Elliot

“Where should I put these?”

My attention jumps from one of the three monitors on my desk to Charlotte standing in my office doorway, hugging a stack of paperwork to her chest. Her long brown ponytail swishes from side to side, unable to keep up with her head as she looks around the room.

“This isn’t like you.” She steps inside, her brow furrowed. “It looks like a filing cabinet threw up in here.” Her bright blue eyes scan for somewhere to deposit the folders. “And there were precious few clear surfaces in here to start with, what with all the plants.”

I push my glasses up my nose and try to gather myself. It’s unusual for my oldest brother’s executive assistant to come down here—it’s usually me who makes the journey two floors up to see her. I mean, to see Max. She just happens to sit outside his office.

“Good God.” She makes a face like the shocked emoji. “You’re even storing stuff on there?”

She points at a box on top of the original 1980 Pac-Man arcade game on the far side of the room—my pride and joy that only a privileged few are allowed to touch. Charlotte is one of them. But she only played once three years ago, was terrible at it and never tried again. There’s a second one in my apartment—that one’s from 1982.

“And even that pile of junk is bigger than usual.” She nods at the disorganized stack of computer components, soldering kits, pliers, and random peripherals in the corner. “For someone who employs a bunch of people to fix things, you sure do fix a lot of things yourself.”

“But I like—”

“To keep your hand in.” Her mouth quirks up at one side as she rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

My head always goes a bit fuzzy when she finishes my sentences.

“But the rest of the mess is because Greta’s on vacation.” I gesture to the empty desk on the other side of the glass wall where my assistant would usually be. “Took her grandkids on an outdoorsy trip to Colorado. She’s due back on Monday, and I can’t fucking wait.”

“Ah-ha!” Charlotte spots a target across the room and walks swiftly toward it, her black pencil skirt clinging to her thighs as she moves. When she reaches the circular side table at the end of the sofa, she picks up my temperamental Japanese painted fern, puts her bundle of papers in its place, and plonks the plant back on top. “Max says you need these.”

Max employs my tech company to build custom data retention software for some of the laundry list of businesses he owns. He also owns this Midtown Manhattan skyscraper, and he made me jump through the same hoops as everyone else to qualify for space for my office and for my squad of twenty-five people on the floor below. The rest of the Two Coast Tech team is in San Francisco—that end is run by Owen, my business partner and cousin.

“I don’t need them.” I sigh. “Well, I need the information. But I don’t need hard copies. Why the hell can’t he use the cloud like a normal person?”

“Like a ‘normal’ person who has three giant computer screens, you mean?” Charlotte runs her fingers along the length of a fern leaf. Her nails are pastel blue this week. “Why does anyone need more than one?”

I chuckle at the 745th time she’s asked that question, and nod at the screen to my left. “This one is for—”

“Please don’t.” She gives me one of her mischievous smiles and shakes her head. “You’ve explained it before. In great detail. Even if I understood, I doubt I’d be interested.”

Christ, she’s adorable. But it’s probably best that I don’t tell her about the six-screen wall I’ve built at home. “Anyway, Max is as addicted to printed documents as you are to planners.”

I’ve been trying to wean Charlotte off her array of colorful paper calendars, schedulers, and notebooks and pull her into the digital world for almost all of the nearly four years she’s worked for my brother. I’ve even coded a few things for her from scratch. They’re the most fun projects I work on. Probably because Charlotte is the most fun person to work with. And tease. And look at.

“I’ll leave you to have that fight with him.” She folds her arms, which pulls the V-neck of her silky black-and-white polka dot top a little lower. “I’ve already had to reprimand him today for letting two coffees go cold and insisting I remake them, rather than reheat them. Such a waste.”

“It’s a waste of you too.” She raises her eyebrows as if surprised by the compliment. “He might treat you like an annoying little sister, but he knows you could push him out of the way and run his empire just as well as he can.”

There’s a glint in her eye as she moves toward the door. “By ‘just as well’ you mean ‘better,’ right?”

“Of course. But I’ll leave you to have that fight with him.”

“Oh, and I have to confess”—she looks at me over her shoulder—“I am enjoying the to-do list app you made that gives me a round of applause when I check things off. I haven’t written a list on paper for a week.”

I might have sold millions of dollars’ worth of software, some of which I wrote myself when Owen and I first started the business, but Charlotte complimenting my clapping to-do list might be my proudest achievement to date.

I make a concerted effort not to look too delighted, instead licking my finger and drawing one point to me in the air. “Baby steps.”

“Ha.” She points at me. “Don’t get too excited.”

Man, that smile lights up not just her face, not just her eyes, but her whole body. And the room.

“It’s not my gateway,” she says. “Paper planners forever.” She punches the air as if in a protest march. “Anyway, got to go organize the crap out of your brother. See you.”

And she’s gone, her ponytail swinging in time to her hips, which always look extra good in that particular skirt. It’s almost as figure-hugging as the wetsuit she wore when we all had a surfing lesson as part of the launch weekend for my cousin Walker’s brewery hotel up near Cape Cod a couple weeks ago.

