Page 49 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"Why?"

"Because I think it matters." She sets down her fork. "I think it matters a lot."

And maybe it's the wine, or the lingering adrenaline fromthe press conference, or just the way she's looking at me like she can see past every barrier I've built, but I find myself talking.

About the early failures. About learning from my father's mistakes. About building something that could withstand any storm, any betrayal.

About being so focused on making it unbreakable that I forgot to make it human.

Mac listens, really listens, in a way that has nothing to do with her job title and everything to do with who she is.

"Your turn," I say finally, because fair is fair. "Tell me about Roberto."

"Really? You want to discuss my ex over a thousand-dollar bottle of wine?"

"I want to understand what makes you..." I gesture, echoing her earlier movement.

"What? Suspicious of powerful men? Focused on corporate culture? Willing to throw champagne at CEOs?"

"All of it."

She studies me for a long moment. "Okay. But we're going to need dessert for this conversation. And maybe more wine."

I signal the sommelier, and for the first time tonight, it's not about power or image or maintaining the Alexander Drake persona.

It's just about us.

The real us, not the CEO and the consultant, not the power player and the reformer, but just... us.

My phone buzzes – probably Grayson with more commentary about the press conference – but for once, I let it go.

Some things are more important than image.

Even if it takes a very expensive bottle of wine and a very perceptive woman to remember that.

15

THE SECRET SANTA SITUATION

MACKENZIE

Three days after my revealing dinner with Alexander Drake, Seattle decided to transform into a winter wonderland. The kind that looks magical in holiday movies but turns rush hour into a demolition derby. The morning commute had taken twice as long, which meant I'd missed my usual coffee run, which meant I was now standing in the break room at 8 AM, watching Keith stage what he called a "festive sit-in" at the biometric coffee station.

He'd decorated his protest signs with tinsel.

"The holiday season is the perfect time to address caffeination inequality," he declares from his cross-legged position in front of the machine. His signature beret now sports a small string of battery-operated lights. "Also, someone keeps setting the machine to reject my fingerprints."

"That's because you tried to hack it to dispense free espresso shots," I remind him, desperately eyeing the machine. Three days since that dinner with Alex, three days of analyzing every word we'd exchanged, every look, every moment when his carefully maintained CEO mask had slipped...

I need caffeine for this level of emotional complexity.

"The coffee machine recognizes my authority as Head of Revolution," Keith insists. "It's the corporate overlords who?—"

"Keith." I summon every ounce of my Italian grandmother's commanding presence. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes about the Christmas Gala budget, another at ten about the new mentorship program, and somewhere in between I need to convince Brad that the wellness journal isn't actually haunted just because it keeps appearing in random places."

"That's what the ghostly spirits of capitalism want you to think!"

"Coffee. Now."

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