Page 62 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

I head into work early,reviewing my notes and some of the lab’s data on the subway.

Nothing’s working.

I get off at my usual stop and take my usual route in. Even at six in the morning, the city is at full swing. I nod at the security guys and head up.

Chemistry problems are like jigsaw puzzles in a lot of ways. I’ve been working on making a specific piece fit, sure there’s a way to get it to work.

But the surreal mystery of this woman, the unexpected delight of talking to her, of directing her in the way I have, it’s as if it’s loosened something in me. Shaken up my world. Relaxed my white-knuckled grip—enough so that when I walk into the office, my vision is clear enough, or maybe my perspective is wide enough, that I see the problem.

One glance at the whiteboard and I see it.

I’ve been focusing on the wrong part of the molecule.

I put down my bag, stunned.

I was focusing so hard on the wrong part of the molecule that the shapes of the other pieces had become obscured. But now I’m seeing it all. And there, on the sidelines, is the right piece.

I shrug off my coat, never once taking my eyes from the board.

What. The. Hell.

I have to start over, but I don’t let myself despair. I have new information—I know what won’t work. I have a promising new direction.

I flip the board over to the side where I have the entire structural formula sketched out, and I step back. Cross my arms. Think loosely about synthesis. Back on the hunt.

Three hours pass like wildfire.

Willow arrives at nine thirty, and that forces me to take a break.

We go to my desk and I show her the email.

To whom it may concern;

I just wanted to let you know the wake-up-call operator with whom we contract here at Vossameer, Operator Seven, is doing a truly outstanding job. I’m extremely satisfied with her performance. Would still be interested in a long-term contract. Is that possible?

Yours truly,

Theo Drummond

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Good. Except you have twowhoms. Who sayswhomanymore?”

“I do.” I hit send.

She rolls her eyes at me with the passion only a little sister can muster. “Whatever. I’m not making any guarantees here.”

“I know. Anything you can get,” I say. “Anything. Every shred of info. I want it all.”

“Of course you do.” She clicks over to the Craigslist ad. “I’m curious, too. This whole thing is weird. The discrepancy with the date, the fact the old versions of the ad aren’t present on any of the Wayback sites. Not that the caches are infallible, but come on. And I think it’s weird that they don’t have a site. If they’re a real company, they should have a site.”

“You’d think.”

She’s staring at me again. “Come on, tell me. What’s your interest in this?”

“Having my answer without a lot of explanation, ideally.”

She makes a face at me and clicks again. “I might not get anything at all.”

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