Chapter One

BUZZ.

Who the hell is calling me this early?

BUZZ.

I swear, there’s a special place in hell for people who interrupt a woman trying to get a full night’s sleep before an important meeting.

BUZZ.

The building better be burning down, or better yet, we better be going into nuclear meltdown. You don’t wake a woman this early the morning she has a—oh my God! The meeting!

How could I have overslept? I’ve been waiting for this day to come for two weeks, and I have no intention of blowing the only chance I might get at some face time with the bigwigs.

I hop out of bed, blanket wrapped around my body, and immediately fall to the floor. One might think with how often we meet, the floor and I might be good friends, but the reality is, she’s a cold-hearted bitch.

I reach on top of my nightstand to the angry buzz of the alarm, and hit END. The time reads 7:05—a whole hour later than I’m supposed to wake.

Most days, this wouldn’t be a big issue, but today is the day I give my presentation in front of the directors and board members of Icor Tech at the quarterly Innovation Meeting. When I’m done with them, they’ll know that taking a chance on still wet-behind-the-ears Remi Stone wasn’t a mistake.

I wish I could say I had time to shower and set my hair before one of the most important days of my life, but that would be a lie. I can barely practice basic hygiene. My hands are shaking, and it’s a miracle half the toothpaste I’ve squirted ends up on the bristles.

If this all sounds crazy, let me explain. I’m a woman with time anxiety, and when even the whiff of a time constraint comes on, I panic. I mean full-blown running around, half dressed, brush in hair, one leg shaved panic.

As the youngest program manager Icor Tech has ever had, my life is basically one part working my ass off and one part trying to prove to everyone that I’m not just some lucky idiot. At twenty-three, they figure there’s no way I could have actually earned my position as program manager and chalk it up to who I know—I wish it had been that easy.

You see, I’m kind of a genius. I know how that must sound, cocky and arrogant, but I promise you, that’s not how I see myself. I see myself as a total, complete, epic mess hobbling on two legs, trying to avoid disaster. I just so happen to test well.

I throw a coffee mug under the Keurig nozzle, hitting the only button in the world that can see me through the day. Then I rush to my closet to find something to wear.

Why didn’t I lay my clothes out last night? I ask myself, but of course, that would make my life a little too easy.

Rumpled lavender flowers—nope. Bright blue asymmetrical neckline—nope. Black floor-length dress that looks like a curtain—double nope.

Why don’t I put more effort into my wardrobe?

Unfortunately, I’ve never put much energy into thinking about what to wear. Before I got my corporate job, I was shopping at Goodwill for most of my clothes, Target for socks and underwear. One trip to the mall to buy real adult attire for work had given me a major panic attack. Nothing was ‘broken in,’ and just one suit cost as much as my entire wardrobe. But it was what was expected of a professional from Icor Tech, so money was spent, and discomfort was had.

I finally settle on a knee-length white skirt with black and pink flowers throughout paired with a black dress shirt.

My phone buzzes again—the holy shit you’re late alarm I have set to go off when I’m supposed to be walking out the door. Instead, I’m slapping on deodorant and looking around for my glasses.

This is exactly what they expect from a millennial. Shitty work ethics, entitlement, living in my parent’s basement. None of those traits fit me, but the room full of grey hairs I’m about to brief don’t know that. They don’t know that I tested out of high school at fifteen, received my Bachelor’s in Engineering at Cornell by nineteen, and my Masters by the time I was twenty-two. They just see a young, fair-haired woman and assumed I got my job because of who I know or some affirmative action bullshit.

Kibbles! I can’t forget to feed Kibbles, the aging cat my dearly departed grandmother left to me. The beast hates me, looking for any reason to shred my bedding and furniture. She’s possessed, more than likely by my dear dead grandma, who was never very happy no matter how much I called, visited, or wrote. Not that she ever really wanted to see me, but she sure did like the checks I was writing for her. I swear, she left me Kibbles just to spite me.

