The Plan Read online

  Earlier this morning, just when I had begun to consider that he was perhaps stricken with acute onset laryngitis, I overheard Canon on a call, clicking his pen, and talking to any damned person but me.

  And now, he is looking at me, staring at me in the corridor by the time clock, as if someone who looks like him has never seen a woman like me in a dress before. As if my clothes are not suitable. Well, hell. I ran out of dishwater-dull duds and had to resort to a short, black column dress.

  I look pretty good. More than good, actually, but I’m not a teenager anymore. Caution: Contents may have shifted during flight.

  No doubt he has his pick of women—young and old. All remarkably artificially enhanced, preternaturally preserved, toned bodies likely the product of countless Pilates sessions for which I’d have little time and even less inclination. That’s the way, now, is not it? Strong, hard, and lean seeks same. Not that it matters. Not that I want him to want me. Not at all.

  Ugh, stupid hormones.

  Clock out. Eat. Sleep. Drink.

  Day of Employment:

  373

  7:57 a.m.

  * Outfit: Mennonites wear more exciting things.

  * Clara: Still unforgiven for her holiday party “help.”

  * Cinnamon Roll: On my desk. From Canon.

  * Location: Canon’s office.

  I ARRIVE AT WORK and am ushered into Canon’s office by the man himself.

  Feast or famine with this guy. Never see him. Now all up in my face.

  “I will gone for several days,” he begins, walking around to sit on the edge of his desk. “Please be seated.”

  I remain standing. Mostly because my knees have locked in shock.

  His head tilts. “Very well.” He coughs. “Access codes for my home as well as instructions for the items that need attending there in my absence are in a secure email I sent you this morning. Do you have any questions for me?”

  This gets me. I sit down gracelessly.

  Okay, I do not understand this disturbing, beautiful man.

  I came in here fully intent on laying down the law about communicating with me.

  I spread my notepad in my lap. Deep breaths. The thoughts I have collected on the subject are few. I acknowledge that I do not know about the nuts and bolts of the upcoming deal or about production operations. What I do have is the ability to make plans and research.

  But none of the hassle of me working for him matters if he and I can’t work together for the short term. I’d never been in a position to admit that someone else knows better than me at anything, but it is my belief that, in this, he does…and he’s not giving me anything to work with.

  I reach for the pen and notice him looking directly at me.

  We make direct eye contact for what might be the first time.

  I expect to find the same aloof judgment, like all the previous sideways glances he’s thrown at me. I expect to feed the fire of anger that threatens to blaze. What I don’t expect is to find him gauging me, a near light in his eyes.

  Before I can process the moment, he’s piled my lap with files.

  “Mr. Canon,” I say and watch him open up and peruse a file from his own stack. Under his white shirt, the tendons in his arm dance with each turn of a page. “Things need to change.” I swallow hard. “Tomorrow, I’ll be at your beck and call all morning, as has been the case since I started.”

  I cough softly, clearing a lump in my throat that has materialized and decidedly will not be contemplated. “I would appreciate it if you would speak with me rather than leave me a list. I am neither a handyman nor a husband; I do not respond well to honey-do lists. After lunch, we should sit down and go over—together—what I have found in their business records. If we don’t do that soon, you will be gone on that trip and I will have gone blind reading their numbers for no good reason.”

  I straighten my skirt and notice that he is still sitting on the side of his desk. The file is closed. His look is unreadable.

  Hot, but unreadable.

  “Ms. Baker, you somehow feel you know better how I need to be assisted than I do myself?” he says flatly.

  “To be frank, Mr. Canon, I’m the one with the history of being able to play well with others. Maybe it might be high time to try something new.”

  10:15 a.m.

  * Merger: In doubt.

  REBECCA WHISPERS that the board is under the impression that the production company that’s on the other side of our merger may not be on the level. At least, they may be hiding some numbers.

  I look back over to my desk just in time to see Canon slip one of his famous lists onto it. He ducks back in his office.

  Honestly, how did other assistants ever have the opportunity to upset him?

  Sauron gave more face time than this guy.

  11:25 a.m.

  I OPEN A DESK DRAWER and realize everything I want to use will require a trip to the supply room. It’s a major inconvenience to traipse all the way to BFE to get a fourth highlighter color. But I am not the fastidious fart who must have his items color coded just-so.

  The rest of the day is spent downloading and combing through business records our potential partner emailed over at Canon’s insistence.

  He is serious about doubting them, but professional enough to mask it in his tone with them. I overhear him move his trip departure up.

  It might not be easy to be around the man, but it is impossible not to respect him. Nothing gets past him. Focused like a falcon.

  Gee, whatever will I do without his smiling face and cheerful disposition to brighten my workday?

  Day of Employment:

  374

  3:15 p.m.

  * Location: Rebecca’s office.

  * Rebecca: Fast becoming my least favorite person.

  * Why: See below.

  REBECCA IS AN IMMORTAL.

  I know this because I have been giving her a look that can kill for the past three and a half minutes.

  I move to cross my arms in front of me in an exaggerated display of my unexaggerated disgust.

