Snippet #2681078

It had just been a day since Rosemary had heard from Wilkins, but he had still not contacted her about who she was to expect or when. He was blatantly ignoring her emails and all her calls had barely rung before she was told to leave a message after the beep. She wasn't surprised. Wilkins had always been a toad, she thought, perched on her desk chair and rapidly typing up observations from her Dillinger maggot research. She had been up well into the night sniffing out what she could on Peter Whelen -- at least Wilkins had given her that name -- but there was still a way to go. While Whelen was a multibillionaire with at best skewed morals, it hadn't been an entirely unpleasant research time: firstly, it was a great excuse to not go home to her empty flat and nightmare-filled sleep, but secondly, he wasn't exactly an eyesore.

Someone knocked on her office door and Rosemary jumped. People so rarely came to her office, particularly without ringing first. "Yes?" she called and the door opened. She blinked in surprise and quickly pulled off her reading glasses (they made her look ridiculous). "Benjamin?" she said, and inwardly cringed; since when had she called him Benjamin? It seemed that mainly keeping to her office for the past few months had injured her social skills. She stared at him for a moment, checking it really was him, before reviving herself. Her social skills really did need reviving.

"Wow, it's been so long!" she stood up and walked around her desk, unconsciously pushing her stick insect tank away from the edge of the table as she passed it. Ben looked very similar to when she had last seen him -- what? Three years earlier? If anything, a few extra years had only improved his attractive appearance. "Where have you been? What are you doing back?" Too many questions, Rosie, she thought, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes and holding out her hand for him to shake.