Page 45 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"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 thecoffee 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 façade 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 quietthump-thumpof 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?—"

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