Her Intern Read online

  “I’m not sure if I should congratulate you on your new internship or knock you off your board,” he says.

  Jack is a big guy with the size to follow through on his threat, although we both know he won’t. This is partly due to us having been best friends since our freshman year of college, where we shared an apartment and a major in computer science at the University of California at Santa Cruz. We spent most of our time hacking or surfing. Before I met Jack, however, I was the youngest brother in a family of four boys. I’m competitive about everything and Jack knows it.

  Long-term friendship has pluses and minuses. On the plus side, Jack makes an amazing wingman and he really gets me. On the con side, he often knows what I’m thinking and acts as a self-appointed conscience and guardian angel whenever he decides I’m headed for the moral deep end without a life jacket.

  His superpower is that, despite being the size of a professional hockey player (which is why I at least pretend to listen to him) and having the killer instincts of a shark, people like him. Unlike me, he’s the amiable, happily married prince among men that ladies love to borrow as a loaner husband and confidant. Today, the shaggy hair that usually falls around his face is pulled back in a ponytail and his wet suit outlines his muscles. I squint. He looks sort of like the Hulk, but less green and way more smiley.

  “You shouldn’t have let that girl think you were her intern.” But I have been, for a couple of weeks now. Jack eyeballs the ocean.

  Today is the kind of day that comes to mind when you think of California. Bright blue sky, supernova-heated sand on the beach thanks to the sun, and ocean everywhere. Plus, the waves are perfect.

  “She assumed. I capitalized on it.” Jack plays by a very black-and-white set of rules, so in the Jack Rulebook, I’ve been a very, very bad boy. And while I know my new internship is questionable, I still feel I have a winning proposition.

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to find out who stole my software, Jack Ass.”

  Jack ignores his college nickname, stroking his fingers over the surface of his board as he tests the wax job. I’ve pointed out that the whole stroking thing makes it look as if he’s jerking off an enormous dick. “You always build in a Trojan because you’re paranoid.”

  True.

  “So it’s not like she can go live with it,” he continues. “Plus, you have an awesome legal team, a big bank account for bankrolling a lawsuit and the social capital to burn her. Either pick the right fight or let it go and move on.”

  I grin. “The day after she launches, I’ll pull the trigger on the Trojan and all her product will turn into rainbow-colored dildos and rubber duckies. Then I’ll hit her e-commerce server with a million requests a minute.”

  “She’ll be down within the hour, so why go out of your way now to infiltrate her office and give her any kind of leg to stand on?” Jack’s familiarity with my game plan may have something to do with the number of times we pulled this stunt in our younger, more lawless days. Now that he’s married, and owns a very successful VC firm with his best friend Hazel, he claims to be reformed.

  “Who’s Dev getting horizontal with now?” Max pops up behind me. Max O’Reilly is the third in our triumvirate and I blame him for the worst hacking offenses of our college careers. I may hate secrets, but Max has a vendetta against ignorance in any form. You know that stupid line about curiosity killing the cat but satisfaction brought him back? Just substitute Max for cat.

  “He’s upgraded his skill set to super ninja infiltration.” Jack makes big eyes in my direction.

  Max frowns. Literal at the best of times, Max takes a sledgehammer approach to most social situations—which makes the fact that he’s the billionaire owner/creator of a successful dating app hilarious. Only Max would reduce human interaction to neat lines of code and end up with a fat bank account rather than an actual date.

  Like us, Max wears a black wet suit. Even in June, the water off the California coast is cold enough to turn your balls into blue Popsicles.

  “Remember the rule,” Jack says.

  “Which one?” Jack has too many. I bought him a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order the same Christmas he gave me a label maker. Like the British royal family, we have a gag gifts–only rule for present-giving.

  “The rule. No sex at work.”

  There’s silence for a beat as we bob up and down on our boards. And while all three of us have flirted with the rule, none of us has ever broken it. The most we do is flirt, especially if the woman in question is a client. If she’s an employee, we don’t even look in her direction. It’s asking for trouble. But...