It was also the weekend I found out Charlotte had just broken up with the guy she’d been seeing since she started working here. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready to date again. And even if she were, it doesn’t mean there’s the slightest hope she’d be interested in me. And even if she were, she’s my eldest brother’s assistant, and since Max has zero tolerance for workplace relationships and is a stickler for not mixing family and business, she’s the most off-limits woman in the building. Possibly New York. Possibly the galaxy.

I close my eyes and shake my head, as if doing so might dislodge the woman who took up residence there the moment I met her. Almost four years ago, I walked into Max’s office and interrupted her telling him he must never schedule his own meetings again because he did it “illogically.” A bold move for her first day on the job, I thought.

But I have to drag my mind back to what’s on my center monitor. I just need to choose which of these computers, tablets, phones, watches, headphones, and other peripherals to order from Netto, the incredible main sponsor of our new nonprofit.

We’re creating tech learning centers for kids, called First Byte. The first one opens in two weeks.

Although Owen and I have been developing our idea to open these hubs in low-income areas for more than a year, this launch feels like it’s come upon us suddenly.

We’d struggled to get a sponsor that fit our ethos, and there’ve been a few false starts—including the particularly unpleasant hotel chain owner who Owen told to go fuck himself when he insulted the woman Owen’s now about to marry.

Their wedding is just a week after the First Byte opening, so yeah, the timing isn’t great. But Netto picked the date to coincide with the launch of their new generation tablet. It’s a condition of the sponsorship, so if we’re not ready on time, not only will this first center not open, we’ll be back to square one looking for another suitable backer. And both those things would be professionally humiliating.

But the tight time frame is a small price to pay to have the hubs look like a cross between a youth club and the Netto Experience stores known around the world for their coolness.

We have a manager on the ground for the first location in Indiana, but since the nonprofit is so important to Owen and me personally, we’ve been very hands-on, with a lot of help from my assistant, Greta.

Admittedly, I did forget that Greta had already booked her Colorado adventure, but she’ll be back in time for the vital final push to the finish line.

This list of hardware from Netto is amazing—we can basically have whatever we want from their entire catalog. If anyone had let me loose in a place full of these things when I was twelve, I’d have passed out with joy.

My phone rattles on my desk and jolts me back to reality. Greta. Maybe she’s decided to come back early and save my sanity.

“Hello, Super Gran. How’s the outdoor challenge going?”

“Oh, Elliot!” She’s breathless and sounds panicked yet also relieved at the same time.

“Are you okay? Did you just run up a mountain?”

“Well, a mountain is involved in what I’m about to tell you.”

“Jesus, what’s happened?” My stomach turns over. “Are the kids all right?”

“Oh, yeah.” She chuckles nervously. “They’re both totally fine. They’re sitting here by my bed playing on the tablets you gave them.”

“Your bed?” I check the time on screen number one. “At lunchtime? Colorado’s only two hours behind New York, right?”

“Hm.” She pauses. “Thing is, Elliot, I’ve had a bit of a…mishap.”

“A mishap?” If the kids are okay, and she’s alive enough to talk to me, whatever it is can’t be too bad.

“Yes.” There’s a large intake of breath. “And the bed I’m in is in a…hospital.”

I spring to my feet, banging my knee on the underside of my desk. “You’re in the hospital? After a mishap that involved a mountain?” I rub my knee and wince. “What the hell happened?”

“We were rappelling. And I got it a bit wrong.”

“Jesus, Greta. And you hurt yourself?”

“A bit. There was some banging into the side of the mountain. And a bit of a hard landing.”

Christ, how could the guides let that happen? “Sounds painful. But the hospital’s fixed you up, right?”

“Oh yes. Both casts are perfect.”

“Both what? And both?”

“Just a couple of little breaks.” I can almost see her waving to dismiss it as nothing. “I’ll be up and about again in a few weeks.”

A few weeks.

Selfishly, the to-do list I was going to pass to Greta on Monday scrolls through my mind, fully formatted.

·         Run final interior design for the center past Netto

·         Make sure contractors get the build-out finished on schedule

·         Check all desks, chairs, etc. are delivered on time

·         Confirm manager is coordinating set up of Netto products

·         Chase Owen to have a slick launch presentation ready

·         Choose a good group of kids to be at the launch

·         Coordinate with Netto PR person over press coverage

·         Make sure manager has ordered snacks and—

Christ, Elliot, stop being a thoughtless ass. She’s broken bones.

But maybe she’s not that bad. Maybe she can still work and dig us out of the giant hole that seems more likely to swallow me with every passing second.

“What exactly have you broken?”

“My right wrist and left ankle.”

“Oh my God, that must hurt like hell.” And mean she can’t work at all.

“It did for a while. Not so bad now. But the thing is—”

“Have as much time as you need.” I take off my glasses, drop them on my desk, and rub my eyes. “Don’t even think about work. Everything will be fine. Just get better. It’s the only thing that matters.”

“But Elliot, there’s so much to do on the First Byte launch. And I was going to get most of it done after I was back from vacation.”

I drop back into my chair. “All completely under control.”

“Really? So you’ve already chosen all the furniture and the colors and which equipment you want from Netto?”

I gaze at the list of products on my screen, none of which I have yet put a green check mark next to.

