Connectivity (2 page)

Chapter 2

“It was absolutely the worst day ever!” I moan.

“
What
?” Reese and Emily shout back at the same time.

I roll my eyes. I am in a crowded bar in Lincoln Park. You know, the trendy type with lots of twenty-somethings milling around. The music is vibrating off the walls, people are shoulder-to-shoulder, and you can barely hear yourself think let alone speak. I am here with my best friends and roommates, ready to commiserate about my awful day.

Yet that is practically impossible to do without screaming.

I look around at the people getting drunk, the girls giggling at some total tool in a suit . . . Really, this is my own version of some dimension of hell.

I take a sip of my wine. Which is awful. And somehow suited to my rather craptastic introduction to William Cumberland.

“Won’t the big British mogul be going back to England?” Emily screams at me. “Don’t worry about it!”

Just then her boyfriend, Dan, slides up, a fresh beer in his hand. He’s wearing a V-neck sweater and a backward Chicago Cubs baseball cap, and still looks like a college boy even though he’s been out of school two years now. “What are we talking about?” he shouts.

“MK’s evil new boss,” Reese adds, tucking a lock of her long dark hair behind one ear.

“So what did he do?” Dan asks, taking a sip of his beer.

“He came from England and—” Emily starts, but Dan cuts her off.

“A foreigner. There’s your problem, MK,” Dan says, nodding knowingly at me. “What the fuck does a British guy know about U.S. TV?”

Okay, now I’m annoyed. So obviously William is a total jerk because he is a foreigner? What fucking
century
is this? And, wow, how incredibly insightful of Dan to share that assessment without even knowing the story.

God, really, why am I here? I feel like my friends and fellow peers love this kind of social scene, but I hate it. I can’t decide if there is something wrong with me or if I’m just mature.

Mature. I’ll roll with mature.

“I’m going home,” I say. I open my little purse, pull out some cash to cover my drink, and hand the bills to Reese. “I’ve got to go home and figure out how to save my career.”

“No, stay!” Reese begs. “You need to forget about today!”

“And we just got here 15 minutes ago!” Emily shouts.

“No, I need to refocus,” I say, sliding out of the booth.

“Remember, MK, he’s a British dickhead,” Dan says firmly.

“Right,” I say, really questioning why Emily would be with this guy. He is so . . . culturally stupid. Ick.

Then I, for like the five-thousandth time, embrace my single status. I bundle up and step outside. Luckily, we went to a bar that is down the street from our apartment. It is not snowing but the air is frigid cold. I keep my chin down in an effort to stay warm. Okay, thinking time. I need to redeem myself tomorrow. I will wear a very professional, fashion-forward outfit. Let’s face it, impression is about looks, too.

I have to serve the perfect tea. So I will get there early to get the tea service as it is delivered. Luckily, I took a class last summer on serving tea so I know how to do that. But, what else, what else? Scones! That’s it. I will make scones to serve, too. I have the perfect lemon thyme scone I created last summer. I will show Cumberland I can go the extra mile and think outside the box by adding that personal touch.

Ooooh, I can then blog about the scones. Perfect!

I get home and I am in the zone. I turn on some music, get all my kitchen prep stuff out, and begin to cook. I make the scones and they turn out perfectly. I grab my camera and arrange them on a plate with some fresh thyme sprigs and take a few pictures. Inspired, I grab my iPad and go to my blog.

I don’t know why I even bother. It is my collection of recipes and decorating ideas and nobody knows I do it. But it is my little way of being creative, of using my skills. Of having a way to show the world who I am, other than an executive assistant at TATS.

I download a photo of the scones and add my thoughts before typing in the recipe:

Today, my new boss arrived in town. He is a Brit, and I shall call him Mr. X. And Mr. X likes nothing more than proper English tea. I will be giving him that tomorrow per his request, but I will also be adding these lemon thyme scones to the tea service. After all, what is tea without a scone? And further more, Mr. X is too thin and could use a scone. Or five.

I smile at my post and add the recipe. Then I close my iPad and exhale.
Bring it on, Cumberland
.
I am more than ready to impress the hell out of you tomorrow.

I arrive at work extra early the next day. The tea service is set on a tray, complete with lemon slices and scones. I put some thyme sprigs around the scones to make it look really nice. I have the electric teakettle heating in the break room, so indeed I am ready.

I leave that on my desk and go to the restroom to make sure I look sharp. I stand in front of the full-length mirror. I’m wearing a crisp white shirt, white camisole, and sleek-fitting gray trousers. I took a bunch of pearl necklaces and pinned them together with a broach for my necklace, and a bright pink and orange vintage Pucci scarf is tied up as a headband in my straight red hair.

