Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“Good boy,” he told Tiny when he brought back a stick Eli had never thrown. He tossed it, then smiled fondly as Tiny ran in the wrong direction to fetch it.

My best friend in the whole world, ladies and gentlemen.

As if aware of his dethronement by a dog who needed expensive drugs just to get his nails trimmed, Hark chose that moment to return Eli’s earlier call. “What’s up?” he asked.

The sun was about to set, but the sweltering heat still pressed down every cell of his body, and the dog park was infested with gnats. Tiny abandoned not quite fetching and began following trails left by other dogs with gusto. Pee-mails, Maya called them, and that’s how Eli had started to think of them, too.

Maybe there was such a thing as hanging out too much with his sister.

“Eli?” Hark prodded.

“Sorry.” He wiped sweat off his forehead. “I have news. What do you want first, the good or the bad?” Eli asked.

“I hate it when you do that,” a voice screamed through the phone, fainter than Hark’s.

Eli smiled. “Hi, Minami.” He heard an approaching shuffle, and when she next spoke, she sounded much closer.

“If I know bad news is coming, I’m never going to be able to enjoy the good one. Best approach is: Tell me the good, allow me five minutes of happiness, and then break the bad. How many times have I explained this to you?”

The dry “feels like hundreds” in the background was quintessentially Sul’s.

“In my defense,” Eli said, “I didn’t know you were there. Or that I’d been put on speakerphone without my permission. I could have opened with a murder confession.”

“Is that the good news?”

“Nope.” He sighed. “Kline did come through and gave me access to the documents we asked for. Financial, taxes, inventory, accounts, you name it.”

A pause. “Color me surprised,” Hark said.

“Me, too. Until—and we’re entering bad news territory—I started going through them. They’re all physical copies, approximately twelve forklifts’ worth of paper. If an intern bought a Cobb salad six years ago, I guarantee you there’s a twelve-page report on the aftertaste of the blue cheese. I asked accounting if they had digital files, and they politely implied that I could go fuck myself. Legal’s reaching out to Kline’s general counsel, but it’s likely Florence just stopped listening to them. We’ll need to get arbitrators involved.”

“Paperwork burial. A beloved classic,” Hark muttered. “Fucking grand.”

“It would take ten people weeks to go through everything and figure out if any of the contract terms have been breached and we have grounds to take over Kline. I can’t say for sure it’s obfuscation, but there’s no doubt it’s a deliberate effort to buy time. If I had to guess . . .”

“What?”

“I have no proof of it. But my hunch is that Florence is busy trying to buy time while she contacts other investors to find the capital to pay back the loan, before we can discover that she’s in breach. Because she knows that once we catch her in the act, the biofuel tech is ours.”

Hark swore softly. Sul grunted. “Do you happen to have more good news?” Minami urged. “Like a good news Oreo?”

“You know I don’t, because I told you in advance. Aren’t you happy you were adequately prepared?”

“No.”

“Well, Rue Siebert’s microbial-coating project could be considered a piece of good news. It’s at a very advanced stage and great for—”

“You simp,” Minami muttered, and he didn’t bother denying it. He liked Rue. The no-nonsense looks, the plain speaking, the way the air around her always seemed to turn a darker, more serious color, that constant sense of something simmering just beneath her still surface.

Her body.

I don’t think I like you as a person.

Eli did not have a people-pleasing complex, nor a humiliation kink. Unlike Hark, he was also not a natural-born contrarian. When people—no, when women didn’t like him, he was happy to leave well enough alone. He really didn’t know what to do with this urge to change someone’s mind.

Rue Siebert’s mind.

Maybe he’d just ignore it. Let it fester inside him. That should be healthy.

“What are the lawyers estimating, time wise?” Minami asked.

“Weeks.”

“Shit. Is there any other way to—”

“The board,” Hark interrupted. “What about Kline’s board? They might agree to force her to turn over the documents. They override the CEO.”

“But Florence handpicked the board,” Minami pointed out. “Remember I looked into that? They’re all very loyal to her.”

“Except for one.”

“Who?” Eli asked. Tiny was galloping back to him, at last content with his explorations.

“Eric Sommers. I went golfing last weekend—”

Eli winced. On the other end of the line, a deep “ew” rose.

“What?”

“Could you just . . .” Minami sighed.

“Just what?” Hark asked defensively.

“I don’t know, attempt to meet the private investment fund executive’s stereotype with slightly less open arms?”