Page 65 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“App,” she says.

“But the way her voice would—”

“App.”

“Damn.” My heart sinks. I loved that voice. The smart, raspy snap of it.

Time to start your day of being a complete and utter asshole.

I loved her sassy comebacks. I loved the rich rush of her breath when she was getting herself off. God, it’s embarrassing that it’s partly due to an app. Crushing. An app wielded by a woman I feel no chemistry with.

Willow’s watching me, waiting for me to say something.

“I suppose she gets points for resourcefulness,” I say. “It’s just that she doesn’t seem like the type to…”

“To invent a wake-up-call service out of desperation for her demanding boss?”

I was more thinking about her heat, her annoyance, the long, interesting conversations. The goat videos. All of it. “She did seem flustered when I asked her about it. Like she had something to hide. I wondered about it at the time.”

Willow smiles. “And then she writes that ad. After you ask.”

I was having phone sex with Sasha Bale in marketing.

I should feel happy I figured it out. Maybe I’ll wake up at night working on dehydrated Vossameer instead of wondering why Seven’s a wake-up-call girl or analyzing the sounds in the background for clues to her life.

I run through other things she said. Getting her in trouble with her boss by snooping—that, too, makes sense. She didn’t want me to know. I’m her boss.

Except, in my few interactions with Sasha, the impression I always got was one of very eager admiration. On what planet does this woman make a rude and abusive wake-up call? Does she have a different personality when she’s on the phone? The way certain people get road rage behind the wheel or become trolls on the internet?

Willow grabs her coffee. “I gotta go.”

I heave myself up and walk her to the elevators. She gets in and turns. Wags her finger at me. “Don’t be too hard on her. She was probably desperate.”

I head back to my office feeling agitated. Sasha Bale? My feelings say no, it can’t be her, but the facts say yes. What kind of chemist would I be if I went with feelings over facts?

It’s just that I’d felt sure that if I met Seven in real life, I’d recognize her deep down, that I’d feel something powerful—some sort of pull, or an emotional charge.

A silly notion. I’m a scientist, not a starry-eyed romantic. What’s next? Writing love poetry and learning to play the lute? This needs to stop. I need to confirm my findings and be done with it.

I sit down and send Sasha an email.

Are you free for a quick lunch at Siefer’s at noon? I’d like to run something by you.

I don’t say what. Will she know she’s busted? She’ll suspect it. She’s bright. But what’s she going to say? No? I’m her boss.

Which is, I suppose, what legions of sexually harassing bosses have thought to themselves. Though I think it’s safe to say that we’ve left sexual harassment territory far, far behind. We’ve traveled galaxies beyond anything HR would ever approve of.

I settle back into my chair and study some data.

I guess Sasha wasn’t lying when she said I’m the only one she talks to like that. And the lab coat. There are old images of me in a lab coat online, but it’s what she sees me in every day, so it makes sense.

I try to put Sasha’s face with Operator Seven’s voice. Operator Seven’s words. The honesty and vulnerability that seems to flow so easily between us.

I pull up her employee file from the HR database. The file doesn’t contain many personal details. She’s worked in the marketing department of several nonprofits. Attended school at the University of Colorado. Member of the debate team. The knot in my gut loosens as I think about that comment of hers about debate teams. I need to give her a chance.

Her workhasbeen good lately. Her Instagram ideas. She’s a beautiful woman in her way. Not that it matters. Except I imagined Seven so differently.

You don’t see what’s right in front of your face.

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