I adjust the gold cuff bracelet on my left arm and take a breath. My neutral eye shadow is flawless and brings out the brown in my brown-gold eyes. A hint of peach blush and a swipe of neutral lipstick with an apricot gloss on top. Neutral but nice. I smile confidently and go back down the hall. It is now 8:15 a.m.

I walk past the temporary office where Cumberland is while he is here, and I see the door is open and the light is on. Perfect! I can show him I am early in addition to being highly efficient. I get the teapot, take it to the break room, and fill it with hot water. Then I go back to my cubicle and pick up the loaded tea tray. Okay, shit, this is heavy. But I can manage. I shift it a bit until I have a perfect grasp on the edges and head toward his office.

I come around the corner and stand in his doorway. He’s scrolling through his iPad when I clear my throat.

Cumberland’s head lifts up and his intense blue eyes laser in on me.

“Mr. Cumberland, I have your tea—” I say, but as I step forward I bump right into the leg of a guest chair. I lose my balance and go flying forward, sending the tea tray sailing through the air. I land face first on his carpet.

Crash
!

The smashing of china and clattering of silverware practically bounces off the walls of his office. Then the collateral damage from my fall rains down on me and the floor.

“Ms. Grant! Ms. Grant, are you all right?”

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! I frantically shove myself to a kneeling position and don’t even look at him. My face is absolutely on fire with mortification, and I glance down and see my shirt has tea splattered all over it. And, oh, mother of God, I feel scone stuck on my chin!

“I’m so sorry!” I gasp, rubbing my chin. I quickly pick up broken pieces of china and put them onto the tray. “I am very, very, sorry, Mr. Cumberland. I caught the chair leg and lost my balance and—”

Suddenly I am aware that Cumberland is on the floor with me.

He is crouched down across from me, calmly picking up china pieces.

Oh my God! Please just shoot me. Someone just come in here and shoot me now!
The British mogul is on the floor picking up scone bits!

“Perhaps,” Cumberland says slowly in that deep British voice, “I should get you a tea trolley, Ms. Grant.”

I snap my head up. Okay, now he’s pissing me off. And since odds are he is going to fire me anyway, I tell him exactly what I think.

“With all due respect, Mr. Cumberland, I am not going to serve as a flight attendant pushing a drink cart. Or air hostess or whatever is the proper British term for that.”

Good Lord, am I talking to the most powerful man in communications like this
?

But I am so worked up I can’t stop.

“Furthermore,” I say, continuing, “I will be happy to bring you a cup of tea, but I am the assistant to Mr. Metzinger. So while I am more than glad to assist you while you are here, I will not let you treat me as a waitress.”

Cumberland trains that intense, observant gaze right on me. “Who is treating you like one?” he asks. “And I do believe you were the one who brought scones in an effort to impress me, Ms. Grant.”

Oooooooh! I’m furious. Because I know he is right.

“I was not trying to impress you!” I lie. “I was trying to be nice!”

Cumberland stands up. He puts his fingertips together in front of his lips and stares down at me on the floor.

“Oh, Ms. Grant. Please do not lie. It does not become you.”

Arrrgh! Now I’m in an embarrassed rage. I angrily pick up the mess on the floor and decide I am not going to speak to him unless he asks me a question. 

Which, of course, he does in a nanosecond.

“So what kind of scones were they, Ms. Grant?”

“Lemon thyme,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What a pity. They would have been delightful.”

I pick up the tray with the mess and stand up. Cumberland is still assessing me with his damn laser eyes and I really want to toss this tray straight at him.

“If this is all,” I say through gritted teeth, “I would like to dispose of this and call the janitorial staff to come up and vacuum please.”

“Oh my God! You
destroyed
his tea service?”

I look over my shoulder and see Arabella in the doorway. She eyes me with a combination of repugnance and horror.

“Do you have any idea how expensive this is?” she cries. “What a bloody mess!”

Oh fuck, please, please, let the floor swallow me up
.

I am about to apologize when Cumberland interjects, “It is not a travesty, Ms. Dalton. Please go out and purchase a new set for me today,” Cumberland says.

Arabella, looking like a total kiss ass, nods gravely at the situation. “Oh, absolutely, Mr. Cumberland. Please do trust that I will take every precaution to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

Then she shoots me a look of disgust and leaves the office.

I swallow hard. Just put another check in the awesome column for me as this morning is going oh so fabulously.

I swing back to Cumberland. “May I leave now?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, sinking down into his chair.

I am just about out the door when he speaks again.

“Ms. Grant?”

I turn around and he is staring at me, his fingers once again in that steeple position he seems to favor.

