Page 31 of Hacking His Code

“Huh? What hook?”

“You think my mother’s going to let you leave without first doing everything she can to entice you into carrying the next Davies heir?”

“That’s a hard no,” I say too quickly.

His shoulders slump slightly, perhaps from me bruising his ego. “Then you’d be part of the point-zero-zero-one percent of women who aren’t looking to get on the Davies’ Gravy Train. Fuck, my mother would throw obscene amounts of money at anyone carrying my precious offspring to ensure she’d have access to every part of the child’s life. Security. Estates. Luxury everything.”

Honestly, I’d be fine just gazing at his body, but I don’t want him knowing that.

I bury my nose in a file. “I’ve always been an outlier,” I say nonchalantly, hoping he doesn’t notice my voice wavering.

“To be honest, I find that part about you…refreshing.”

Don’t look too deeply into his words. He’s just calling you a freak in a nice way.

“There is one other thing I need you to look at…” Hunter says hesitantly.

“What?”

“There’s a folder. It was created before my aunt went missing, and it hasn’t been opened since. It’s hidden away, but I found it when looking at old files from before she disappeared. As far as I can tell, no one else knows about it.”

“And you haven’t opened it?”

“It’s encrypted, and I can’t gain access.”

Hunter takes control of the computer, bringing up a folder titled: Dear Rand.

“What do you think is in it?”

“My aunt was arranging the sale of my father’s tech innovations on the black market, so I imagine it’s a fuck you letter, maybe telling him why she did what she did. Who knows?”

I bite my lip as I look at its properties, mulling over the intricacies of the folder. An entire program was created from scratch to protect it.

“I’ll get to working on this right away, but this isn’t something I’ve seen before.”

Hunter goes to the kitchen, opening some cabinets and pulling out some canisters. “I’ll throw on a fresh pot of coffee.”

Hunter

Stayingup until 3 a.m. isn’t as easy as it used to be. Waking up afterward is even worse. There are holes in your memory, things seem foggy, your head aches. The whole experience is unpleasant and acts as a wake-up call, slapping you in the face and telling you you’re aging.

At least I got sleep, though. Arinessa has been up all night, clicking away at the keyboard, gathering what information she can. I offered her my bed, but she insisted on continuing her work. I was more than happy to stay up, but as time wore on, my mind was finding it difficult to ignore my body’s very real reaction to her.

Every part of me wanted every part of her, and I was playing various scenarios in my head of us together. I began looking for excuses to brush my hand against hers, bring my chair just a little closer…it was getting difficult to continue actually working.

I don’t even think she’s left the chair since she sat down in it, not that I’m complaining. The dress she’s wearing does a heck of a job of highlighting her best attributes.

Too bad she’s made it abundantly clear that she’s not interested in me.

After washing up, I reclaim my seat next to her, but she’s so engrossed in the case that she barely notices.

“It’s eight in the morning, and you haven’t slept,” I say, sliding the computer away. “Go get some rest.”

She turns to me, tiredness lining her face. “I need coffee, not rest.”

“I think you’re due for some rest.”

“Can’t. There’s no time.”