10. In the robot uprising, they’ll come after me first
CHAPTER 10
IN THE ROBOT UPRISING, THEY’LL COME AFTER ME FIRST
EMMA
“ W hat,” I grit out, clenching my hand, my nails digging painfully into my palm, “the hell is wrong with you? You heinous piece of programming… I hope you catch a virus.”
I hit save. Error.
I lean down to hiss at the machine. “I hope the guy who coded you never knows a moment of peace in his entire—” Again. Error. “Fucking—” Third time’s the charm. Error. The screen freezes. “Life. Ugh.”
I fight the urge to cry. I’m about to lose hours of work, and I really don’t think I have the energy to start over today. Not without a bottle of something strong.
A shadow appears over my screen. “Oh, good. Roberts is locked out of the procedure and needs a copy, and here I was, worried you were in a bad mood.”
Right, yes, of course. Why stick me in hell without the devil being present?
No matter how badly I need a break from this man, every time I turn around, there Charlie is. If I send files to the printer on the other side of the floor, he still finds me. I can’t escape him.
I clear the cache and try again. Failed. A scream dies in my throat.
This laptop and I officially have beef.
“There is a fire that will burn until eternity circles around on itself,” I mutter, ignoring Charlie. This computer will not be the end of me.
“And it will be fueled,” I whisper, “by my never-ending hatred for you.”
This morning, this white pantsuit made me feel powerful, but here I am, only a few hours later, being bested by a microchip.
I will not destroy company property . Not after what happened with the teleconference screen last year.
“That’s an impressive speech. Do I say amen now or wait for the choir?” Without asking, Charlie plants himself on my desk.
In protest, I don’t let myself notice how tightly stretched his pants are at the thighs.
I definitely notice.
I’ll say one thing—he makes Tom Ford look good. Broad lines, sharp angles… all perfectly contrasting that pout. Charlie is a lesson in distraction.
But I will not be moved.
“Go away, Charlie.”
“I’d love to do that, sweetheart,” he says, grasping the edge of the desk on either side of his obscenely muscular thighs. “But boss’s orders are to find out what’s holding up the review draft. So why don’t you hand it over, and I’ll put you out of your misery?”
To do that, he’d need something a lot sharper than that wit of his.
“Don’t you think that if I could, I would have already? Why do you think I’m yelling at this piece of useless, incompetent, broken?—”
In one quick move, Charlie straightens and spins me away from the keyboard, his touch making my pulse jump. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s take a breath. Come on, in and out, just follow me.”
The heat of his hands radiates through my linen shirt. Spark, meet flame. This close, the deep, intoxicating smell of his cologne is unavoidable. It’s nice. Like stepping under a waterfall or digging my toes into cool sand.
“That’s better,” he says.
It’s only when I come back to myself that I realize he’s rubbing circles on the inside of my wrist. It’s incredibly soothing.
As I blink up at him, he clears his throat and quickly drops my hand.
“Thank you,” I say softly, lightness fluttering in my belly. Maybe he can be helpful. Occasionally.
“There’s morning tea for everyone in the kitchen. I figured you’d be too busy overthinking, so I brought you a bit of everything.”
I blink again and zero in on a plate filled with an assortment of treats. Another of Charlie’s skills is apparently sniffing out free food.
“Are you secretly a beagle? Or did Amy tip you off again?”
“First thing I learned growing up was if you wanna eat, you gotta get in quick. The second thing I learned,” he says, sliding the plate closer, “is to never turn down good pie.”
The golden flaky crust is practically calling my name. My stomach rumbles. “And this is good, is it?”
“Top five.” He grins around his own mouthful. “The best is PJ’s on fifth. Their pecan will make you question things.”
It’s annoying how adorable he is, and I’m smiling before I can stop myself.
“If I promise to try the pie, will you let me get back to work?”
“Sure.” He winks. “Now eat something.”
I roll my eyes, but I do as he says and shove a bite into my mouth. Dammit , it’s incredible. I make a note to tell Amy about PJ’s.
