Into My Arms - Lia Riley Page 0,5

European bite to his consonants.

I swipe my keycard to enter the building, avoiding the elevator that goes directly to the Fishbowl. Before I face the three hundred e-mails that have no doubt flooded my inbox during the last hour and a half, I go to the executive break room. This is where the good stuff is stashed for the bigwigs at Zavtra Tech. I’m not a bigwig and technically not supposed to open the freezer and scan the items that in no way belong to me.

But considering that today I’ve mulled over the idea of whoring myself to my roommate and selling a rare fish on the black market, stealing chocolate toffee ice cream is the least of my current sins. I’m desperate enough for a sugar fix to covertly scoop myself a bowl, grab a spoon, and shove the container back in the freezer, trying not to wince at the $14.99 price tag on the lid.

Fifteen bucks for a pint of ice cream? Jesus, were these organic grass-fed cows milked by nuns who took a vow of silence in a luxury convent?

When I get back to my seat, I bang the bowl triumphantly on the desk and the spoon clatters to the floor.

“Crap.”

Koroleva’s mouth silently opens and closes. Her ever-watchful eyes are cold and blank, probably just like her owner. I spend most of my life in the sole company of a fish worth more than me, and I’m starving yet spoonless. This is my life.

I pick it up anyway and lick the ice cream, basically going down on this bowl. It could easily be a porno—a broke, hungry food fetish porno.

At least the only creature bearing witness is a fish.

My computer pings.

Z.

I wipe my mouth and realize ice cream is smeared on my nose. The camera stares and a terrible feeling sinks in. What if he really can see me? What if this isn’t a weird one-sided fantasy?

What if he…watches me?

That’s stupid and paranoid. Reclusive, billionaire geniuses do other things besides ogle their personal assistants. They are too busy refreshing offshore bank account balances, or buying ungodly amounts of random items on Amazon, or heck, buying Amazon full stop. Except he always knows when I’m here.

Ping! I flinch in my seat.

Aleksander Zavtra: Bethanny. I am happy to see you

Case in point. I glance at the camera again. How many times have I glared at that thing? Jesus, have I ever picked my nose, or scratched, or…

I pick up the ice cream and give it a slow, defiant lick.

Never has he written anything more than professional directions. Call this person. Cancel this meeting. Order this. Tell so and so to do the thing. Or not to do the thing.

I type back, licking chocolate from my lips: I’m ready. I omit the second part of the sentence, the question of the night—for what?

The reply is immediate. Meet me on the roof in five minutes. Bring Koroleva.

Chapter Three

Beth

Four minutes are wasted trying to figure out how to transport Koroleva. I can’t very well plop a million-dollar fish in my half-empty ice cream bowl for transport. Next to the tank is a small cupboard and inside—bingo!—a box of two-gallon plastic bags. I yank one out and search for a way to grab her. I’m hardly a primitive survivalist. I don’t even like handling raw chicken.

The fish’s stare holds a definite challenge, all “I’d like to see you try.”

“If my ass gets fired over you…,” I mutter. Z is notoriously anal about punctuality.

I roll my sleeves and go on tiptoe, swishing the bag through the water. “Come on, get in the bag.”

She darts around the edge, nibbles the plastic.

“Go in your home,” I order.

Great. I busted tail getting a 4.0 grade point average and landed a job at the most up-and-coming company in Silicon Valley to get all Happy Gilmore a fish.

My life is officially ridiculous.

Screw this. I move fast. A quick ninja dart of the hand and Koroleva is in the bag. I make sure to collect as much saltwater as possible, because I have no idea what Z is up to and there is no way I’ll give mouth-to-gill or be tasked with sourcing the world’s smallest defibrillator.

She thrashes with enough strength that I need to keep both hands steady on the bag. Forget my purse. Z said to go to the roof. Not Mars. Maybe all he wants is some special stargazing time with his weird pet. Who am I to question? I’m just a peasant off to have my