The Plan (10 page)

*
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.

“C
LARA
. C
ALM
D
OWN
.”

“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.

S
TILL
A
WAKE
.

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.

N
OT
A
WAKE
. 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 B
LACK
E-C
LASS
P
ULLS
U
P
, 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.

“Y
OUR
T
ICKET
, M
R
. C
ANON
.”

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.

“N
OTHING
M
ORE
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.

“Very well, sir.”

His jaw is still set, and a little bulge at the hinge flexes. Then he shifts away from me and presses his index finger near his ear. Cabin pressure is affecting his ears. Jury is still out on the other issue.

“Gum?” I offer him a stick.

He straightens—seems surprised—but reaches over and takes the proffered gum. It’s wintergreen.

Hopefully acceptable. Cinnamon is a deal breaker.

I get the universal guy nod as substitute for an offering of thanks.

Roughly five dozen chews into the gum and the atmosphere is full-fledged awkward. Quiet. Unsettling.

Weird.

He begins sifting through the in-flight magazines. I dare say he looks lost without his omnipresent phone.

“Have you had a chance to read this yet?” I hold out the book I purchased for him yesterday. I feel confident he hasn’t read it; it just came out.

It is a Kodak moment, tired phraseology be damned. This might be the closest I ever get to seeing Alaric Canon at a loss for words. Taken aback. Discombobulated.

Well, no. Not quite that far.

But he is surprised and surprised enough to not completely mask it. There is an adorable twinkle in his eye. Or the reflection of the emergency exit lights. Whichever.

He takes it from my hand slowly, almost like he can’t believe it’s not booby-trapped. He looks at it for a moment then lifts it up in a strange salute to me before he starts reading.

That’s all right. Just go ahead and be above verbal expressions of gratitude. I will get you to say the words someday, you ungrateful mother…

The pilot has long since turned off the seat-belt sign, but I’m not certain that I’m free to move about the cabin. Upward of a gallon of coffee has gone down Canon’s gullet without a single bathroom break. Inhuman.

I, however, do not have a retrofitted industrial bladder.

I touch his armrest in hope to get his attention. His eyes flash to it, then me. I gesture toward the restroom. I tell myself that this is out of courtesy, but I feel pretty sure he thinks he’s granting permission. I’m not going to trifle, to split hairs. I just need to survive this trip.