she?—"
"The day after the Winter Strategy Summit." Emma pulls up another email. "She's requesting an interview about our 'surprisingly rapid cultural transformation' and its timing relative to certain blog posts."
Through the glass walls (which Mac has thoroughly convinced me are ridiculous), I can see her office is still dark. Usually she's in by now, armed with coffee and commentary about whatever revolutionary manifesto Keith's written overnight.
"Sir?" Emma's voice pulls me back. "Should I schedule the interview?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes – Grayson:
GRAY: Heard TechCrunch is hunting your girlfriend's secret identity. Want me to have SecureMatch run some interference?
ME: Not my girlfriend. And no cyber warfare before 9 AM.
GRAY: You say that like I wouldn’t win a bet that you’re probably already covered in some love-bites
GRAY: Or would it be fuck-bites in this case…?
I adjust my collar reflexively, ignoring Emma's poorly hidden smirk.
“Fuck. Alright, look. Tell Ms. Zegen we'll consider her request," I say, aiming for CEO authority rather than 'man who spent last night making out with his corporate culture consultant like a teenager.' "And get Legal to review our IP tracking policies."
"Already done. Though you should know..." She hands me another report. "Several tech news sites are speculating about the blogger's connection to our recent changes. The timing of the Winter Strategy Summit posts particularly?—"
The office door opens, and Mac strides in, her silky curls pulled back into another severe bun, brown eyes innocent.
Like she hasn't been avoiding my texts since last night. She's wearing a charcoal suit that definitely doesn't make me think about pressing her against my office door.
"We have a problem," she announces, then stops short at Emma's presence. "Oh. I didn't?—"
"I was just leaving." Emma gathers her tablet, pausing at the door. "Though you might want to..." she wiggles her fingertips at her own neck.
Mac's hand flies to her collar, and I definitely don't smile at the blush that colors her cheeks.
Once we're alone, the air grows warm, the office practically choking on the sexual tension that’s eating up all the oxygen.
"So," she breaks first, "TechCrunch."
"You've seen the email."
"I have a Google alert for their tech culture coverage." She paces, all controlled energy and barely hidden anxiety. "Amelia Zegen is dangerous."
"More dangerous than champagne-chucking employees?”
That gets a small smile. "Different kind of dangerous. She doesn't just expose anonymous bloggers – she ruins them. Last year's holiday party critic? Lost his job, his reputation, everything."
"Mac—"
"Not that I'm concerned about anonymous bloggers," she adds quickly. "Just... you know. Generally. As a concept."
I lean back in my chair, studying her. In the gray morning light, with snow falling outside and her professional mask slightly cracked, she looks simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.
"We could always give her a different story," I say carefully.
"What?"
"Instead of hunting anonymous bloggers, she could cover Drake Enterprises' actual changes. The programs that are working. The improvements that?—"
A commotion outside interrupts me. Through the glass, we watch Keith lead what appears to be a protest march to the coffee station. Their signs are decorated with tinsel and coffee bean illustrations.
"CAFFEINE FOR ALL!" he chants. "NO TAXATION WITHOUT PROPER HYDRATION!"
"I'll handle it," Mac sighs, then pauses at the door. "Alex..."
"Yes?"
"Last night..."
"Was exactly what both of us needed." I stand, moving around my desk. "And possibly overdue."
"It was unprofessional."
"So is organizing revolutionary choirs, but that hasn't stopped Keith."
"I'm serious." But she's fighting a smile. "We need to?—"
"THE PEOPLE DEMAND FRENCH ROAST FREEDOM!" Keith's voice carries through the walls.
"We need to discuss this," she finishes. "Everything. The blog, the changes, the... us."
"Dinner?" I step closer, enjoying how her breath catches. "Tonight? Somewhere without glass walls or revolutionary developers?"
"I—"
My office door bursts open, revealing a panicked Brad clutching his wellness journal.
"Emergency!" he gasps. "Keith's trying to hack the coffee machine again but this time he's using holiday music as cover and—" he stops, eyes widening at our proximity. "Oh! Oh no. Am I interrupting another strategic planning session? The wellness journal has three chapters about those already and?—"
"Brad." Mac's voice could freeze Seattle solid. "What did we say about documenting personal observations?"
"That it perpetuates unhealthy corporate gossip culture and undermines professional boundaries?" He hugs his journal protectively. "But the statistical correlation between leadership proximity and improved corporate morale metrics suggests?—"
"Handle Keith," I tell Mac, because if I don't stop looking at her I might do something that really gives Brad's journal material. "I'll deal with TechCrunch."
She nods, all business except for the slight darkening of her eyes when I step closer to open the door for her.
"Tonight," I say quietly as she passes. "No excuses."
"Is that an order, Mr. Drake?"
"Would you follow it if it was?"
Her laugh follows her out, mixing with Keith's revolutionary caroling and Brad's muttered observations about "fascinating leadership dynamics."
I check my phone – three missed calls from Amelia Zegen, two texts from Connor asking about "office romance rumors", and an email from Gerald demanding an emergency board meeting about "concerning social media developments."
Of course. That’s all this day needed. More and more plot twists.
But then again…
My collar still smells like Mac's perfume, and I can't bring myself to regret any of it.
Even if it means facing down investigative tech journalists and revolutionary developers before my second coffee.
Through the glass walls, I watch Mac dismantle Keith's protest with the kind of efficiency that makes me want to drag her back into my office and.. .
"Sir?" Emma appears with another stack of reports. "Amelia Zegen is holding on line one. And Keith has somehow programmed the coffee machine to play 'Do You Hear the People Sing' every time someone tries to use the premium beans."
Right. Crisis management first. Fantasies about my corporate culture consultant later.
Though possibly not much later, if the way Mac just looked back at me means what I think it means.