“You good?” Miles asks, sliding a takeout container across the smooth surface of the table. “You seem distracted.”
Ignoring his question—because no way am I going to tell him about Scarlett’s notes—I open the container to find a grilled chicken salad, no dressing. It looks bland as hell, and my taste buds shrivel at the sight. I pass it to Beck.
“Well?” Miles prods, sliding me another container. I open it to reveal a mile-high cheeseburger and truffle fries. My mouth waters at the sight, and my stomach gives an appreciative growl as the scent of seared beef fills the air.
After the day I’ve had, I deserve to indulge.
I attack the burger first, taking a giant bite. The beef melts on my tongue, juicy and tender, as the heat of the pepper jack and jalapeños kick in.
“You know he won’t give up,” Beck says, twisting the top off his water bottle. “Might as well tell him what he wants to know so we can eat in peace.”
He’s not wrong. Miles is persistent as hell. I have to give him something, if only to get him off my back.
“It’s nothing,” I say, striving for nonchalance. “I’m completely focused on Epos for the next month.”
The temp agency is sending me a new admin on Monday. And no matter how inept the candidate is, I’ll make it work. No more borrowing Scarlett to take notes or inviting her to meetings she obviously doesn’t care to attend.
And definitely no more letting her snarky opinions derail my focus.
Miles and Beck exchange a look, a silent question passing between them. Beck shrugs and turns his attention to his salad. Of the three of us, Beck’s always been the most soft-spoken.
He’s also the most brilliant.
Triada Tech wouldn’t exist without his quiet genius and steadfast determination.
“Good.” Miles pops a fry in his mouth, looking a little too pleased given my half-assed non-answer. “Then we might as well move on to the next order of business.”
“Which is?” I ask, gaze bouncing back and forth between my brothers.
They’re up to something. I can feel it in my gut.
Don’t be so paranoid.
It’s not paranoia when you’re correct.
My instincts are rock-solid. I was right about Scarlett hiding something. I’m right about this, too.
Miles leans back casually in his chair, his own meal untouched. “The suggestion box.”
“Fucking hell.” I drop my burger and it lands in the takeout container with a splat, chipotle sauce oozing out the side. “Didn’t we just do this?”
They exchange another look, which I ignore as I wipe my hands with a napkin.
“Well, that’s a crappy attitude to have about the virtual suggestion box,” Miles says, looking put out as he opens his laptop.
Beck snorts. “You’re only saying that because it was your idea.”
“Exactly.” I shoot Miles the side-eye. “If you had your way, we’d implement every damn suggestion in the box, no matter how ludicrous or expensive.”
“And if you had your way,” Miles retorts, tapping the touchpad to open the file, “the suggestion box wouldn’t exist.”
No lies detected.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate feedback, but the suggestions we get are ridiculous.” And they rarely have anything to do with our mission, which is, as far as I’m concerned, the sole reason for Triada’s existence.
“What’ve we got this week?” Beck asks with genuine interest.
“Let’s see.” Miles scans the file and chuckles—never a good sign. “Oh, now here’s an idea I could get behind. Anonymous suggests we put beer in the vending machines.”
