"Did you get the intel on Lancaster's finances?"

I squirm against the hard plastic subway seat and adjust my grip on the phone. "Yes. No. Kind of."

"What the hell does that mean, babe?" Luca sounds impatient. "You either got the intel or you didn't."

"I got it," I murmur, wincing. "And then... I kind of... lost it."

Silence blasts over the line. "Care to explain?"

"Listen, Luke, it's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it for me."

"I have the files on a flash drive."

"Okay, so what's the problem?"

"The flash drive may or may not be... misplaced at the moment." I wince again. "But I'm going to get it back. In fact, I'm on my way to get it back at this precise moment."

More silence.

"Don't freeze me out," I snap, making sure my voice is too low for the other passengers to overhear. "You should be thanking me for going on this crazy mission of yours at all. I almost got caught. Some..." I pause, searching for the right word to describe Parker. "...some stranger had to save my ass."

"Uh huh. Would this stranger have anything to do with your missing intel?"

My jaw clenches. He knows me too well.

"Guess the silent treatment is okay as long as you're the one using it, huh, babe?" he teases.

"Shut up."

"For real... you okay?" he asks, voice suddenly serious. "Don't like hearing you were almost caught. I shouldn't have asked you to put yourself at risk. I should've been there to help you."

"I'm fine." I sigh. "Parker - the guy who helped me - was there. He covered for me. I don't know why, but he did."

"I know why," Luca mutters. "I've seen that black dress."

I blink. "What?"

"Never mind." He clears his throat. "Just let me know how it goes."

"Aye, aye, captain."

He clicks off, leaving me listening to dead air.

I hate when he does that.

Ten minutes later I'm out of the dark subway tunnels, squinting as afternoon sunshine glares off the towering glass skyscrapers of the Financial District. This part of the city feels foreign to me - too new, too tall, to modern for Boston, a place steeped more strongly in history than the tea we once dumped into our harbors to piss off the British. These towers all look the same, totally devoid of charm and character. I head for the one with the WestTech logo on the side and step through the glass rotating doors, keeping my head held high and my strides confident.

The first rule of blending in anywhere: act like you belong and people will assume you do.

Luca's been saying it since we were kids. Fake it till you make it, babe.

The lobby is jammed with people returning from their lunch breaks, just as I'd hoped. Amid the chaos, I note the entire space is decked out in holiday decorations, complete with a fifteen foot Fraser fir and massive ornaments suspended from the ceiling, like model airplanes at a museum.

It takes effort not to physically recoil at the show of Christmas cheer.

In ten days, it'll be December 26th and all these painful reminders of the things you've lost will be packed back in their boxes for a whole year and shoved away in attics and basements, out of sight.

Ten days. 240 hours. 14,400 minutes.

You can make it, Zoe. You always make it.

I fall into step with a group of women on their way back from lunch. The uncomfortable heels I bought at PayLess for fifteen bucks on my way here are giving me blisters, but I don't pay them any attention. I trail behind the chatting women, trying to look like I'm part of their posse, and remind myself not to tug on the lapels of my navy blazer or white skirt.

Fidgeting is a dead giveaway.

I'm past the security desk and in line for the elevators before anyone has time to give me a second glance. When the doors open, I slip inside and stare down at my phone so no one has the urge to make small talk with me. The words are a blur on the screen - I can't focus on anything except the knowledge that in another twenty-seven - ding! Make that twenty-six - floors, I'll be face to face with a man I've been fantasizing about since last night.

The crowd thins as we slowly ascend, stopping to unload passengers every few floors. My pulse starts to skyrocket the higher we climb, as though my blood pressure is somehow linked to altitude.

Or proximity to Parker.

I swallow hard and tighten my grip the phone, trying to remind myself this is about business, nothing more. Plus, I'm not just going to walk into his office, wag a disapproving finger in his face, and say, "Return my flash drive, or else!"

Give me a little credit. I have a plan.

I get off on the twelfth floor, which - according to a quick internet search - houses the Tech Support Department, and push the chunky, cat-eye glasses further up the bridge of my nose as I make my way down the hall. The lenses are clear glass - just a prop - but they'll help me get the leverage I need.

Techie boys can't resist the allure of cute nerd girls. It's a scientific fact.

I follow a short hallway until I find their office and step through the doorway. A trio of IT guys sit amidst a bank of computers. Satisfaction thrums though my veins when all three men look up and take notice, going still at their desks as their eyes sweep me from head to toe.

What did I tell you - cat-eye glasses and knee socks?

Nerd-boy kryptonite.

They're all in their mid to late twenties, pale from too much time in front of a computer screen and in serious need of some wardrobe advisement judging by their crumb-covered khakis and lopsided ties. I fight the urge to sigh. This is exactly why computer geeks never get the girl.

(At least, not until they make their first million.) I linger in the doorway and watch as the three of them slide off their noise-cancelling headphones and pivot in their squeaky computer chairs to get a better look at me. The sound of fingers clacking against keys fades into silence and the air fills with hushed excitement. I can almost see the red alert messages flashing inside their brains.

