His chair didn’t squeak when he leaned back. Of course not. “You’re angry,” he observed, clinically. “But if the numbers are as solid as you claim, there’s nothing to worry about.”
There it was. The dare.
I opened the folder and slid the top sheet across. “You want to walk through this, line by line? Or do you need to schedule it with your assistant?”
He didn’t smile, but something flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I have time.”
We bent over the spreadsheet, shoulder to shoulder, the air growing unreasonably dense for an air-conditioned office.
I inhaled the scent of him, that infuriating cologne, heat that didn’t match his ice-water demeanor, and a hint of wet metal.
I pointed. “You’re focusing on Q2 variance, but you’re missing the context. Here and here; these line items balance out the shortfall.”
He scanned, fast and precise, and I watched his eyes move like scanner beams over my work. “This forecast,” he said, tapping a cell, “assumes 12% month-over-month growth in Tier 2 markets. Historical average is 9.2. Why the optimism?”
“Because we have three closed contracts waiting to land, and I already know two of them are done deals. Just waiting on signatures.” He wants a battle? I’ll do battle.
He looked at me, full-on. “And you’re certain?”
“I don’t put anything on paper I can’t defend.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I could hear the hum of his monitor, the distant clatter of someone’s heels in the hallway, and my own pulse, which apparently had opinions about Gabriel Valor’s proximity.
I stared at the info, then checked the edit history, seeing that my report had been edited after my final save at two-something a.m. “Something isn’t right.”
Beside me, Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. “These numbers were right in your last saved version. Did anyone have access to your spreadsheet after you finalized it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Probably just tired fingers.” He sounded convinced it was actually an unintentional error, but I hated that there was an error at all. I didn’t make mistakes. But perhaps it was sleep deprivation and stress.
He seemed interested. “Show me the pipeline data,” he said.
I had it, of course. Pulled up on my phone, ready to airdrop. “You want it, or are you afraid your firewall won’t be strong enough to protect you from whatever I might send with the documents?”
He shrugged, all calm arrogance. “Send it.”
I hit send. The data blinked onto his desktop. He scrolled, eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar dashboard. “This isn’t company-issue CRM.”
“No,” I said, letting the word hang. “It’s better. I built it.”
That finally drew a reaction; his eyebrow twitched up, the equivalent of another man doing a spit take. “You built your own forecasting tool.”
“I’m not here to play catch-up.”
He scrolled, then stopped. “Wait. Back up. These timestamps; when did you log these?”
I leaned in, invading his personal space. “Last night. Around two. If you’d like, I can screen-share the audit trail. Unlike some people, I don’t edit history.”
His lips pressed tighter. If I’d been ten percent less furious, I’d have called it a smile. “Noted. The numbers are all correct here, so there must have just been a typo, maybe when you pulled up the model. I wonder who could have gotten under your skin enough to mess you up.”
“Certainly not you.”
He closed the window. “You’ve made your point, Eliza.”
Not quite. “Actually, I’d like you to retract the error flag with the board. Publicly.” I know I’m pushing my luck, but I need to do this for me.
He studied me, only his eyes moving. I’d swear the bastard wasn’t even breathing. “You’re requesting a correction.”