“I hope you put a rush delivery on that
Full House
DVD,” he says as he puts his fingers to his lips. “I am rather anxious to see your namesake.”

I stare at him. Holy crap, are his eyes actually sparkling? They are! Those intense blue eyes have a light in them I haven’t seen before. Is this
fun
for him?

I hate you
.
I really hate you, Cumberland
.

And if he isn’t going to fire me, then he cannot go back to England fast enough.

Chapter 3

“Why haven’t you responded to my Pinterest pins? Or Connectivity posts?” my sister screams into the phone. “I have a wedding to plan and you are
not
helping like a maid of honor should!”

I roll my eyes. Freaking fabulous. Bridezilla, AKA Michelle, is not getting married for another year yet is convinced we have to plan her wedding
every day
. I really think my sister is more prepared for this wedding than FEMA is for a natural disaster.

“Michelle, this week has been really challenging at work. I have had to deal with William Cumberland and—”

“The Connectivity guy. You have used that excuse like a million times, MK!” Michelle bellows.

I twist my neck to relieve stress and decide to ignore that comment.

“Well, he is leaving on Friday. I promise I will come up to Milwaukee on Saturday,” I say. Thank God he is leaving. I cannot wait for things to get back to normal at the office, which is impossible when Cumberland is around.

“Fine,” Michelle says, sighing heavily. “But if you could just spare a single second from your precious career to reply to my posts, it would be really nice of you.”

Good Lord. Did Pippa Middleton have to put up with this crap when Kate Middleton married Prince William? No, probably not. Kate seems like a rational human being, unlike Michelle.

I indulge Michelle while working on my iPad. It is almost seven o’clock in the evening, and out of habit, I check my work email. Then I see I have just received one from William Cumberland.

What
?
Cumberland sent me a personal email?

“Hey, Michelle, I need to run. I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say. Before she can protest, I disconnect the call. Then I click open the email:

From: William Cumberland

To: Mary-Kate Grant

Subject:
Full House

Ms. Grant, I just completed my review of Episode 1 of the
Full House
DVD you so kindly ordered on my behalf. My assessment is that your name situation is quite favorable, considering the fact that your mother could have named you after the character DJ. Or Joey.

WC

I read it over and over. What the hell? William Cumberland seriously took time out of his day to watch freaking
Full House
and send me an email about it?

He is doing this to annoy me.

And it worked.

I type back, as I will be dammed to let him have the last word.

To: William Cumberland

Subject: RE:
Full House

I find it hard to believe that a man who is running a worldwide media empire has the time to watch an episode of
Full House
. My guess is you just read the back of the DVD cover. At least I hope that is the case.

MKG

Then I hit ‘send’.

And he replies right back.

From: William Cumberland

To: Mary-Kate Grant

Subject: RE:
Full House

Running a media empire has given me vast multi-tasking skills, Ms. Grant. I am also certain the scene where Joey and Jesse try to change the nappy must have been an instant classic in American television in 1987.

WC

Oh my God
.

I am so exasperated I don’t even know how to respond. I click out of my email and put my iPad aside. What was the point of that exchange? Is William Cumberland emailing me about
Full House
just to irritate me? Seriously, I don’t know what to think about him.

The door opens and Emily interrupts my thoughts. She throws her purse on the floor and dissolves into sobs.

“D-D-Dan just broke up with me!” Emily manages to say. “H-He said we-we-were over b-b-b-because he doesn’t love me anymore!”

I jump off the couch, and Emily throws herself into my arms.

“Oh, Em,” I say, holding her tight. “I am so sorry. So sorry.”

Emily bawls into my shoulder.

I lead her back to the sofa and I sit with her as she cries. It is so painful to hear her cry like this because I know her heart feels irrevocably broken. 

As I try to comfort her by stroking her hair, I can’t help but think this will be better for her in the long run. Dan was a total idiot, and she could do so much better. And once again I think of how blessed I am that I am focused on my career and not love.
I have definitely made the right decision
, I think as sobs rack Emily’s body
.
I feel thankful that I have my priorities straight.

Thank God it is Friday.

Not only has this week been painfully long but Friday also means that within hours Cumberland will be on a plane back to the United Kingdom. Thank God, thank God, thank God, he’s going home!

I head downstairs to the big sports studio with the rest of the employees for the TATS Network. Cumberland is giving his big employee address and because it is being shot in our studio we are invited to go watch it live.

“Hey, MK, do you think it is true he’s going to totally redesign the networks and replace us with his own people?” Amber Logan, a public relations coordinator, asks me.

“I haven’t heard a word,” I say. Which is a lie. I have heard about 3,873 different rumors but I have not heard, or seen in writing, anything directly from Cumberland himself so I keep my mouth shut.