It isn’t enough to leave one bowl of food out. Kibbles demands three, placed strategically around the apartment, filled to capacity. If the kibble level so much as lowers by half an inch, Kibbles goes into an angry panic. She dug up every single plant one day and shredded my shower curtain on another. The last thing I need is another Kibbles meltdown.

Oh, wonderful, the cat’s glaring at me. Don’t panic. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a cat.

Just a cat. Ha! That’s like saying, ‘Oh, it’s just Satan, Lord of the Underworld.’

Pull yourself together, Remi. You’re facing the board and a room full of directors today. Don’t blow this!

I try to exhale my stress away, all my worries, but when you’re a perfectionist that wakes up an hour late, all you know is panic. You are a literal ball of stress spreading chaos wherever you go, so I walk to the mirror and try my best to make myself presentable.

Which might not be possible.

I have no time to flat iron my hair, so I throw it into a clip, trying to pull off a shabby-chic look. Next, I apply cover up to the lone pimple that decided to claim my nose. But that’s as far as I get. I have to be at that meeting at eight, and I still have a twenty-minute walk ahead of me—time to get going.

Kibbles is standing in the doorway, paw raised, a guttural growl emanating from her massive 30lb. body. For a fat, overfed cat, she’s fast—and vicious. She could win wars. I don’t know why they’re training soldiers and not cats. She could fuck some shit up, then puke a hairball on your sorry face.

“Be nice, Kibbles. Your new mommy needs to go to work so she can feed you.”

Kibbles is uninterested in my needs and wants. She only cares for herself.

“You like your little toys, don’t you? Your catnip? You want some catnip? You want your kitty high?”

Pass her slowly, force eye contact, keep talking.

“Want momma to find you a hot young man-cat? A stud. Whaddaya think about that, Kibbles?”

Her growl deepens. Kibbles is not easily persuaded by lustful pursuits.

I leap, trying to clear the danger zone, but Kibbles lashes out with her claws, and one gets stuck in my black stockings.

“Crap!” I say as I pull them off and rummage through my drawer for another pair, but all the rest are in the laundry.

Maybe they’ll assume I’m wearing nude pantyhose.

I pull on my shoes, grab my laptop bag, my keys, and my access badge and head on out.

I live in an old building that’s in desperate need of updates, so I don’t wait for Boxy Bessie, or as most would call it, the elevator. It takes five minutes to climb between floors, and if it were to break, I’d be screwed. Instead, I rush down five flights of stairs, nearly tripping over Mr. Sokolov, the building handyman, as he’s on all fours eyeing a crevice for roaches. Another fantastic aspect of living in an old building.

I dash outside onto a bustling sidewalk, nearly barreling over Porn Star Meg, my next-door neighbor. I’ve never so much as exchanged a word with the chipper woman, our only interaction being the many times I’ve nearly crashed into her.

Now, I should clarify something. My nickname for her is Porn Star Meg, but I haven’t actually confirmed that she’s a porn star. I passed by her room once, and there was a camera set up and ring lights, all facing a giant leather couch with boas on it. I’m highly analytical, and I think it’s safe to say that my assumption is correct.

Some nights, when I’m lonely, I think about going over there and asking her to hang out. The problem is, she’s pretty and muscular and all things beautiful…and, well, I’m a brain and all the things that come along with being annoyingly smart. We just wouldn’t mix.

Shit! My coffee is still sitting in the damn Keurig. Not much I can do about it now.

“Watch where ya going!” a man shouts. I look back to see him hunched, fist raised, glaring at me.

The streets of New York City are no joke, and when you’re like me and your situational awareness is lacking, you tend to make enemies.

Why did I have to pick an apartment that has me walking against the flow of traffic?

I slip my earbuds in and lose myself in Imagine Dragons, the only thing that calms me. Listening to Radioactive, Thunder, and Demons helps my anxiety fall away, and my heart rate begins to enter the realm of ‘normal.’ Not that anything about me will ever be normal.

Do I have time to stop at a coffee shop?I stare at ImPressed longingly, the slight stabbing of a caffeine headache threatening to take over.

There is no time! You have a meeting at 8! It’s 7:50, and you still have 15 more minutes of walking!

