She shakes her head, and her red-gold hair swings around like a copper-hued whip. She doesn’t even consider it. “So I can get sued when it’s not fail-proof? I’ve hacked before, but I’ve never designed anything to not be hacked.”
“So you’re not up to the challenge?”
She doesn’t rise to my bait. “Nope, not even close. And if you want someone to test it out for you, just advertise for an ethical hacker. If you do that, you’ll get someone, I’m sure. Just announce that you want someone to test the limits of the software. It would apply to a lot of people, and the less legit ones will still be intrigued. If you offer a good amount of money, it will draw in more people. Then, when you have someone who can pick it apart in under a minute, that’s your guy. Or girl. That’s who you want to design things for you. You should have, at all times, at least ten good hackers on your staff.”
“I have good people on my staff,” I say defensively.
She lifts one pretty little shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Good. Then you don’t need me. Thanks for the photo.”
She walks right out the front door, and I can do nothing to stop her. She rejected my offer of work and my very…no, my overly generous offer of compensation. I went above and beyond, and she still turned me down. I even pulled out all the stops.
No, not all of them. I can practically hear Granny’s voice echoing in my head. There’s even a rancid Granny cackle at the end and a long ‘whhhhhhhoooooo boy,’ as she often says it. And another cackle.
I can hire another hacker. I can get someone else to fix the software, but I don’t want just anyone. I want the girl who picked it apart first, broke into my house, and then walked in here today as confident as if she were the one who owned the place, and I was the intruder. I want the copper-headed angel who leaps off roofs as if she can defy gravity. You know, because she truly is an otherworldly being.
So this time, I really pull out all the stops. I dash out the front door and down the sidewalk, running after the retreating figure clad in all black. She turns when she hears me coming, and I put out both hands as an act of supplication, so she doesn’t think I’m trying to chase her down and get her arrested or something. She was pretty skittish when she mentioned something about a trap. Now, her eyes widen when she sees me, and she looks like she’s going to flee.
But thankfully, she doesn’t.
She stands right there, waiting.
Waiting for me to blurt out what I came to say.
“You…you can’t just leave.”
She folds her arms around herself and gives me a condescending look. I think she’s trying to convey patience, but I can tell she doesn’t feel it. “Oh? And why’s that?”
The necklace unfolds from my hand, and when the stone starts to glow, both of us let out a gasp. Somewhat taken aback, I almost forget what I came out here to say. Almost, but not quite. And when I finally say it, it comes out as a whisper-hiss, which is kind of like a whisper-yell.
“Because you might be cursed.”
CHAPTER 5
Lindy
Yup, this is exactly why I don’t do shit like this and take on this kind of stuff—jobs given to me that pay way too much to make good sense by crazy old ladies who appear on my doorstep in the middle of the night. These kinds of things are why I had to leave Seattle. Okay, there was more to that, but I promised myself there wouldn’t be any more sketchy stuff.
And now this cotton candy god-man with the beautiful muscles and a face that looks even more astoundingly gorgeous, god-like, chiseled, and…just like a holy mother of all fantasies in the daylight as it did in the darkness, is standing here telling me I might be cursed. He’s not pulling one on me either. He looks so serious, horrified, and into this whole curse nonsense that I find my stomach cramping, heart racing, and palms getting clammy.
Wait. That’s probably because he’s standing close to me. Too close. It’s not just my heart rate, palms, and stomach acting funny now. There are other places getting a little bit wild and riled, too—girly and womanly places.
“What the double down hang are you talking about? Cursed? What do you mean cursed?”
My eyes are probably as large as soggy pasta. Have you ever noticed how it can look so small in the bag, then you put it in water, and bam! All of a sudden, there’s enough to feed a small country, and you were just trying to make a small serving for lunch. There is no such thing as a small serving of pasta because no one ever makes the right amount of pasta. It’s an actual impossibility.