Beside me, Charlie waits for a response, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“You can get back to work now.”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is, thank you, Charlie. You were right . This pie is as delicious as you are.”
I’d rather kiss Roberts’s feet than tell Charlie he’s right.
Affecting my best glare, I say, “How about, shut up and let me work ?”
He laughs as he returns to his own desk, where I can see he’s hiding more pie. “Oh,” he adds, “and send the damn email already.”
I’ve never seen Charlie stressed until today. It’s disconcerting.
Operations can’t seem to function without him.
First Trevor appears, complaining about a review deadline, then Kush, pleading with him to push a project through, even though it doesn’t follow any of the format requirements. At least that request came with an invite to lunch next week. After that is Sheldon, Ingmar, and a slew of others whose names I don’t catch.
Engineers appear at all times of the day to complain—the system is infamous there, which is fun to hear repeatedly from four feet away—and while Charlie is nothing but friendly when they’re around, his shoulders continue to bunch and tighten as the day wears on.
Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. He did apologize.
I’m used to seeing him in action, not… behind enemy lines like this. It’s taking some getting used to.
It’s clear he works out. It’s stitched into the line of his jaw, his hands, even the ease of his walk. Like he knows where he’s going, and heaven help anyone who gets in his way.
For a moment, I watch him through the break between our screens. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his toned forearms and a set of black leather bracelets. It’s a habit he saves for when a task needs his undivided attention.
Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop noticing small details about him. The way he always stretches his back at two p.m., hands lifted overhead and ending with a little groan. How different his “I win” smile is from his “I’m trying to win you over” one. How much brighter his eyes are in a navy pinstripe.
It’s messing with me.
“So,” I say, letting the word hang between us. My curiosity is piqued, practically seeping from every pore.
Charlie doesn’t look over, but the slow curl of his smile tells me he’s listening. “So.”
I trace the letter C on my keyboard. “You and Amy.”
Charlie stills his fingers over the keys. His smile deepens, showing off a dimple I want to hate but can’t.
“Something you wanna know?”
Yes. “No.”
He catches me watching him, and my heart jumps into my throat. “We had a couple dates about a year ago, but it didn’t work out.”
Relief washes over me, which is ridiculous, because I don’t care.
I stare down at my computer. “It’s none of my business.”
“How about you?” he asks.
“I’ve never dated Amy.”
He laughs, easy and smooth. I ignore how good it sounds.
“Maybe you should,” he teases. “She’s pretty great.”
Like I haven’t worked with her for years. I already know how great she is.
“I appreciate the advice,” not that I asked for it, “but I’m not interested.”
“Because you already have a partner?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
I lay my hands flat on the desk and inhale slowly. Don’t do it. He’s trying to get a reaction. “What?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m surprised, is all.”
Right . Charlie probably couldn’t imagine anyone being interested in me.
“Not all of us need to constantly have our ego stroked.” Among other things.
I’m met with a silence that makes my stomach sink. Shit. It’s clear we’re both stressed, and fighting won’t help. Besides, wasn’t I the one who said we would be better to simply leave each other alone?
I stand, hoping he’s waved it off, cool and calm as always, but no luck. Though he’s trying to hide it behind a smile, his entire body is tense and his face is drawn in exhaustion.
“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. It isn’t an excuse, but today has been a bad day in an even worse week.” I release a long breath. “Regardless, I shouldn’t take it out on you, and I really shouldn’t have commented on your personal life like that.”
In five years, I haven’t spoken to anyone in anger, but Charlie seems to be the exception to every rule.
Even now, he doesn’t act the way I expect him to. “Hey,” he says, and though there’s no fight in his voice, his smile is brittle. “Don’t worry about it.”
With nothing left to say, I go back to work. But I feel off-kilter the rest of the afternoon.
“Emma?”
And with that, Roberts remains the undefeated champion of “how to ruin my day with one word.” But I plaster on a smile as he calls me into his office.