  My arms are already crossed. Because, on instinct, my stance is guarded. Protective.

  I clear my throat. Try to dislodge the cotton that materialized there once Rebecca told me what she had up her tailored sleeve.

  “Tell me, again, why exactly is it I need go on this business trip with him?”

  Rebecca rests her chin on the back of her hand. “Because Mr. Canon will need to continue to go through their business records while on site there. He will be party to their board meeting and at least one international teleconference. Plus, if he concludes that a merger is still in our best interests, he will essentially be selling them on the idea.”

  I start to ask why that is, but stop myself. Of course. Our request for their business records this close to the line must throw up red flags.

  If they aren’t cooking the books, we have now insulted them by treating them suspiciously.

  Judging by all those reports I printed, if there’s any cooking going on, they have fire pit and spit roasted a whole library.

  “What about my intersession class? I was going to use my saved up vacation days. I-I don’t think I can miss classes for a week for this trip.” I get the words out, but I can hear my voice begin to stammer.

  “Emma, this deal he’s setting up means well over a thousand jobs in this community. We really cannot afford to gamble.” I feel a wave of guilt mix with my trepidation. Rebecca must sense it, too. She softens and places her hand on mine. “I have called your school. I hope you don’t mind. As a part of an already economically depressed community that will be only be more so if our company downsizes or—” she sighs for effect “—if we completely shutter, they stand to benefit from this deal, too. They will video the lectures and email you URLs.”

  I know I must be gaping at her.

  I do not want to go on a trip with him.

  Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but proximity requires a change of panties.
>
  4:59 p.m.

  “THE CAR WILL PICK YOU UP at four,” Canon says without salutation.

  Four? As in 4:00 a.m.? Oh, holy sh…

  “Four o’clock,” I confirm, and the line clicks.

  I hope he ended the call. I contemplate calling him back to check but decide against it. I would call back anyone else; it’s in my nature. Mr. Alaric Canon would call back if he had been cut off.

  But he would definitely be pissed if I interrupted him needlessly.

  9:00 p.m.

  * Skin: Buffed.

  * Nails: Filed to nubs. Clear coat.

  * Credit Card: Dangerously close to limit.

  * Kitchen Table: Covered in supplies for every occasion.

  * Suitcases: Packed. Everything from Rebecca’s best suit to my roommate’s cocktail dresses.

  * Wardrobe: Looks like I have robbed a stranger.

  * Feet: Raw. Stupid shoes.

  * Roommate: Bouncing off walls.

  “CLARA. CALM DOWN.”

  “Emma. Calm up.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  Clara zips around the kitchen. “Here’s a bag of meds and one for late night emergencies,” she says, tossing bags in the suitcase with the other items.

  “Eagle Scouts are less prepared.” I roll my eyes at her. “Clara, I appreciate all of this, I really do.”

  She shrugs. “Are you going to eat the rest of that stir-fry?” She’s rummaging in the refrigerator, tiny ass in the air.

  “Nope,” I say, “help yourself.” Then, unbidden, melancholy hits.

  This is not what I dreamed about at all. I wanted him to notice me. To just be kind. See a light in his eyes. Or a smile on his lips. A moment of friendliness or appreciation—or, just maybe, flirtation—from the consummate SOB.

  It’s a sick need. I get it. I know it.

  I still wanted it.

  And I feel that dream die.

  I had a process. I had a plan.

  Day of Employment:

  375

  12:23 a.m.

  STILL AWAKE.

  Wide freaking awake.

  If there are butterflies in my stomach keeping me awake, then it’s not from delicate little flutters of nervousness. Their wings are like thunderclaps. These are rabid, fanged, snarling butterflies beating their way around under my ribs. These are the Mothra of butterflies.

  3:00 a.m.

  NOT AWAKE. Most assuredly not awake. No sleep would have been better. My God—so groggy.

  The snooze button beckons me. Such temptation.

  I want to snuggle down into my toasty pillow and to doze and dream of a time when Canon was still a pretty, shiny thing to admire from a shop window. When I was naïve enough to think the PAs who got fired immediately were the unlucky ones.

  I get up. I don’t give in.

  3:58 a.m.

  * Luggage: One large, rolling suitcase.

  * Carry-On Contents: Travel documents for myself and one Alaric Glenn Canon. Motion-sickness meds, just in case. Gum. Mints. Purse. Laptop. Magazines and new book by favorite author of new boss. Miscellaneous.

  * Hair: Stick-straight, clipped back.

  * Clothes: Gray pantsuit. Gray pumps. Gray everything.

  * Mood: Gray. Natch.

  A BLACK E-CLASS PULLS UP, sloshing through the overnight moisture. It waits silently.

  I heave the suitcase into the trunk. The empty trunk. What the hell?

  The driver offers no immediate explanation. A fender bender on the highway slows traffic to a crawl for several minutes. He takes an exit off the route to the airport and appears to do some winding around in an impromptu route. The rocking motion threatens to lull me to sleep.

  In a neighborhood so affluent all that can be seen are wrought iron gates and ten-foot hedgerows, the car glides to a stop outside one such gate. He punches in a code, and we meander up the winding lane. Canon is outside, suited in deep charcoal. Three-button. Some ridiculous, cool-tone paisley tie that only he could make look as imposing as hell. He walks to the car while punching the keys of his phone.