I suck in a breath, wish myself luck, and dash through the busy sidewalk. My stride feels off, like something is in my shoe, but I have no time to investigate as I’m dodging pedestrians.

Then, something magical happens. The world seems to open up for me, almost as if I’m in the Matrix. People step aside, the white hands bid me to walk across streets, and nothing gets in my way..

Until a big German Shepherd sets his sights on me.

The dog bounds toward me, clearly intent on knocking me over. Whether he intends to play or maul, I cannot say. All I can do is stop and bring up my arms to shield myself from the slobbering blow.

BAM! The dog connected with my petite 5’3 form, nearly barreling me over. I am lucky he’s not aggressive, just curious. The little old lady walking him does not share his pleasant disposition.

“Leave Jasper alone!” she croaks, tapping a cane near my feet.

Between the dog and the old lady, I’m a bit overwhelmed, almost dropping my laptop bag.

I push at the dog, but it’s no use. He just keeps sniffing. Finally, a little boy squeals when he sees the dog.

“Jasper! Jasper!” he enthuses, and the dog loses interest in me, but not before slobbering all over my left breast. That’s right. I am going to be walking into the boardroom today, 5-10 minutes late, in a black shirt with slobber splattered across my tits. Great!

I continue on, cautiously, wary of every person, every animal, every potential interaction. My earbuds fell from my ear blocks ago. My focus is entirely set on getting to Icor Towers and making the presentation.

They don’t take me seriously. I’ve been sidelined on projects and underestimated at every turn. This is my chance to let them see me, see my strengths, and what I can do.

I may have graduated from grad school just over a year ago, but I had interned with Icor Tech while I was going through college. When I was officially hired, I started at a position higher than most, but I never get the projects I want. Sure, I get promotions, and I’m great at my job, but it’s always ‘someone else’s turn,’ or the assumption is made that I am in over my head. Here I am, genius-level intelligence, constantly in rooms where people merely considered me subpar.

Oh my God! I finally made it!

I look up at the building I spend 50-plus hours a week at, a wave of relief washing over me.

I can do this. People are late for meetings all the time, why shouldn’t I be extended the same courtesy?

This meeting is different, though. This meeting, I will be presenting. This meeting, they will see something they don’t expect. Something I hope they will like and wish to see more of.

I push my way through the huge doors of Icor Tower, lost in thought. My shoes echo on the tile, which isn’t at all normal. Usually, the clicks are drowned out by other sounds, but today, the entrance seems cavernous. I look around and see that it’s dead. Security eyes me suspiciously from behind the welcome counter, but other than that, no one.

That’s weird.

I have no time to think on it. I walk to the elevator, scan my access badge, and wait for my carriage to arrive.

Everything seems to take too long. Each passing minute feels like ten, and I swear, by the time the elevator door opens, I’ve aged at least ten years.

I hustle into the elevator, surprised I don’t have to share it with anyone. I push the button to go to the eighth floor and run through my speech for the millionth time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we’ve been using Telwire for as long as Icor Tech’s been established, but after some digging, research, and yada yada yada I found if we switch to Expression we will streamline five central core processes, produce reports in greater detail, and save the company at least five million dollars over the course of ten years.

I’ve been practicing the speech for over a week, and now I get to blindside them. Technically, my actual job involves mechanical engineering, but I noticed a few of our systems were inefficient and lagging. On my own time, I researched it and developed a few automated reports on my own, catching the attention of some of my superiors. It was the first good thing they ever attributed to me, but it wasn’t within my job description.

Initially, they weren’t even that impressed, but when my reports started saving my department several man-hours per week while increasing data accuracy, it got their attention, and that’s why I was asked to speak at the meeting.

But instead of simply telling them about my recent innovations, I’m going to tell them they’re working with outdated systems. There’s no doubt I’ll be stepping on some toes, but this is just the sort of thing it takes to get noticed.

I exit the elevator after an eternity and practically run down the hall to the double doors of the boardroom. It is dark, too dark.

It’s probably just some energy efficiency measure.Stay calm. Act natural. You got this.