The choice of chairs, desks, and other furnishings from the designers is attached to an email that’s…somewhere.

“Yup. All completely under control. Worry ye not one bit.”

“And Owen’s working on his launch speech and presentation and that whole thing?”

At least that’s one thing I know for sure will be fine. Owen’s always been the front man for the business—the public speaker, the host, the schmoozer. “I bet he’s polishing it as we speak.”

“Well, if you’re sure. I mean, I could get a walker or something and come in and type left-handed. I’d be a bit slower, but I could get some things done.”

“Don’t be silly. You stay home and get better. Do you need any help getting back? I could charter a plane for you and the boys if that would make things easier.”

“Heavens above, no. Absolutely not.” You’d think I’d just threatened to break her other ankle. “I mean, thank you, that’s very generous, but no such extravagance will be required. We’ll be fine with our return flights.”

“Okay, well, if you need anything at all, anything, you just let me know.”

“I will, Elliot. But I’ll be fine. Especially now that I know you’re on top of everything. I was worried it might have drifted out of control while I was away.”

“Not at all. Totally on schedule.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t give it another thought.”

“Call me if you need anything. Or can’t find anything. Or can’t choose which pens to order. Actually, ask Charlotte about that. She’s the official stationery queen.”

Just when Charlotte has been out of my mind for several consecutive minutes, there she is, right back again.

“Will do, Greta. You just take care, and I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up and rest my head in my hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“It is bad then.” Now Max is in the doorway, glancing around my office.

I put my glasses back on. “First Charlotte, now you. Why am I so popular today?”

“You look like shit.” He strides into the room, flicks back the sides of his jacket and thrusts his hands into his pants pockets.

“Is that what Charlotte said?” I am a bit tired, but I hope she didn’t think I looked rough.

“No. She said your office looked like shit. But now I see you do too.”

“Gee, thanks. Just got a lot going on.”

“Anyway, I came to talk to you about Mom’s birthday present. Thought we could send her away to a spa for the weekend. She deserves some pampering.”

“Are you sure she’d like that?” She’d hate it. As sure as every programmer says the previous guy’s code was shit, she’d hate it. “Wouldn’t a new greenhouse or a gift certificate to the garden center or a lifetime supply of muck boots be more up her alley?”

Why do I always phrase these things to Max as a question when I know I’m right? Why can’t I just tell him he’s wrong like I do with anyone else? It’s not like we’re still kids and I’m the dweeby youngest and he’s the bossy oldest. Well, actually, he is still the bossy oldest.

“It’ll do her good to pamper herself. I’ll get Charlotte to research the best spas near Blythewell and set it up. Then let you all know how much to chip in.”

“But I really don’t think she’d—”

“Maybe it’s actually you who needs a weekend retreat.” He leans forward and examines my face. “Those are some seriously dark eye bags.”

I give up the fight over the birthday present idea and turn away from his scrutiny. “It’s a race against the clock to get ready for the First Byte launch, that’s all.”

 “You’ve been doing way more than your fair share of everything since Owen shacked up with Summer.” Max shoves aside a pile of mail on the sofa and sits down. “I’ve heard you talk about taking on stuff from the San Francisco office. And I bet it’s even worse now that he’s all distracted with the wedding and honeymoon plans.”

“Yeah, and there’s other stress too,” I confess. “Yesterday, the guys downstairs realized there’s a bug in the smart archiving of our Redberry Two product.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, so—”

“Oh no.” Max thrusts his palm at me. “Every time you start a sentence with ‘Well, so…’ it’s followed by ten minutes of words I don’t understand. And have no desire to.”

He leans back and stretches out his legs. “But at least you have Super Gran to take a bunch of the organizational crap off your plate.”

“Not any more I don’t. At least not before the launch. She’s broken some bones and won’t be back for weeks.”

“Shit. What are you going to do?”

I rest my chin on my clasped hands and stare at Max. “She’ll be touched you asked. It was one wrist and one ankle. A rappelling accident. She was in pain, but she’s doing better now and just needs to get home and heal. I’ll tell her you were concerned and send your best wishes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head at my sarcasm. “But seriously. You can’t get this whole thing ready by yourself in two weeks. And you can’t get someone else up to speed to do it for you in that time. It’s not even local. It’s in Idaho, for fuck’s sake.”

“Indiana.”

“Wherever.” He gets to his feet and wanders over to the window that looks out over the East River.

“Well, I have to get it ready on time,” I tell him. “It’s either that or we lose Netto. And whoever thought we’d be lucky enough to get them in the first place? Not to mention all our publicity is out there for the launch date, so if this doesn’t happen, it will be a giant embarrassment for the company. And it’d let down the kids who’re all excited about it.”

“Imagine if you’d had a place to go to like that,” Max says, plucking my handwritten wood label out of the aloe vera plant on the credenza.

“That’s the whole point. Some kids aren’t even lucky enough to have a few junky old cast-off computers at school to learn on like I did.”

Silence hangs in the air as Max examines the plant’s preferences for light, temperature, and moisture levels.

Then he stabs the label back in the pot and spins around to face me. “You know what? I just might have exactly the person you need.”