  I note the driver actually deigns to put Canon’s bags in the trunk.

  Canon sits next to me in the seat now, never taking his eyes off his screen.

  “When I give you a time to be ready, it is not an approximation.”

  My mouth drops open. Do I defend myself in a situation such as this? I was on time.

  “Sir,” the driver says, proving himself un-mute, “there was a wreck on the turnpike. It was necessary to double-back through the Hammond district.”

  Beside me, Canon’s jaw visibly tightens, but he never stops typing. “Tell me, do you believe that you are paid to arrive at a certain time?”

  “Yes, Mr. Canon, I am.”

  Canon slides his phone into a pocket and looks out the window. “Wrong. You were.”

  I study the reports I have been pretending to read for all I’m worth. I don’t hold my breath for an apology.

  5:20 a.m.

  * Location: Airport, Terminal A.

  * Canon: Coincidentally, also such a huge “A” it’s going to be the death of him.

  “YOUR TICKET, MR. CANON.”

  He’s standing near a pillar at our gate. He has been standing there, still, robotic, since he finished the coffee for which I had to sprint to the far end of the terminal. Sprint. In heels. Try it sometime.

  He takes the ticket from my hand, and I’m glad I move quickly or I would have a Guinness-worthy series of paper cuts.

  We have checked our bags, but there’s still his briefcase, laptop, and my carry-ons to contend with. Priority boarding is called, and it looks as though I’m meant to carry his things, too. He walks away with a hand in his pocket, suit jacket slung over his arm.

  Please, don’t break a sweat or anything, mister.

  He throws a glance my way. “Today.” He lays on the last syllable as if the sarcasm might’ve escaped me otherwise.

  Faked grace gets fifty pounds of junk and me down the breezeway without banging his hoity-toity briefcase against the walls. Leather. Probably from the pelts of newborn puppies. Or a giant panda. Anyone seen Ling-Ling lately?

  Our seats are in the very front of the plane. I have heard this is not the safest place to sit. But it occurs to me Canon would simply tell the plane it could not crash, and it would begin to flap its wings like a great, metal bird.

  He sits nearest the window and utilizes a final few minutes on his phone. I don’t think he even realizes I’m here.

  I wrestle most of our items into the overhead bin while trying to not block the path for every single person who comes on board. Because we’re sitting right up front. Have I mentioned that?

  It’s a weird angle. To reach up into the bin but keep my ass out of the aisle, I feel like a question mark.

  My shirt has come untucked, and I’m hyper aware of the strip of skin at my waist that is now meeting cool air. I slide in my laptop bag and feel a shove from behind, and suddenly I’m no longer stable. I teeter for all of a second before hands clamp around me. All I can feel is heat on my exposed skin.

  Slowly I gain my bearings. His face is inches from mine. Hovering. His breath swirls between us. Canon breath. It is coffee and something more. I resist the urge to inhale deeply. His brow furrows, and he swings and plops me down into my seat. I blink again and again.

  “I believe you owe someone an apology.”

  He steps out from under the bin. The bustle of passengers halts. I’m staring straightforward, observing the textured paneling.

  “You.” His voice booms.

  The quiet feels like forever, but it is probably only a few seconds. My torso feels seared, as if I will find two handprint brands on my skin when I undress later.

  His crotch is also level with my face. My perception of the world at large is affected.

  A reedy male voice carries back to me. “I apologize.”

  Canon returns smoothly to his seat.

  How does one process a
situation like this? That was gallant. And kinda hot.

  “Thank you, Mr. Canon.”

  “There is no time to change if you get your suit dirty.”

  Ah, chivalry.

  7:34 a.m.

  “NOTHING MORE that can be covered now.”

  We have been going over the proposal and possible concessions for the longest ninety minutes of my life. And I saw Battlefield Earth.

  I know there is more to go over, but he doesn’t want to compromise security…or some BS. Whatever. I doubt that silver-haired, golden-anniversary couple behind us are actually corporate spies hanging on our every word.

  I understand our current operations, but this is a new venture. New products and production capabilities.

  We outsource most of our product line; the level of integration that is on the table would make us manufacturers. What I understand generally is not going to be much help here. I want to push for info.

  I doubt anyone pushes Canon for anything…not successfully anyway.

  His buttons. I would love to push those. Or pop them.

  “Very well,” I say as I put my notepad back in my bag. In my peripheral, I see his jaw is set. Tense. What have I done? Not done? He was as personable as he gets until…

  …until I spoke just now. Until I said, “Very well.” And a thousand thoughts hit me at once. Oh, shit…is this guy thinking I’m going to address him as “sir” or “Mr. Canon” every blessed time I speak? That I’m going to subjugate myself at every turn? That I’m mousy and meek and mild-mannered? I bet he gets off on…Oh, great dandelions and unicorns—the son of a bitch might be one of those guys.

  His jaw is still tense. You are gonna chip a molar at this rate, buddy. Let’s test the theory.