  “Does Lola’s office count as work? Because technically I’m her employee. She’s paying me.”

  “You need to keep your hands to yourself. Don’t look at her, don’t touch her.”

  Max nods solemnly. “Personal space bubbles are important.” Max has learned this in his capacity as uncle to his sister’s twin demon spawn.

  “What if she looks at me? And invites me into said bubble?”

  Jack shakes his head. “Don’t. I can have it tattooed on your dick if that helps.”

  Jack reaches over and slaps me on the back. “Does this mean your new boss is hot?”

  “You bet.”

  “So what’s it like having your first internship?”

  Jack laughs so hard he almost falls off his board. None of us interned in college—we’d been too busy launching our first companies. We’d found the magic, winning chute in the Game of Life.

  “Taking orders sucks. She wants coffee runs, photocopies, meeting minutes and code reviews. I’m not allowed to check in any code changes without written permission—it’s like getting a field trip note from my parents. Then she points out every place I’ve done something different from how she would have done it—which is everywhere—and tells me to redo it.”

  “None of those are unreasonable requests,” Jack points out.

  “They’re not requests. They’re orders.” Great. I sound like an unhappy five-year-old. Maybe I could whine it’s not fair for my next trick. “I have no idea how normal twentysomethings handle this.”

  “They need the paycheck.” Max sounds serious. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or not. We all know interning isn’t a lucrative proposition.

  “But I’m right.”

  Jack, naturally, mock-wags his finger at me. “And she’s the boss. What if she knows something you don’t? Or her way of doing things is equally good?”

  I consider the possibility before dismissing it with a middle finger in Jack’s direction. “I’m the best at what I do.”

  “Think of it like sex,” Jack says, checking the wave coming toward us.

  “I do not want to think about sex and you.” Max nods, in vigorous agreement with me. In college, we didn’t hang neckties on doorknobs to indicate that the room was occupied; we’d just agreed that our triple was a bang-free zone and that we’d take girls anywhere else. The rooms at Santa Cruz were too small for sexcapades.

  “Work with me here.” Jack sighs, a long, dramatic, oh-woe-is-me sigh I blame on his one and only stint as a thespian. He’d signed up for UC Santa Cruz’s summer production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream because he’d wanted to bang Titania. Hazel had been the stage manager and she superglued the ass head to his hair because Titania—aka Molly—was her best friend, and she was too shy to tell Jack to bugger off. Jack married Molly four years later, and he and Hazel have been friends and partners in crime ever since. She’s the prettier but no less cutthroat half of their VC company. Together they have their thumbs in some of the tastiest Silicon Valley pies.

  Jack has suggested repeatedly that we grow up and include Hazel in our Saturday surf dates rather than shut her out of our boys-only tree house. She’s great, but I’ve shot him down every time—not because she’d prefer to discuss the hotness of the male of
the species, but because she honest-to-God can’t swim. Drowning Jack’s business partner isn’t a friendly move. The compromise is her sitting on the beach with a book and holding on to our wallets. Currently she’s a bright pink dot wrapped in three blankets. In addition to not being a good swimmer, Hazel gets cold easily.

  Jack continues, “You’ve got the moves, you’re the foreplay master, you’ve got the whole night mapped out and it’s going to the best orgasm she’s ever had.”

  “So, a typical night.”

  Jack ignores that. “But your date knows what makes her come, so what if she wants to do something different? She’s not wrong, right?”

  Put that way, my actions might possibly seem a little immature.

  Jack taps his heart. “What do you want to happen next?”

  I blame Hazel for Jack’s insane willingness to talk about feelings and relationship next steps. She’s a terrible influence. Jack claims it’s a side effect of being married, which just underscores what a dangerous idea the whole two-becoming-one state is—he’s turned into a girl.

  “Pretty certain misrepresenting yourself in the hiring process is illegal,” Max says. “Plus, if she mistook you for the intern, there must be a real one out there somewhere. What if he shows up?”

