Page 50 of Love Under the Microscope
She does, and I believe Nigel has other reasons for what he’s doing than what Zelda thinks, but I also trust her judgment. “So, are you going to tell me what’s on your pages?”
She hesitates.
A part of me wants to push her. I just spilled my guts to her, but this is different. “I won’t beg if you’re worried about that.”
“It’s just—”
“Hard to trust anybody.”
Her gaze meets mine, and she nods.
“I have a draft due to my editor, and he’s going to expect something from me soon, so I want to be upfront with you. You and Mr. Z are the only people I’m using as my sources.” It’s time to lay it all out for her. That might not make Zelda trust me, but it might lessen her suspicions. “I was the last reporter to pay Ryan Matthews for information, but I was only the courier. We took turns. I haven’t spoken to anyone else at Zentello except you. My editor, however, is trying to find another insider there. As far as I know, he hasn’t been successful.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“At least you recognize I’m being honest.” That’s progress.
“Trust doesn’t come easily.”
I wonder if she trusts anyone besides herself. Maybe Nate. “I get it. You haven’t known me long, but I would think after what we’ve done together so far, you’d have a little faith in me.”
“I’m … getting there.”
“What’s it going to take, boss?” I ask, using a playful tone to lighten the mood.
“I wish I knew, but I hope it won’t be too much longer.”
The fact she doesn’t trust me stings, but do I totally trust her? Nope. So really, we’re even. “Well, I appreciate your honesty.”
She smiles slightly. “Thank you, Jack. And thank you for telling me about Aisha.”
“You’re welcome.” I only hope I can write enough to keep Drew off my back before Zelda shares more and lets me interview Mr. Z.
CHAPTER 12
ZELDA
All morning, I’ve been sitting at my desk and reviewing the Orchid project archives to see how the formula progressed from what it had been—Happy Pill—to the redesigned version—Orchid. I down the rest of my now-cold Americano, but the caffeine does little other than make me grimace. I should’ve ordered something sweeter instead of going for the quad shot of espresso.
I barely slept last night, thinking about Zentello and Jack. Mainly Jack. His panty-melting kisses and his heartfelt words about his late fiancée affected me in ways I never expected. Okay, wanting more lip-on-lip action makes sense—the guy can kiss—but I can’t deny I’m jealous of what he had with Aisha. It’s rare that happens to me, but last night, I could have given Wicked’s Elphaba a run for who was greenest.
Jack and Aisha hadn’t even been married, but I could tell from the way his voice softened and became more tender when he talked about her that she’d been the light of his world—his heart. She was lucky to have found that, even if she had passed. Oh, I much prefer living, but the two men I’ve loved have wanted me more when I no longer wanted to be with them.
How fucked up is that?
Perhaps I’m just meant to be single. Nothing wrong with that. Many women live successful, happy lives on their own. No reason that can’t be me too.
But now isn’t the time to overanalyze my lack of a personal life. Work calls to me, even though my muscles are stiff from working in one place for too long. Still, reviewing all the records brings back some good memories. I love how Sophie Goodall is one of the main reasons Orchid morphed the way it did when she worked as Max’s summer research assistant. I smile when I recall that board meeting where Bradley, Max, and Juliette Harrison gave a presentation about Orchid. Sophie’s analysis made it all possible. That seems like eons ago, now that she and Max are married, and he’s back to developing the Happy Pill into something more than making men want to exercise more.
Speaking of exercise, I should stretch before I do some permanent damage to my neck, shoulders, and back. As I tilt my head to the left, my cell phone vibrates on my desk, and my heart leaps, wondering if it might be Jack. Silly, under the circumstances—well, his—but his kisses are addictive. I glance at the name on the screen.
Zentello.
Weird. I have a desk phone for internal calls, which means Nigel is likely spoofing our main line again.
I really don’t want to speak with him, but I need to know what he has to say. I’m not sure if I want the topic of discussion to be Orchid or the break-in of his office.
Reluctantly, I accept the call. “What do you want now?”