GIRL. IN. OFFICE.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

"Can we help you?" the bespectacled man closest to me asks. The other two are leaning forward in their seats, looks of anticipation on their faces.

The Three Freaking Stooges, in the flesh. This is going to be almost too easy.

"I seriously hope so." I jut out a hip as I pull a laptop from my bag. "I'm Sandra - I work up in accounting. I spilled something on my keyboard this morning and I will be, like, eternally grateful if one of you can salvage it." I pause for effect. "The girls upstairs were like, 'Oh, you should take it to the geniuses at the Apple Store' but I was like 'Um, don't you know we have a whole department of geniuses right downstairs?'" I grin when I see Larry, Moe, and Curly are hanging on my every word.

"So..." I swivel my gaze around the office. "You think you guys could help me? If you're too busy... I guess I can go to the Apple store..."

"No!" All three of them practically yell at the same time.

My grin widens until I'm beaming. "Great!"

I step into the office and walk toward Moe, swinging my hips and stopping a fraction closer to him than I would a normal stranger.

It's safe to say he's affected by my nearness. The man can barely meet my eyes as he takes the junk laptop - another prop I keep handy for occasions such as this - from my hands. You wouldn't believe how many times this same routine has gotten me access into buildings I'm not supposed to be within a ten-block radius of.

Never underestimate the power of horny tech-support staffers.

(Spoiler alert: they're always horny.) "We'll take a look and see what we can do," Moe tells me as Larry and Curly watch from the sidelines, no doubt envious they aren't the ones who'll be attempting to resuscitate a computer that's been dead since 2010, when a city-wide power outage fried my hard drive.

"Thanks so much!" I gush. "I owe you guys! And I'll be sure to tell the girls upstairs that they should stop walking all the way to the Apple Store every time they have an issue. This is much closer... and you guys are way cuter."

Moe's expression matches that of a child on Christmas.

Larry looks like he might start weeping tears of joy.

Curly looks a little nauseous.

God, I'm good.

"I suppose you guys won't mind if I hang out here for a bit, while you're fixing it?" I ask, batting my eyelashes. "I can just, like, play Solitaire or something on one of your extra computers."

"Of course not," Moe mutters quickly, looking slightly embarrassed as he examines the console beside his. The desktop is littered with empty Red Bull cans and old microwaveable burrito wrappers. "Let me just clear this off for you..."

"You can sit over here!" Larry calls.

"Or here!" Curly adds.

"No worries, boys." Holding Moe's gaze, I watch a blush creep up the side of his neck beneath his collar and try not to smirk as I backpedal toward a desk in the corner, where my screen won't be visible to them. "This one will be fine."

"Okay." Moe looks a little crestfallen, but turns his attention quickly back to the fried laptop in his hands. "This looks like it might take a while. Just hang tight and let us know if you need anything."

Oh, Moe, I think as I log onto their server and cue up the terminal window. You've already given me everything I need.

5.

The Magic Trick

An hour later, I step off the elevators onto the penthouse floor with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.

"Do you have an appointment?" The pretty receptionist behind the desk tilts her head at me. Her hair is pinned up in a French-twist or some other elaborate, work-appropriate up-do that looks effortless but I'm sure took at least thirty minutes. Not a single shiny, brown lock is out of place.

Ugh. I can barely manage a freaking pony tail without compressing the nerves in my neck. Right now, I feel the weight of my curls straining against my clip. It's only a matter of time before it clatters to the marble floor - one more casualty in the war to tame my mane.

"No," I blurt when I realize she's staring at me, waiting for an answer. "I don't have an appointment."

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. West has no availability to see you today. Fridays are always busy - no time for walk-ins." She purses her lips as she gestures toward a prim stack of gray business cards to my left. "Feel free to take a card and call the office to make an appointment. Currently, we're booking into March."

I stare at her, not moving. "March. As in... three months from now?"

"Mr. West is a busy man."

"Oh, I'll bet he is."

Her eyes narrow at my thinly-veiled sarcasm. "If you'd like to leave a message with me, I'll make sure he gets it."

"Uh huh." It doesn't escape my notice that she makes no move to pick up her pen. I figure that means the chances of her passing on any messages are nil.

"So." She rises to her feet and I see the rest of her is as annoyingly put-together as her hair. I feel like an idiot in my thrift-store ensemble. "If you'll just make your way to the elevators..."

"Yeah, the thing is, March isn't going to work for me." I stare her down.

She goes still and her voice lowers. "Please leave and call back for an appointment."

"Nope, don't think so."

"Miss, I will not hesitate to call security."

"No need to waste their time." I shrug, turn, and cross to the white leather sofa across from her desk. "I'll just wait while you call Mr. West and tell him I'm here to solve his computer issues."

"But-" Steam is going to start leaking from her ears any second. "We aren't having any computer issues."