Riled (The Invincibles 4)

“No one from Rile’s team, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Who, then?”

“MI5.”

“How many?”

“Just two, but soon to be three.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just two, but soon to be three. This is bloody ridiculous. I’m not this important.”

Teagon stood when I did and hugged me. “You’re far more important than you realize, Kensington Whitby.”

“Why did you ask Casper to leave if you knew Z would add another person from MI5?”

“Because it’s what you wanted, Kenz. Look, I understand. She works for Rile. Her being here was a connection to him. Honestly, it was time she left anyway. Best that your detail is handled solely by SIS now.”

I went upstairs and attempted to power up my laptop. First, I had to find the cord. I had no idea the last time I’d used it.

After the computer finally came on and I’d sorted through the first few of thousands of emails, I searched for the most recent communications I’d received from Whitby Press.

I opened one of the financial reports and groaned when I saw it was over one hundred pages. I skimmed the first few, didn’t understand a single thing I’d read, and decided that should be my first request—that someone explain the damn things to me.

In the meantime, I went to one of the more popular online booksellers and searched my father’s name. Good Lord! My dad, Michael Alexander Whitby, had more than thirty books for sale online. I scrolled through the most popular ones and bit my bottom lip. Even without understanding the quarterly financial reports of Whitby Press, I could figure out that if his most popular book was ranked above a million on the bestseller list, he probably didn’t sell even one book a month.

The next morning, I did as Teagon suggested and rang Whitby Press to ask for a meeting. I was shocked when, after asking me to hold for a moment and before I’d even explained my reason for calling, I was transferred to none other than the managing director himself—a man who had only recently been promoted to the position and who was highly qualified despite his young age.

“Kensington, this is Lincoln Mulrooney. What a delight to hear from you.”

I explained the reason for my call, saying that I had a few questions about the latest reports and also wished to meet with someone regarding potential job openings.

“My day is quite booked, but what about this evening? We could meet for dinner at Five Hertford at, say, eight?”

“I don’t want to disturb you in the evening, Mr. Mulrooney. Tomorrow would be fine. Or another day this week.”

“My days are typically tightly scheduled. It would be far easier if we were to meet after.”

Asking how he was able to finagle a membership at the exclusive Five Hertford club would make me sound like a bloody snob, but I couldn’t help but wonder how he had.

“You’d be pleased to know that I’m having dinner this evening with Whitby Press’ managing director,” I told Teagon when I came downstairs in search of breakfast.

“Linc Mulrooney?”

“Linc? First name basis with him, are you?”

“It’s commonly known that’s what he goes by.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He’s hot as fuck. Smart as all bloody hell.”

“Nice language, Teag.”

“Since when are you, of all people, such a prude?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”