I watch Gatsby make me a martini. He’s meticulous and diligent. He’s like this in everything except lovemaking. It’s as if he has flashes of inspiration that he only saves for me when we are together. My mind is wandering again, and it must stop.

Gatsby hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, looking over the skyline below us.

“We’re so high up, and the windows are so big, I feel like I’m skydiving again.”

Gatsby smiles without turning to me. “It wasn’t this boring, was it?”

“No, not at all! I mean the slow part. After the chute opened. It hardly felt like we were falling at all.”

“Isn’t that cool?” he asks.

“How do you mean?”

“How relative everything is. If you were to fall right now at that same slow speed, you’d feel like you were falling fast. But in comparison to falling out of a plane, standing still feels like falling.”

I nod and look out at the buildings and the flashing lights below. This part of downtown is quiet now. Almost all of the office buildings are empty. All of the employees that make this place such a hotbed of activity at lunchtime have now gone home or moved their activity to the clubs and bars to the west.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Gatsby says, facing the window and looking out into the distance.

I want to face him, but I don’t.

“Me too,” I say.

“I don’t want it to interfere with our working relationship. I really like having you around,” he says.

“No, me neither,” I agree.

“What I’m trying to say.” Gatsby turns to face me. “Is that I want you to keep working here. No matter what happens between us.”

“I want to work here, too,” I whisper.

We are standing so close together I can feel his breath on my lips. What does that mean, no matter what happens between us? I thought ‘we’ were over, but perhaps not.

“So you want to be friends?” I ask.

I don’t know if I want him to say yes or no. I want to be friends if we can’t be anything else, but I don’t want to be just friends. I want more. I want to grab his head right now and pull him close to me.

He leans closer to me. So close that his hair brushes against my forehead. It feels like a feather and sends shivers up my spine.

“I’d like that,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. I feel the warmth of his lip close to mine. I hear the pounding of his heart.

He wraps his arms around me and gives me a close hug. A warm, but clearly not romantic hug.

I open my eyes and realize that we’re in the middle of a friendly but not sensual embrace.

“I’m glad, we were able to work this out,” Gatsby says when he pulls away from me.

I am stunned. Speechless. Shocked.

“So what happened?” Maggie Mae asks when I finally see her that evening. We are sitting around the dining room table and having ill-advised coffee. It’s late at night, and I know I will regret this in the morning. I tell her everything.

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I thought we were going to kiss, but we didn’t. It was such a perfect moment to make up for everything that happened, but then it just never materialized.”

“Agh! That sucks!”

I smile. Maggie Mae is excellent at vocalizing and conveying my deepest regrets in a perfect surge of emotion.

“Why didn’t you just kiss him?”

I have no answer. Not any good ones, anyway.

“I don’t know,” I finally say. “Because I’m a coward? Because I’ve been rejected already, and I have no idea how he feels.”

“You would’ve if you had kissed him.”

I know that she’s right. There is so much one can tell from a kiss. But I am afraid. What if he doesn’t kiss back? What if he pulls away and rejects me again?

“I don’t know what to do,” I finally admit.

“I don’t know either.” She shrugs. “Just go to work and play it by ear, I guess.”

I nod. She’s right, of course. Besides, I don’t have any more options other than that.

The following morning, I am so swamped with work that I don’t have the time to dwell on what happened the night before. Calls are coming in, faxes have to be sent out, papers have to be organized and signed.

Gatsby is talking non-stop on the phone and the rest of the time, he’s at his desk scrolling through spreadsheets and answering emails. He has four meetings lined up and three more that still have to be scheduled and fitted in somewhere between lunch and five o’clock. But I’m glad about the workload. It takes my mind off all the things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.

That afternoon, after welcoming one of the top people from the investment bank and making him comfortable with coffee and coffee cake, which he actually ate, I return to my office. There are ten more emails in my inbox!

I was just away from the desk for 5 minutes!

Annoyed, I scroll through them. Four are typical emails requesting meetings with Gatsby, and the last one isn’t addressed to me. I’m about to delete it. But then I see who it’s from.

Atticus.

Hmm.

Why is Atticus sending me an email?

I open it and see that it’s a chain email, to which I am mysteriously attached. It’s long with a lot of forwards and cc’s. It takes me close to a minute to even scroll through the ridiculously long email. I have no idea what it’s all about, and I’m about to delete it. But something holds me back.

One of the emails from Atticus:

Here are the real third quarter financials.

---

Another one says:

I think we can depress the share price even further.

---

And the last one is more insistent:

Give me some time. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. No one will know.

---

These emails give me pause. I scroll up all the way to the bottom and read every one of the emails more carefully. When I reach the top, I realize that I received the email chain because Atticus hit reply all and, for some reason, I was attached to the list.

I don’t know all the details of what’s going on, but some things are becoming clear. Atticus is trying to artificially depress the share price of the company prior to it going public. The investment bank is in on it.

I can’t believe what I’m reading!

I remember that I did some filling out on some regulatory filing paperwork last week. I need to double check that the third-quarter financials are actually off. I look through the files of documents saved on my computer for close to an hour and finally find them.

What did Atticus say that he wanted to depress the financials to?

$240 million.

No, this can’t be right. I look over the paperwork again.

The real third-quarter financials are $350 million.

They’re off. By a lot. One hundred and ten million dollars!

