TOBY

Generally speaking, I’m a good guy to work for. I like my staff, treat them well, and respect their intellect.

Except for when they’re being total idiots.

I swallow my curse, because I don’t want to horrify the grandmother sitting across from me on the first-class flight from Los Angeles to New York. Then I take three stabs at composing the message I really want to write. Get your fucking acts together, or there will be hell to pay when I get back from this trip.

But that wouldn’t be productive, so instead I find diplomatic, but clear words to convey my frustration that once again we’ve hit a snag in the development of our new Bluetooth solid state memory device.

Our annual shareholders meeting is three weeks away.

Getting this right is not optional. If we don’t have something new to announce, the forecast for the next two quarters will tank, and that will be fucking bullshit.

I don’t like bullshit.

In the long run, I’ll ride it out—and actually, I’d make bank on that slump, because I’d buy up stock released by people that don’t have vision.

But it would be a distraction.

I don’t like distractions, either.

I’ve never been one to play fast and loose with my business just to make money. I have more money than I’ll ever need. Last year, I permanently endowed a national math camp for kids, eight to twelve.

No, I don’t need money. I need stability and calm so I can focus on what really matters—making kick-ass products that change the tech industry. That’s all that matters, and—

“Sir? We’re in the final descent. You’ll need to put away your laptop.”

I can feel the flight attendant hovering beside me as I furiously finish typing. As soon as I hit send on a second email, this one to my chief engineer, I close my laptop and flip her a grateful smile. “All done.”

She points to my utilitarian canvas messenger bag. “If you don’t mind stowing it under the seat in front of you…”

“Of course not.” I put it away and pull out my phone, which is already connected to the wireless network. The signal will cutout at ten thousand feet, which means I’ve still got a couple minutes.

I don’t bother to look out the window. I’ve seen this approach into New York a hundred times at least. My best friends live here. I have constant business dealings here.

But ten years ago, I headed west and found my fortune in Silicon Valley.

Plus, I have the Pacific Ocean on my doorstep. It’s hard to beat that.

I open the secure messenger app I use with Jake and Ben.

Ben’s name immediately pops up in a bubble.

The wi-fi cuts out before I can point out that Cara has more in common with me than she does with her brother.

When we land and my phone reconnects to the network, a dozen messages spill in. Jake excusing himself from dinner because he has plans. Ben making fun of my skills with women—which are perfectly acceptable, thank you very much.

Just because I choose not to use them that often, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to leave a woman with a sex-drunk smile on her face at the end of a very long night.

I just have other priorities most of the time. Saving the world, saving my parents, building an empire.

And tonight, dinner with two of my favorite people in the world, because Ben’s also sent the name and address of the restaurant Cara has picked out.

It wasn’t that long ago Cara was the one tagging along, not that I ever minded. Even as a teenager, Ben’s youngest sister was sharply curious, a clever girl who had no time for ridiculous drama or hormone-driven conflict.

Six years ago, Cara moved from New York to California to attend Stanford University. For four years, she was literally down the road from me, and across the continent from her over-protective brother and sister, her controlling grandmother, and her self-absorbed parents.

So when she was picked up by campus police in her sophomore year, she called me to bail her out. That was the first secret that bonded us.

Then she applied to Masters programs around the country, and only got into Columbia. Instead of accepting it and moving back home for two years, she begged me for a job so she could buy another year of applying to programs further afield.

I gave her an internship. Secret number two.

For a bunch of reasons, I gave her a position on a different campus from where I work.

Reasons like how she grew the hell up over her four years at Stanford, her body blooming to finally match her very grown-up mind. If I wasn’t careful, Cara could be a dangerous temptation to do something stupid.

Extra-stupid, because she persists in calling me her brother-from-another-mother.

Plus there were other reasons, like wanting to avoid a nepotism charge Cara didn’t deserve. She was as qualified to be a Starfish Instrumentation intern as any other Stanford grad.

And there was never any risk of her trying to work her way up through the company. All Cara has ever wanted is to be free as a bird, and I will always do anything in my power to protect that for her.

Keep her out of New York City? Check. Be an understanding ear when she needs to vent? Check.

I’ll be the not-quite-a-brother she’s always wanted. The one who gets her. The one who supports her, no matter what.