Page 47 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

ME:The yacht is mine. As for you, here’s an idea: Focus on how to keep the 70 year-olds on your over-40 app from sharing shriveled dick pics. Heard there’s an influx of flaccid ones making it to the site. You should partner with an ED pill biz, that might help

GRAY:Already way ahead of you. The only flaccid penis you need to worry about, bro-ham, is your own. But I’m guessing not much is flaccid with Mackenzie around, is it?

I ignore that, but can't ignore the way my pulse jumps when the maitre'd approaches.

"Mr. Drake? Ms. Gallo has arrived."

In high heels that make her slender calves look even longer than they are, Mac strolls right in, still wearing the emerald silk blouse and black pencil skirt from the press conference. Her hair has partially escaped its professional updo, dark curls framing her face in a way that makes my fingers itch to?—

No. Focus.

"You're late," I say, standing because old money manners are harder to shake than a board of directors.

"Blame your revolutionary." She drops into her chair with familiar grace. "Keith tried to barricade himself in the break room after you left. Something about 'seizing the means of caffeine production' and 'down with biometric oppression.'"

"Did he succeed?"

"No, but only because Brad compulsively-ate all his protest snacks and had to go lie down."

The sommelier materializes, presenting the wine with practiced flourish. I watch Mac hide her smile as I go through thetasting ritual – she thinks these power plays are ridiculous, and maybe she's right.

"The press coverage is excellent," she says once we're alone again. "Though that answer about historical salary disparities was a bit?—"

"Perfect," I cut in, because two can play this game. "Thanks to your coaching."

"I was going to say 'rehearsed.'"

"Would you prefer I went off-script? Started sharing actual numbers?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. In the candlelight, they look almost golden. "That would certainly make tomorrow's blog posts interesting."

"Speaking of blogs..." I take a calculated sip of wine. "Have you seen the latest from our anonymous friend?"

Something flickers across her face, gone before I can read it. "I try not to follow industry gossip."

"Really? Because their post about corporate surveillance and coffee machines was surprisingly well-timed."

"Alex—"

The arrival of our appetizers saves her from responding. I'd ordered in advance – another power play that suddenly feels cheap when I see her face.

"You ordered for me?"

"I asked Emma what you like." A half-truth. I'd also had the chef modify his signature dish to accommodate the shellfish allergy mentioned in her file.

"How very... alpha male of you."

"Would you expect anything less?"

"From the man who spent almost an hour arguing about wine decanting? No." But she's smiling slightly as she takes a bite. "Though I have to admit, the food is excellent."

"High praise from a woman whose family runs Seattle's best Italian restaurant."

"You've never even been to La Famiglia."

"Yet I know their tiramisu won 'Best in Seattle' three years running."

"Background check?"

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