Simone pushed back her chair and rose. “Then my job here will be easier than even I expected.” She gave Zoe a sunny smile. “Thank you for your time.”
Zoe plucked her card from her desk and handed it to Simone. “I’ll be available to you all week,” she said. “This is my direct contact information. It’ll help you bypass the various assistants in order to reach me. Any questions or concerns that I can help you with, I will. Like you, I want Nano to be the best it can be.”
West Coast Bar & Grill San
Jose, California
27 February
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m. local time
June Morris leaned one hip against a barstool, her fingers interlaced on the counter. She angled her head long enough to give the room a quick once-over before ordering her glass of merlot and ensuring that her gift box was propped up against her handbag at the edge of the counter.
Polished wooden tables and chairs. Comfy leather couches. Decent music. And a crowd that was definitely comprised of business professionals. As a well-dressed, forty-one-year-old “corporate” type, she fit right in.
It was a funny thing. She’d been to so many different bars that were fifteen or more miles from Nano and that were similar to this one that they’d actually started to look alike. Then again, she’d specifically chosen bars that catered to professionals so she would fit in and, at the same time, go unnoticed. Occasionally, a guy would try to hit on her—until her date arrived. Then they took the hint and their attentions elsewhere. She’d never spotted a Nano employee at any of her drinking holes, thank goodness. Given the gridlocked drive from Santa Clara, the Nano team would naturally choose to stay closer to home for their after-work drinks. And “after-work” was still an hour or more away for most of them.
She wasn’t the only workaholic Robert employed. Although she was up there with the most intense of them. The only days she left this early were the ones on which she visited her elderly mother in a senior facility—a fact that was well-known and understood by the Nano team.
What they didn’t know was that she always made this critical stopover on the way.
The infrequent days she left earlier than nine p.m. didn’t matter. She always took work home with her. Becoming CFO in a cutting-edge technology company like Nano had taken her down routes she’d never expected to go. Holding on to what she’d achieved took every drop of her mental acuity and then some. Her days were long, her nights were a continuation of her days, and the competition out there was fierce. She was good, and she knew it, but that didn’t mean there weren’t stronger candidates out there who could do her job if she missed a step. Loyalty, even to Robert, would only go so far. She was well aware that she wasn’t a frontrunner for the future CEO position, and quite frankly, that made her feel relieved rather than resentful. She had all she could handle on her plate as it was. And the screws only turned tighter as the workload increased.
What she needed was a clone.
What she was getting was as close as it got.
“Here ya go, ma’am.” The mid-twenties bartender placed the glass of merlot in front of her.
“Thank you.” She paid him, took her drink, gift box, and purse, and headed over to one of the vacant couches.
Ma’am? When had she become that? She was barely out of her thirties and—with the help of expensive makeup—still pretty. She used to be what people called cute. But all that fresh-faced, Midwestern youthfulness had faded. The strain was starting to show in the lines of tension around her mouth and the pallor that even makeup couldn’t disguise.
Okay, so she wouldn’t be winning any Miss USA pageants. That part of her career rise was over anyway. It wasn’t her game plan any longer.
She sank down on the leather cushion, twisting around to glance at the front door. Impatiently, she checked her watch.
Ethan was late.
She hoped like hell he hadn’t been called into an unscheduled meeting. With Vance on vacation, that seemed unlikely.
Her heart rate began to accelerate and her hands began to shake. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Quickly, she set her drink down on the glass side table. She couldn’t let herself fall apart. Not here and not now. She was in public. She had to
keep it together. That was becoming harder and harder these days thanks to the side effects. But the alternative to riding those out was unthinkable.
In answer to her prayers, the door swung open and Ethan strolled into the bar, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He scanned the room briefly, his gaze finding her. He smiled in her direction, then went up to the bar and ordered his glass of scotch. Three minutes later, he sat down beside her, placed his bag on the floor and his drink on the glass table. As always, they gave each other a huge hug. It was clear they were tight, but whether it was as friends or lovers, that was unclear. It didn’t matter. As long as they weren’t obvious enough to be a spectacle, let the patrons think what they wanted—if they cared enough to think about them at all.
“Hey,” he greeted her. “Sorry I’m late. I got stuck behind a landscaping truck doing twenty-five in a forty.”
“It doesn’t matter.” June willed her hands to stop shaking, and when they cooperated, she picked up her glass of merlot and took a long sip. “You’re here now.” Her gaze flickered to the messenger bag.
“Sure am.” He took a swallow of scotch, then turned his attention back to her.
“How did your interview go?” June asked.
“Just fine.” Ethan spoke very quietly. “She asked mostly about Vance, routine stuff that I could field no problem. A few red flags, but nothing to do with you. She barely skimmed over your name. Just whether or not you’d jump on the idea of becoming the new CEO. I told her I had no idea since we didn’t interact one-on-one, only through channels.”
“Good.” That was one big relief. Even though June’s meeting with Simone had gone smoothly, she was still terrified that Ethan would inadvertently say something—anything—that would raise Ms. Martin’s antenna. The woman was smart and incredibly shrewd. And June couldn’t risk giving her fodder for a more thorough personal investigation.