Page 9 of Duty Compromised
But apparently, put me in front of a man who smiles like I’m worth noticing, and my entire nervous system seizes like a cheap hard drive.
My mind helpfully dredged up the greatest hits of my early college years. First week at Stanford: me hauling my box of physics texts and periodic table poster into the dorm common room while everyone else plastered their walls with band posters and photos from high school dances.
They looked at me like I was an alien species they weren’t sure whether was dangerous. I wasn’t old enough to drive, but I was apparently old enough to skip three grades and start college.
I’d never been just a kid. While other freshmen were at football games or beer-fueled parties, I was in the lab running simulations or holed up in the library’s farthest corner, pretending I was too deep in research to notice how empty my lunch table had been that afternoon.
The equations didn’t care if I wore the same sweater three days in a row. Textbooks didn’t snicker when I forgot to wash my hair because I was chasing a breakthrough.
I really thought I’d grown out of all the social awkwardness. Years at Vertex, giving board presentations without my voice shaking, even making a few real friends. It had taken years, but I could finally navigate a collaborative project without short-circuiting.
But apparently all that carefully built confidence was no match for Ty Hughes. One look at those brown eyes—brown with gold flecks, because of course they had gold flecks—and I was back to being that terrified girl who didn’t know the rules of existing in the same room as other people.
Brilliant in the lab.
Complete system failure everywhere else.
If this were a peer-reviewed journal, the conclusion would be clear: Charlotte Gifford + Ty Hughes = catastrophic loss of professional composure. Results repeatable under minimal stimulus.
No wonder he thought I was the worst receptionist in history. Probably thought I was the biggest moron in history.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Darcy’s entrance was heralded by the click of heels—heels I couldn’t walk in without risking a trip to the ER. She had that purposeful stride like she’d been born knowing where she was going and how good she looked getting there. Her face was lit up the way mine only got when I finally squashed a bug in my code after three days of hunting it…or when the cafeteria put out the good muffins.
“Oh. My. God. Charlotte, did you see him?” She fanned herself with one manicured hand, like she might actually combust. “He’s gorgeous. Those arms. That jaw. The way he fills out those tactical pants should be a criminal offense.”
I tried to summon words. “Darcy?—”
But she was already revving up.
“When I walked in and saw him, I forgot why I’d even left the lab. I think I just stood there staring like an idiot—oh, wait, that was you.” She hopped up onto the counter next to the sink, skirt riding up just enough to make me conscious of my own very unremarkable slacks. “Alex wants to see you in his office, by the way. But seriously—what’s Ty doing here? I thought all that FBI business was over six months ago when we gave them the Cascade Protocol. Case closed, everyone go home, let’s get back to saving the world with science.”
“I don’t know.” I turned toward her, leaning back against the sink so the porcelain edge could dig into my lower back and anchor me to the present. “Agent Morrison said the vulnerabilities were patched. Everything was secure. There’s no reason for extra security. Especially not someone who looks like he could…I don’t know…carry my car to work for me.”
Her grin went positively wicked. “Whatever the reason, the view just got better. I saw you out there, by the way. You completely froze when he introduced himself. He had to repeat his name like you were running some internal algorithm before accepting the data. And then you parroted it back to him like you were confirming the output matched the input.”
“I was surprised,” I lied. Badly.
Darcy’s laugh bounced off the tile. “Charlotte, you didn’t even answer the phone when it rang—just stared at it like it might explode. And then you went right back to rummaging through the desk like you worked the front.” Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Actually, didn’t he think you were the receptionist at first? That must’ve been…”
“Mortifying,” I groaned, covering my face with both hands. My cheeks were hot enough to power a small steam engine. “Because I was standing there digging around for a pen, and he just…went with it.”
“That’s cute, in a tragic sort of way. Dr. Charlotte Gifford—two PhDs, can run quantum simulations in her head—undone by a desk phone.” She tilted her head, studying me like I was a fascinating new dataset. “In three years, I’ve never seen you even glance at someone, much less ogle. Not once. I was beginning to think you were ace or just fully committed to your work marriage with the lab.”
“I didn’t ogle. I am entirely unaffected by Ty Hughes’s presence here—” The denial tripped over itself on the way out.
“Oh, please.” She started ticking points off on her fingers. “One: you turned the color of marinara sauce. Two: you walked into a door. Three: you forgot to badge in and just stood there until the reader beeped at you. These are not the actions of someone entirely unaffected.”
“The badge reader malfunctioned,” I offered weakly.
She smirked. “Because you forgot to badge in. Because you were staring at Mr. Tactical-Shoulders instead of remembering how doors work. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure you were into men. No judgment—just saying. I’ve seen you breeze past Brad from Marketing, the MIT guy with the tragic goatee, even the one with the Irish accent?—”
“I am into men.” It came out sharper than I meant, because apparently I had a lifetime of pent-up frustration about this exact assumption. “But someone like Ty Hughes is not my type.”
Which was…true. Sort of. Men like him—confident, charming, ridiculously attractive—noticed women like me just long enough to realize I couldn’t flirt without accidentally bringing up thermodynamics. Then they redirected their attention to someone who knew when to laugh and never accidentally explained particle physics when asked about their weekend. I learned that lesson a decade ago.
“Not your type?” Darcy’s laugh was disbelieving. “Charlotte, he’s everyone’s type. He’s the universal constant of hotness. Like the speed of light, but for biceps.”
I pushed away from the sink, yanking at my lab coat to straighten it—pointless—and retrieved my tablet from the counter. “Can we not do this right now? Alex is waiting.”
