Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Unless . . .
The frown on her face doesn’t give her away, but the impatient tap of her foot does.
“Janet.” My lips spread into my candy-coated smile that I have perfected for this very moment. “Is there something you need?”
Her eyes narrow. “Am I interrupting something? Looks like you and Mara have more pressing things to discuss than anything I could offer.” She lifts a challenging eyebrow.
“Nope. All clear here.” Keeping my voice steady so as not to give myself away should be challenging, but I’ve mastered the art of keeping calm long ago.
“Good. Mr. Walker would like to see you immediately.”
“No problem.” My hand moves from where it’s resting on my lap, and I quickly close out the document I’m in.
Janet pulls her gaze from me. “And you, Mara?”
“Yes,” Mara responds.
“Don’t you have something you need to be doing right now?” She reminds me of one of my teachers from when I was still in grade school. Her hair is pulled tightly into a bun, lines etching her forehead as she frowns.
“All over it,” Mara responds as I turn my chair to face my friend. She winks at me.
“Then do that.” Janet’s stern voice is just as grating as my old English teacher too, completely irritating, like those nails on a chalkboard again.
I bite my lower lip to stifle my laugh at my own bad joke. Making my eyes wide, I look at Mara, who also is trying to refrain from bursting out into a fit of giggles.
Once the urge to laugh has passed, I turn back to my computer, this time closing my laptop, grabbing my notepad, and then standing from my chair.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I have no idea what our boss, Mr. Walker, wants, but I’m not particularly looking forward to finding out.
Probably an article on the fanciest doorknobs manufactured.
Snoozefest central.
It’s not that I don’t like architecture or houses. I’d just prefer to be writing on a topic that fascinates me.
I want to be intrigued.
I thought I’d be a reporter. However, the only mystery in my life these days is what type of shingle is on a 1910 Cape Cod.
Still, despite my hope to teleport out of here somehow, we arrive at Mr. Walker’s office. Janet swings open the door, steps inside, and I follow suit.
Behind the large, imposing desk is the editor I work under. The man who doles out all the crap work I’ve been writing.
Mr. Walker lifts his head from whatever he’s reading and meets my stare.
I imagine, once upon a time, he was probably very popular with the ladies. With hair the color of freshly fallen snow, he still looks distinguished, just older. His face is weathered with lines that speak of years of experience. Stories I’d love to hear. I love to dig into why people are the way they are. What their story is.
However, at this moment, that’s not possible, so I shake away the thoughts and give my boss all my attention.
The way he looks at me has me wanting to cross my arms over my chest, but instead, I stand perfectly still with a smile firmly planted on my face.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I keep my tone light and pleasant. No reason for the boss to know I’m anything but.
“Yes. Let’s get to it. We don’t have much time if we’re going to get you on the road.”
“Road, sir?” I glance at Janet, who, of course, looks like she swallowed an entire lemon. God, would it hurt for her to crack a smile? She’s a freaking upper-level administrative assistant. Talk about cushy job.
“What do you think?” he asks me. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There is nothing in the country, let alone the world, like what is being made.”
I obviously zoned out a little too long because I have no clue what Mr. Walker is talking about now. Let alone why I would need to travel for something.
“Here.” Mr. Walker reaches his hand out, and I look at a press sheet.
This is what he was looking at when I walked into the room. Quietly, I allow myself to read what’s on the page.
Holy.
Crap.
It’s perfection.
Aptly named The Elysian. Aka paradise.
That’s how they’re describing it. A playground for the rich and famous.
Modern. Simple. Luxurious.
Completely controlled by Artificial Intelligence to maximize efficiencies.
Set amongst the mountains in Upstate New York.
Helicopter access. A private aviation airport on the property.
I continue to read about the technology involved with this project.
This is insane. Never has a mass scale project of this magnitude existed.
“You’ll be heading out to The Elysian by the end of the day,” Mr. Walker says.
“What?” My mouth hangs open, and my eyes are wide. Did he just say I’m the one who’s going? I shake myself out of my stupor. “Excuse me. Me?” I clear my throat. It feels dry. Like I’m choking on dust.