But the thought does worry me, since I have been nothing short of a clumsy, foul-mouthed, and short-tempered disaster in his presence. I am sure I will be the first one he fires when he has a spare moment to have Arabella draft up my termination letter.

I make my way down the winding hallways to the studio, which is kept ice cold because of the equipment. I wrap my arms around myself to stay warm and keep a careful eye on all the cables crossing the floor as I walk. I find a spot next to my boss, Paul, to watch the big speech.

Cumberland is already front and center, leaning on the anchor desk. His team is fluttering around him—someone going over papers, presumably a script, a makeup artist is powdering his face, lighting is being checked, and Arabella is running around with a headset and has a bottle of water which she hands him.

I tilt my head to the side and stare at him for a moment. Today he is wearing a fitted, long-sleeved shirt, one that seems tailor made for his lean frame. It is a light blue color, which really looks nice against his pale skin and dark hair.

I ponder him for a moment. Cumberland doesn’t look like anyone I have ever met, but that makes him intriguing in a way. You know, in addition to being mysterious, brilliant, and aloof.

Suddenly those blue eyes are staring right back at me with laser precision. I feel my breath catch in my throat. God, that gaze. I feel like he can see every thought in my head. I narrow my eyes at him and forcefully project the
I am
so
happy you are leaving
thought right back into his brain.

People are moving into position and the stage manager begins a countdown. Cumberland remains in front of the desk, leaning against the side, and projecting a casual, relaxed image for the camera.

Soon, his deep British voice fills the studio, and his voice, and presence, command the room. He reveals his plans to integrate the networks with Connectivity; how he is not afraid to make changes to make us stronger; how he wants exciting programming and we should not fear change but the status quo instead.

Then Cumberland pauses for effect before continuing.

“Obviously, we have a monumental task ahead of us,” he says, his eyes very, very intense now. “Yet I know each and every one of you are up for the challenge. And to make sure my vision becomes reality, I am temporarily relocating to Chicago to oversee this process.”

What?
I can’t breathe.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. He’s staying?

“My assistant, Arabella Dalton, will go back to the United Kingdom to assist my team there,” Cumberland says smoothly.

I glance at Arabella, whose mouth is wide open.
Holy crap, she didn’t know this was coming
, I compute.

“And while there are many qualified candidates between all the networks here, I have chosen Mary-Kate Grant from the TATS Network to be my personal assistant here in the United States.”

What
????

Oh my God. Oh my God. I feel dizzy. Sweat forms on the back of my neck. My heart is pounding and I feel everyone in the studio looking at me.

He chose me? Me?

I stare at Paul in shock. He stares back at me, and I can tell he is just as floored as I am.

“So please contact Ms. Grant directly if you need to reach me,” Cumberland says. He speaks for a few more minutes, but I can’t hear a word he is saying over the pounding in my head, and then he signs off.

A crowd of people instantly forms around him. I just stare at him in stunned silence. I stand still, waiting for everyone to empty the studio. Finally, his eyes meet mine and I watch as he excuses himself and comes directly over to me.

“Let’s go over here,” he says, gesturing to a remote corner of the almost vacant studio.

As soon as the studio is empty, I launch into my questions.

“I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head.

“I need an assistant. You are one. What is not to understand?”

“What is not to understand?” I repeat. “Between all the networks and departments in this building you have 30 different assistants to choose from!”

“I am well aware of that number and that fact, Ms. Grant,” Cumberland says, his blue eyes never leaving mine.

“But—”

“No buts. I
loathe
that word.”

I feel my face turn red in embarrassment. “I can’t even bind!”

“Irrelevant, as you yourself pointed out.”

“I dropped your tea set!” I hiss.

“Replaceable.”

“Why are we playing verbal tennis?” I spit out in frustration.

“I wasn’t aware that we were,” Cumberland says, lifting an eyebrow up. “Are we, Ms.
Grant? Playing a game here?”

Arrrrghhh! I want to scream, but I can’t.

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “We are not.”

“Good. Now details. I will be moving up to the 15
th
floor to office on the same floor as the Beautiful Homes Network. You will relocate up there with me.”

Okay, I see a silver lining in hell with that bit of information.

“Please be there Monday at 8:30 sharp. We have a lot to do next week.”

“All right,” I concede. “I will be there.”

“Brilliant. I shall see you Monday, Ms. Grant.” Cumberland turns to walk away but I decide I want the last word.

“Mr. Cumberland?”

He pauses and turns back around.

“Do not expect service from a tea trolley on Monday.”

And before he can respond, I turn and walk away.