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I make a face.
“Sorry. Office of Drug Evaluation.”
Enzo’s been the point of contact for the product development and antidote approval process, which means he’s more up on the FDA lingo than I am.
I don’t need to ask him why he’s looking at me like that. While I assured him that my behavior on Saturday night meant nothing, we both know I had no good reason to approach Ada Flemming in that bar. And Enzo doesn’t even know about the hundred-dollar drink.
Maybe my father is right.
I’m a screwup, and I keep discovering new ways to get myself in trouble on a regular basis.
“I take it you don’t think it’s a good idea?” I ask.
“Hell no, it’s not a good idea. But it’s a better one than passing on an opportunity to move the process along.”
I clear my throat. “Agreed.”
Enzo shoots me a warning look.
“Listen.” The last thing I want is for Enzo to be nervous. He entrusted this venture to me, and I won’t let him down. “I would never screw up something this important. For a woman. Even one as pretty as Ada Flemming.”
Denying I’m attracted to her would just mark me as a straight-up liar, and Enzo would never buy it anyway.
“I’m serious,” I add, standing. “Send me her info. And meet me at Faustini’s at six thirty.”
Enzo doesn’t seem completely pacified, and I don’t blame him. My track record is less than stellar. But on this, he doesn’t need to worry.
My best friend’s genius invention.
Eight million dollars of my father’s money.
Angel, Inc. is no ordinary venture, and even I know enough not to fuck this one up.
9
Ada
“Thank God, you are a lifesaver!”
My colleague looks at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“I’m a lifesaver because I’m dragging you into a meeting?” Qasim asks.
“Yes,” I assure him as he leans against the doorframe of my office.
“You heard what I said about the boss wanting everyone there stat? And about ordering in lunch? You know what that means, don’t you?”
I nod happily. “We’ll be stuck in there for the rest of the day.”
“OK, Flemming. What’s your deal?”
Qasim is my only other colleague who’s also a nonwork friend. The first time we ever went out, he took me to a club where his boyfriend is a bartender. What he failed to tell me was that the bar makes a habit of giving patrons a microphone at random times throughout the night, forcing you to sing whatever song is being played. Qasim took immense pleasure in ensuring I was the first victim, so I didn’t know it was acceptable to refuse the mic.
I ended up singing a really, really bad rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.”
We’ve been friends ever since.
“No deal,” I lie. “Tell her I’ll be there in ten. I have an appointment to cancel.”
