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    High Time

    More coffee. There would never be enough coffee. He dropped another spoonful into the mug, stirred it slowly, and popped an aspirin into his mouth before taking a sip. The previous night, the last drink should have indeed been the last, not the first of another three, but he had never been very good at listening to his conscience, always choosing to drown out the little pesky voice instead – the more comfortable approach.

    Mornings had been created for other people, the early birds – a species which was incomprehensible to him. Those were people like Cat, who believed the saying to be true, that they would indeed catch the proverbial worm, while those like Jay knew that catching the worm was irrelevant; what really mattered was who got it in the end. And for that, one only needed to be observant, to seize the chance when one saw it whoosh by.

    The chance would come, eventually. But, for the moment, Jay was happy to sit back on his chair and watch Cat lose her shit. The brunette was standing up but bent down over her desk, busily leafing through an inordinate amount of sheets of paper. Every thirty seconds or so, she would check her watch and comb back some rebellious strands of hair behind her ear. What was that all about? Part of his sense of opportunity was to know what was going on around him, so he got up and circled Cat’s desk to peek over her shoulder.

    “What’s that, then? An account I haven’t been told about?”

    The brunette jumped a little, startled. “Jesus, Jay, don’t do that. It’s nothing – not yet, anyway.”

    “Well, it looks like something.” He slid an arm around the smaller woman and snatched one of the blueprints from the pile.

    “I’m meeting Alistair in… five minutes,” Cat checked her watch again. “I found this fantastic place.”

    “Yeah, so I see. A personal project, is it?”

    “Something like that.”

    “And how’s your head?”

    “My head?” the brunette stopped what she was doing and turned to face him.

    “Don’t pretend you didn’t drink like a fucking sponge last night. And if my head’s killing me…”

    “I’m fine,” she said, gathering all her papers and hugging them against her breast. “Wish me luck.”

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