But of course, I never listen to myself, and as soon as I walk through the door, I’m stammering my apology.

Except, I’m in an empty room. The lights are off. No one’s here.

Where is everyone? Oh, shit! Did I miss the meeting?

A chair pivots, it’s spinning around to face me, and I see…Chace Crawford?

“Oh, hi. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here today,” Chace Crawford says.

“There’s…there’s the quarterly Innovation Meeting…at eight. I’m late,” I stammer.

Chace’s mouth twitches to the side as though he’s amused. He rises from his chair and says, “An innovation meeting? On a Sunday?”

Sunday? Holy mother of Jesus—it’s Sunday. And that’s NOT Chace Crawford.

“Oh no,” I gasp. My eyes grow wide as my glasses slide halfway down my nose.

Gabriel Icor is walking towards me, hand outstretched. As though I’m supposed to touch him!

He is the twenty-eight-year-old grandson of Icor Tech’s founder and has been running the company since his father passed away.

I take a step back, startled, and look for an escape.

“You don’t have to rush out,” he says. “I’m glad for the company, actually.”

Gabriel isn’t dressed in a suit as I’m used to seeing in pictures of him. Instead, he has on blue jeans and a white cotton tee-shirt. A tee-shirt that clings to his tightly toned physique. He looks like he belongs in the special forces and not some geek magnet like Icor Tech.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen him in person, and as far as I know, he’s not scheduled to be at the meeting. Now, standing here in the boardroom, on a Sunday, I am staring at one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire, having to apologize for being a fucking idiot.

So much for being a genius.

He dons a friendly smile. “I’m Gabriel. You may have heard of me.”

“Of course! I mean, yes, sir. I mean…” I look down at his hand, knowing I must complete the formality no matter how embarrassed I am, but instead of shaking his hand like a normal person, I accidentally grab his right hand with my left hand, creating the most pretentious looking shake imaginable.

“May I have your name?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, yes. My name is Remi. Remi Stone.”

Gabriel chuckles. “No need to be nervous. You know what they say about the early bird.” He frowns. “God, that’s so cliche, sorry. My granddad was full of sayings like that.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m sure he was. I mean?—”

“STOP!” He gestures frantically with his hands. He’s apparently very articulate with them when he talks. “Stop being nervous. I’m just like everyone else.”

No, he most certainly is not. He is tall, tanned, well-muscled, with dark hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow. His two baby-blue eyes are strangely piercing, and he’s look right at me. He is NOT AT ALL like anyone else. He’s a 10 for crying out loud. Oh, and he has billions of dollars.

“I’ll try, sir. It was nice to meet you.” I turn, sweat pooling at my brow, and begin walking on shaky legs.

“Wait!” Gabriel calls from behind. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Ask ME a few questions? Gabriel Icor wants to ask little ole Remi a few questions? What dimension did I wake up in? This is stranger than the whole Avengers timeline bullshit.

I turn to him, swallowing nervously. “Wh-what would you like to know?”

“How do you feel about the company? About the processes?”

“The processes?”

“I feel things have gotten stale around here. We need to keep up with the times. If we fail to adapt, to evolve, we will eventually become obsolete.”

Is he really saying this? I want to tell him the truth, tell him what I found, but I’m scared. My hands are shaking.

And why is he looking at my feet like that?

I look down, and a fresh wave of horror washes over me. I’m wearing one black shoe and one pink shoe. I traveled the whole twenty minutes from my apartment to work, completely unaware I was wearing mismatched shoes.

“Oh, I…oh, wow.”

Gabriel purses his lips to stifle his laughter, but the look on his face gives his amusement away.

“When I woke up today, I thought I was going to be late for the Innovation Meeting. Then I got attacked by the Godzilla of all cats. I forgot my coffee. I haven’t eaten. A dog jumped on me, slobbering on my,” I look down, suddenly growing even more mortified, “but I’m here, a whole 23.7 hours early. If you’re wondering what the early bird gets—just take a look.”

He stares at me a long moment, donning a sly grin before finally saying, “How about the early bird gets treated to breakfast?”