“How is progress coming along?” he asks when I’m seated.
Better now that I’ve saved the document offline. But I suspect he knows that already.
“It’s still too early to tell, but I’ve had some good conversations with Legal?—”
“Because I’m sensing some friction between you and Charlie. If you don’t think you can work together, it might be a good idea for you to receive some coaching on emotional intelligence.”
No.
My stomach sinks down to my Jimmy Choos.
Awful, awful man. So awful it’s almost impressive. If there was a league of awful, he could go pro. Fan club, sponsorships, the works.
Instead, Roberts is determined to practice on me. Who knows, maybe during the offseason, he catches up with Scrooge and the Grinch to swap tactics.
“No. No friction,” I lie, my throat tight.
“Would Charlie agree if I asked him?”
Would he? Unlikely.
In fact, the idea of Charlie agreeing with me about anything is so comical I have to dig my nails into my thigh to stop myself from smiling.
“I would certainly hope he would have spoken to me about it if he didn’t.”
Home is a first-floor studio with a small bath and a sink that doubles as part of the “kitchen” (quotation marks necessary). The walls are thin, at least half the outlets are broken, and I’m woken up every day by angry truck drivers. It’s half the size of any guest room at my parents’ house, but it might as well be the penthouse suite at the Ritz, because it has one key feature I won’t ever give up…
It’s mine.
Well, technically it’s the landlord’s, but I pay for it with money I’ve earned , not inherited, and to me, the distinction matters.
Ivy calls it my bachelorette pad. Logan called it quaint.
Honestly? It’s cold and has terrible water pressure, but it’s only a half-hour walk from the office. This little place is my sanctuary on days when I want to throw up my hands and quit.
Small spaces don’t need much to fill them, which is good, because I’ve spent the last five years selling off everything I can stand to part with to help cover what my parents owe. Everything bar my couch and a capsule wardrobe.
Maybe now I can finally start again, fill in the gaps with new memories.
If I survive this project.
ME: no promotion can be worth this
IVY: what the hell did i miss today?
ME: Roberts being Roberts and Charlie messing with my head. Today it was a gray worsted suit. With French cuffs. And a completely distracting red checkered tie. Can you believe that?
IVY: oh no (laughing emoji)
ME: It’s bad enough I have to see him every day. I miss cubicle walls
My phone lights up with Ivy’s call.
“No, you don’t,” she says before I can greet her. “You love the open plan office.”
I do. There’s so much more natural light.
“If it’s a choice between that and Charlie’s face, the decision is easy,” I say, reaching for another fry.
I don’t know if there’s an angel of food and beverage service, but the fast-food chain on the corner must be blessed. It’s the only church I’ve ever come close to walking into, and like a good charitable organization should be, it’s open twenty-four seven and no one is turned away.
Charlie might love his pies, but today, I need grease and salt.
Good days deserve good treats, like a glass of Pol Roger vintage Rosé and dark chocolate truffles. On bad days, it’s any pasta drowning in parmesan paired with my favorite tempranillo.
On truly awful days, like today, it’s a box of large fries dipped in a thick chocolate shake.
“Any news yet?” I ask, keen to think about anything that isn’t work. “Your sister must be exhausted.”
“The baby is as stubborn as she is. Pretty sure it’s karma, but I value my life too much to tell her that. Mom’s about five seconds away from storming the hospital, but Ciara will throw hands to keep her out of the delivery room, so I’m keeping the peace.”
“And we thought she was bad during the wedding.”
“That was a play date compared to this,” she says. “Also, stop changing the subject. You were waxing poetic about Charlie’s suits.”
My favorite topic of conversation.
“No matter how well he dresses, he’s still a demon.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, laying the sarcasm on so thick I could dip my fries in it.
With the first real smile I’ve managed all day, I curl into the couch a little more. “I miss you. Lunch tomorrow?”
“Definitely. And don’t let Charlie get to you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
I wish I had her certainty.