I don’t know what to do. I pace back and forth in my office. I have to tell Gatsby, but how? This weekend had made it perfectly clear that he was on his brother’s side. Would he believe me? What if he fires me for this?

And then a terrifying thought pops into my head.

What if he’s in on it? What if he knows already?

“Mr. Wild?” I walk up to Gatsby.

The phone is silent for once, and he’s reading something on the screen. His shoulders are pulled up. His eyes aren’t blinking. He’s so focused that, for a moment, I’m not sure if he even heard me.

“What is it, Annabelle?” he says without looking up. Then he catches himself. “Ms. York, I mean.”

The words stop in my throat. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. I stand there before him, dumb and mute.

“Ms. York?” he says. “If you have something for me, then get on with it. I have a lot to do.”

I hate the formality in his voice. I hate the people that we have become with each other. Finally, I take the plunge.

“I have to show you something.”

I’ve printed out the emails and highlighted the most important parts. I’ve printed out the first page of the third-quarter financials. I’ve brought him proof. I just hope that it’s enough. I also pray that he’s not in on it.

“What is it?”

“It’s an email that I received from Atticus. He didn’t send it to me, but he must’ve replied to all and I was attached to it somehow.”

“Oh Annabelle, I don’t have time for this.” Gatsby shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“Please, this is very important. It’s not really about what happened this weekend, but it sort of is. The emails show that Atticus has been trying to decrease the share price of the company prior to the IPO.”

Gatsby furrows his brows. He takes the emails from me and looks them over. He pauses at the highlighted portions. Disbelief and confusion are all over his face.

“I don’t understand,” he finally mutters. “Why would he do this? Why would he want the company to be valued less?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I just needed to show you this.”

I want Gatsby to run up to me and hug and kiss me. I want him to thank me for the mystery that I’ve unraveled, for the crime that I prevented. But he simply sits there in his chair, dumbfounded. This is the real world. He’s not excited about this. He’s hurt. He doesn’t know why his brother did this, and now he has even more to deal with on top of everything else.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I finally say.

“Help with what?”

“With whatever this is. With whatever you’re going to do about it.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about this. I don’t know why you brought this to me, Annabelle.”

Now I’m the one who’s stunned. “What?”

“This.” He waves the emails in his hand. “This just complicates things so much. Don’t you know that?”

I feel anger starting to bubble up within me.

“Of course I know that! That’s exactly why I brought it to you,” I say, raising my voice. “You needed to see this.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not.”

“This is your company, Gatsby. Your brother’s trying to rip you off. Don’t you see that?”

“Of course I see that! I just don’t know how he’s doing it. I don’t know why. Agh!” He slams the table with his fist.

I walk away. I can’t be around this. He doesn’t believe me. I hate him for this.

“Wait!” I hear Gatsby’s footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn around. Tears are streaming down my face. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t make them stop.

“Annabelle, I’m sorry.” He catches up to me and grabs my arm. I wipe my tears with my other hand.

“What? What’s wrong?” He takes my face in between his palms and lifts it to his.

I pull away.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’ve had enough drama for this week,” I sob.

“What are you talking about?”

I wipe the rest of my tears away. I take a moment to collect my thoughts.

“I’m sorry for crying. I don’t know what came over me. But it won’t happen again, Mr. Wild.”

“Annabelle, please,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, okay. I got angry. Not with you. With Atticus. And I took it out on you. And the desk.”

I shake my head.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. Gatsby pauses for a moment. His face grows serious and determined.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this. He won’t get away with it.”

I nod. “Okay, that’s good.”

I’m about to walk away. But he takes my arm and turns me around to face him again.

“Thank you. Thank you very much for bringing this to my attention.”

I give him a slight nod. I’m relieved that he’s come to his senses. I’m glad that he believes me.

“Annabelle…” Gatsby takes a step closer to me.

There’s barely any space separating us. I look into his piercing eyes and wait for a chaste hug. I want to kiss him, but I don’t dare make the first move. I’ve put myself out enough.

He takes another step forward and runs his fingers over my neck. Our eyes meet and his shift back and forth as if he were asking my permission to kiss me. I don’t give it and wait for him to act.

Carefully, he leans close to me and puts his lips on mine. His lips are silky and taste of chocolate. I close my eyes and give myself over to the moment. He parts my lips with his tongue and slowly enters. Finally, I kiss back. I push back into him, and he wraps his arms tightly around my body.

“Annabelle, I’m sorry…” he whispers through his kisses. His hands are buried in my hair. He pulls it back slightly, sending shivers up my spine.

“It doesn’t matter,” I manage.

“It does. I’m so sorry about this weekend. I was such a dick. I want to make it up to you.”

“You can’t,” I joke.

“Oh, I think there must be a way.”

He picks me up and carries me to the couch. He lays on top of me, wrapping his body around mine. Our kisses become frantic. Gatsby’s hands caress my skin and sneak their way up my shirt. I moan and arch my back into him.

He starts to unbutton my shirt. I want him to tear off my clothes, but I stop him.

“What? What’s wrong?”

I don’t know.

“Nothing. I just…I just want to take it slow this time.” I pull back and look at his face. His eyes are twinkling.

“Is that okay?”

He smiles. He brushes his fingers over my lips, sending sparks through my body.

“Slow is perfectly fine,” Gatsby whispers.

I pull him closer to me and part his lips with mine.