I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself—us—into by bringing Ronnie onto the team. She’s smart, for sure; really smart. Her questions aren’t like anything I’ve had to deal with before. She’s always one step ahead of what we’re doing, and she’s not afraid to challenge me. Twice I’ve had to scrap ideas because she’s pointed out problems that we should have thought of ourselves, and she’s only a trainee. On the one hand, she’s already saved us from losing a bundle of money, and looking like idiots in front of those hyenas at Global Finance.

But there’s a problem. When she looks at me, it’s electric. Distracting. I keep thinking about what it would be like to kiss those lips, get her out of that dress. Just the touch of her hand when we shook hands had me thinking about her for the rest of the day. I think about what it would be like to spend the morning in bed with her, listening to her voice, rich and full of passion and conviction. Watching her eyes flash as she explains something or asks a question.

She’s throwing me off my game. I need to get thinking about her as just one of my employees. I have to stop thinking about…

There’s a knock on the door to my office, and I look across from my whiteboard. I go through a lot of whiteboards—my standard joke is that most of what I write should be erased about three times before anyone else sees it, so a whiteboard is perfect—and this one is about due for replacement.

“Come in.” I could use a break, to be honest.

The door opens a crack, but no-one enters. I wait.

“Hello?” There’s a pause, and a small dark head pokes through the door. “Phillip! Hey man, how’s it going? Come on in, seriously.”

Phillip comes in, as slowly as he possibly can. “Hey.”

“Hey. Have a seat.”

He perches himself on one of the chairs in my office—I found some more comfortable ones, thank goodness—and watches me. I rummage in the breast pocket of my jacket for a USB stick, and hand it to him. “Here, man. Firefly. You’ll really like it, I promise.”

He takes it, tentatively, and holds on to it. “Thanks.”

“So what’s happening at school? What subjects do you like?” I remember how much I hated those kinds of questions when I was twelve—sorry, thirteen—but now I’m an adult, it’s surprisingly hard to come up with anything else to ask.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Math. Writing.”

“Oh yeah, your story. How’s it going?” I sit back down at my desk, and try as hard as I can not to look like I’m interrogating him.

“It’s okay.”

If I want to get him to talk, I’m going to have to change tack here. “So, uh, is it a science fiction story, or what? I’ve always found it hard to decide what I wanted to write, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a science fiction story?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” Cool? There are few things worse to a teenager than an adult calling something ‘cool.’ You’re supposed to be the smooth-talker, Tom. “Are you thinking about publishing it or something? I mean, it’s a lot easier to get stuff published now than in the past, you know.”

“Maybe. Who’d want to publish it? I’m just a kid.” Phillip starts to kick his legs against the seat.

I smile. “Nobody needs to know that. You could be,” I deepen my voice, “Phillip, uh..”

“Buchanan.”

“Sorry. ‘Phillip Buchanan, famous science fiction author!’ Doesn’t that sound good?”

“I guess.”

“Seriously, if it’s something you like doing, you should keep doing it. I know it can be difficult at times, doing things that other people don’t understand. But if it’s something that you enjoy, then that’s the most important thing. Hey, find something you’re good at, and play to win, right?”

His face darkens. “You sound like my dad.” Something tells me that’s not a good thing in this case. “He said life was all about playing to win, and being with Mom and I was getting in the way of that. That’s why he left, he said.”

Oh, heck. “I’m sorry, Phillip, I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just meant that everyone makes their own choices in life, and you’re in charge of what’s right for you. Or something.”

He kicks the chair-legs again. “Yeah, my Dad said that too. He and Mom lost a lot of money in a big investment, then they started fighting. He said it wasn’t worth his time staying around.” He stands up. “That’s why Mom has to work late all the time. This place makes her work so hard she can’t come home, but she needs the money.”

“Phillip, that sucks, man, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll try and see—maybe I can—”

“Forget it.” He takes the USB stick and puts it back on the table. “I need to go. Here’s your USB stick back.”

“No, honestly, you keep it. It’s not a big deal.” He shakes his head.

“Mom said I shouldn’t keep things that aren’t mine.” The door closes behind him, and I’m left staring at my desk.

Well, you screwed that up, Macaulay. Nice one. It’s a really good TV show, too.

* * *

While I’m staring, there’s another knock at the door. From the tone of it, I can tell it’s not Phillip.

“Yeah.” Mike comes through the door, marker pens clutched in one fist.

“Hey, Tom, I’ve got some more ideas for the—” He sees my face. “Everything OK, man?”

“Yeah, Mike, it’s not a big deal. What were you going to say?” He’s undeterred.

“Was that Barbara’s kid I saw leaving your office just before?” I actually had no idea who Phillip’s mom was.

“Barbara? As in—”

“Yeah, as in, scary looks-at-everyone-like-they-did-something-wrong-lady. That’s her son. Phillip, I think his name is. Seems like a good kid, but pretty quiet. He’s in here most days early in the week.”

“Yeah, I know. I was going to lend him some stuff to watch. He said something about how his parents lost money in an investment.”

Mike watches me carefully. “Yeah, I think so; I think I remember Barbara saying they had a deal go south on them.”

I get a cold feeling in my stomach. “It wasn’t one of ours, was it?”

“Who knows? Might have been. Looks like the kid could use some friends.” He stands up to the whiteboard, pen poised, then glances at me sitting in the chair. “You…haven’t been around kids much, have you, Tom?”

I smile, ruefully. “Is it that obvious? No, Mike, I haven’t. I said something, I dunno, make him think of his Dad. Turns out they’re divorced. How was I to know?”

“You weren’t, man. Thing is, teenage boys have a lot going on, and sometimes it takes time to get them to open up to you. I know from my own boys, man, it was a struggle at times. Just don’t let it get to you, okay?”

“Okay, Mike, I hear you. Thanks.” I stand up and thrust my chair back with a crunch, maybe a bit harder than I’d intended. “Now, what have you got for me?”