Page 22 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
As Sajid leaves to bring in the next candidate, I check my email for updates. I’m in the middle of replying to an email when I suddenly look up and suck in a deep breath in shock.
Is that…? It’s her.
The fuck is she doing here?
I remember our very first conversation in Cancun.
I’m a freelance tech and security expert…
…if you piss me off, you might wake up to find your precious Acercraft all pwned up.
It’s Bonnie. She must indeed have those skills if she's somehow found her way into this room.
I check the document in front of me to see a B. Russo. How blind could I be not to recognize that name? You’d think that name would stand out to me considering how much she’s lived rent-free in my head for the last four months.
And here she is now. Black glossy curls shot through with purple piled on top of her head and falling over one side of her temple. That face that Aphrodite herself carved and finished off with full, pillowy lips.
She has a delicate frame, almost skinny. Her silk shirt is tucked into the tiny waistband of a ridiculously short leather skirt, which highlights shapely thighs and calves, and her feet are encased in heels. My fist curls.
Those fucking legs.
My gaze swings back up, and I meet eyes that remind me of dark chocolate. She smirks.
Yeah, it’s her, alright. Smirking, sassy, little thing. Even though Bonnie is a dream to look at, she’s too damn prickly.
I notice Jordan has a triumphant smile on his lips.
I'm going to kill him. He knows there’s no way in hell that I’d let this woman in here. He saw what happened in Cancun and admitted he’d never seen anyone annoy me like she did.
In as much as I don't do well with chaos and lack of control, I'm particularly less tolerant of it happening where I work, and Jordan knows this.
I clear my parched throat. “Well, Ms. Russo. You have the floor.”
“Thank you, Ethan.”
I look up sharply at her casual use of my first name. It’s Mr. Hawthorne to you.I bite my tongue and grind my teeth.
If Sajid or Mike are surprised by her lack of formality, they don't show it.
“Gentlemen,” she begins, looking around the room like we’re her minions, “I know you've seen this code debugged repeatedly by other candidates, and I have also done the same. But I thought to make things a bit interesting by introducing to you a program I've just now created that will redefine the way we approach debugging.”
Hey, hang on, a program? She’s only meant to provide a corrected code!
“Imagine if we had a tool that not only automates the process but also continuously learns from the code itself. This prototype,” she says and makes a sweeping motion towards the screen, “is BUG-fix.”
As she continues, I look around to see their reactions to what Bonnie is saying. They’re hanging on to the edges of their seats.Cocking my head, I look back at her.
Good God. This is what you call a fucking presence.
The moment she opened her mouth, she had the room by the throat. The only other person I know who holds that kind of command over an audience is Mike Waldrow, and he doesn't wear a belt for a skirt, have killer legs, or possess lips made for sin, which happen to be encased in red lipstick at the moment.
I watch her with grudging admiration. There’s something lethal about Bonnie. Strong, seductive. I look at Mike, Sajid, and Jordan halfway through her presentation, and I know the gig’s over.
Do they even hear what she’s saying?
Not that it matters. Even if she were talking gibberish, they’re goners. But she’s not. She’s brilliant.
She solved the problem and even created a version control system so that it never becomes a problem again. By the end of her fifteen minutes, Jordan looks like he’s discovered a treasure. Mike and Sajid may as well have had an eargasm.