  “No problem. I’ll be in and out.”

  “That’s what she said.” Max waggles his eyebrows and I knock him off his board.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lola

  MAPLE AND I are having sad desk salads for lunch. She’s on some sort of mason jar salad kick this month, so she’s brought us each a glass jar crammed with more fiber and vegetables than I usually face in a week. Nellie flops by my feet, disappointed that it’s not bacon cheeseburger day.

  Frankly, I’m voting with Nellie. When Maple hands me my jar, my first thought is ooh, super pretty. The greens and vegetables are layered inside like a healthy version of three-bean party dip. I unscrew the lid and poke my fork inside.

  Maple aims hers at me. “How is Pretty Boy?”

  She thinks it’s hilarious that my summer intern is none other than Hot Lap Guy. She asked how he took finding out I’d be his boss for the summer, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her. I tried to apologize, he announced he wasn’t pro second chances, and then he stayed anyhow. I think that means he’s decided we can work together. Yes, I’ve felt his penis up through his pants and he’s had his hand on my knee, but no one has seen anyone naked and there’s been no tongue (which is slightly disappointing, if I’m being honest).

  I chew before confessing. “He’s a grumpy bastard.”

  “A grumpy, gorgeous bastard?” Maple beams at me.

  “He thinks I’m an idiot.” I wrestle with a cherry tomato that’s gotten wedged beneath a chunk of walnut.

  “You’re crushing on him.” Maple doesn’t bother making it a question. I’m always crushing on someone, probably because it’s the safe kind of fun—I don’t have to actually do anything besides lurk on the sidelines and watch. This makes me sound like a creepy voyeur, when it’s more that if I ever actually had a real-life relationship, I’d want it to be a spectacular success. I hate failing.

  “I’m not discussing my intern with you.” I shovel far too much salad into my mouth just in case she wears me down. Anything I say now will be garbled by arugula.

  “So there’s something to discuss?”

  “No!” I choke-swallow.

  “But you wish there was.” She daintily spears her own cherry tomato. “You’ve imagined it.”

  “It wouldn’t be professional.”

  She sighs and screws the top back onto her mason jar. “You should go for it.”

  “I don’t think we’re compatible. He’s gorgeous, but he insists on talking. Or barking orders. You’d think he was the company founder. I gave him a Burger King crown last week and he recycled it.”

  “So not Prince Charming?”

  I make a face. “Think troll living under the bridge. He’s cranky and he likes to jump out at people when they’re least expecting it and make ridiculous demands.”

  “So shut him down.” Maple waves her hand for emphasis. Unfortunately, it’s the hand holding her fork and a piece of spinach crash-lands on my shirt.

  “He’s useful.” I pick the spinach off my shirt, consider eating it, but opt for the mature route and instead deposit it in the trash can. “He organized the kitchen last week. He owns a label maker—do you think he qualifies as a psychopath?”

  He’d tackled the kitchen because he was bored. Unfortunately, he had good reason to be. I’d code-checked the code he’d written for Calla and he could have sold it on the open market. He’d also finished in forty-three hours. When I’d questioned how he’d found the time, he’d yawned and said he had chronic insomnia and therefore more than enough spare time to knock out my stupid project. Then he’d proceeded to explain—in unnecessary detail—why my original request was flawed, which had led to yet another flaming row between us.

  Maple groans. “Neither of you is crazy, okay? He’s just super organized and you’re—not.”

  “I could learn to be.” My jaw is sending distress signals to my brain, demanding we go on chewing strike. I give up on the salad and make a mental note to hit the taco truck.

  Maple snorts. “Or you could just keep driving him nuts.”

  I eye her doubtfully. “I either babble or go mute when he shows up. I don’t think he’s exactly struck dumb with lust by my sexy person.”

  Maple pats my shoulder. “Just sit on his lap again and it’ll all work out.”

  Dev

  Two weeks into my “internship,” I have a workable morning routine. I get up at the crack of dawn and power through whatever King Me requires before heading over to Calla. I’ve been putting out feelers, doing the social engineering thing, but so far none of my new office mates seem aware that their e-commerce software is pirated. And since their network is lamentably unsecure, I’ve had a few opportunities to poke around in their files—and yet I’ve turned up nothing. No clues. No answers. I suspect I need to get my hands on Lola’s laptop to uncover the truth.

  Frankly, anyone who knows me as the billionaire boy genius would be horrified that I’m presently an administrative assistant and low-level code monkey, fetching coffee and contributing the odd line of entirely redundant code. Lola mumbled something about bikes and training wheels before darting off when I demanded better job opportunities, but she just doesn’t want anyone else touching her code.

  I get it.

  I suck at sharing, too, but after five years running King Me, I’ve learned some important lessons. As much as I hate giving up control, I also can’t do everything myself—and there are some tasks (accounting, payroll and cleaning the restrooms come to mind) that I refuse outright to do. I pay people well to do what I won’t. Lola, however, is everywhere at Calla, doing everything. She’s here constantly.

  I sort of envy her her passion. I’ve considered selling King Me at the end of the year because I’m bored. Which probably explains why I’m here undercover at Calla rather than working in my posh office in downtown San Francisco. Yes, I named my company after the first game I ever won. I demolished my brothers at checkers and this way they can’t ever forget. It was too easy after a while, rather like King Me. I’m still not sure what I’ll do next. Sitting around on the beach and surfing all day isn’t enough.

  Today, I stick to what I’ve dubbed The Routine. I chat briefly with the receptionist because establishing goodwill with Cerberus is smart. You never know when you might need to escape hell quickly. After a minute of witty repartee, I hole up with my laptop and check email. Next, I fetch coffee. I’ve coded a coffee app that lets my temporary office mates weigh in and change their minds a half dozen times without my having to kill them.

  Lola has yet to use the app since her phone is always buried at the bottom of the ginorm
ous tote bag she hauls around. I’ve already suggested using a tile, a pocket, or her bra strap to keep track of her phone, but she shot me down on all three counts.

  I step into Lola’s office without knocking. Since her office has no doors and the wall between her and the main floor is glass, knocking is superfluous. Plus, her fat white dog makes a teakettle noise whenever I approach. She’s sitting on top of her yoga ball, half staring off into space, half frowning at her screen. She puffs her cheeks out and exhales. In an instant, I’m imagining what that small breath would feel like skating over my skin. It’s a stupid thought. It’s not like she’s even noticed that I’m here. Based on previous encounters, she’ll ignore me unless she’s decided to give me shit.

  I saunter toward her, coffee tray expertly balanced in one hand. Time to effect some changes. This time when I slide her drink in front of her, I slide her laptop away at the same time. It’s a well-timed move, rather like turning the TV off on one of Max’s nephews. Her eyes widen in outrage, and like the nephews, she’s seconds away from vocal protests unless I provide her with a better option or break out the voice of God.

  I squat down beside her yoga ball, pop the top off the cup and make a show of wafting cardamom and cinnamon-scented fumes toward her. The dog materializes seemingly out of nowhere, waddling toward me. As the bearer of treats, I’m allowed temporary access to her domain.

  “You know you want it.”

  Work inappropriate? Sure, but watch this. Lola just nods her head and grabs the cup. She’s challenged in the dirty innuendo department. Pretty much everyone here at Calla has a Lola story about some spectacularly funny moment where our boss failed to grasp the subtext. But those same people really like her. Lola might be annoyingly vague and slow to get a joke, but she’s painstakingly fair. She goes out of her way to be helpful, and where other people grant second chances, she’s willing to go up to imaginary numbers. Last week Lola hired a random old lady from the Chinese market down the street to translate when the twenty-two-year-old director of shipping lost Calla’s entire product inventory somewhere on the Chinese mainland.