The Plan (9 page)

*
Canon
: Add an “N” in the middle and launch him out of his own name.

H
E
H
AS
L
EFT
M
E
A
NOTHER
L
IST.

Madeline has turned my old desk into a veritable gamblers’ oasis. There are side bets on everything ranging from what I will screw up to get fired, to how long it will be before Canon deigns to interact with me.

Lists are a favorite tool of mine. I don’t have anything against lists.

I am, however, beginning to resent being left a list of tasks a mentally compromised orangutan could complete with minimal difficulty.

He must think I am a grade-A dolt.

Nothing can get me righteously pissed off faster. Do not pass go. Do not collect your teeth from the floor.

Visit my old desk. Rest and recuperation in the old stomping ground.

Bert assaults his keyboard.

“How’s your workweek going?” I ask him. “Anything new or exciting going on?”

“I work in a box. My weeks are all pretty much the same.”

Fair enough.

12:19 p.m.

*
Lunch
: Cold. Mine. His. Both.

*
Demeanor
: Icy.

I W
AS
B
ID
T
O
G
O
A
ND
F
ETCH
his lunch. Which I did.

I delivered it to an empty desk over twenty minutes ago.

He did not bother to share his whereabouts with me. Even setting aside how impossible not knowing such an important detail cripples the ability to be an effective assistant, that makes the dropping of everything and dashing off to retrieve his hot food pointless.

Now, I am told to set it outside the conference room door.

I am not a labrador.

However, I am closer than ever to lifting a leg. I’d cheerfully whizz in his Cheerios.

5:00 p.m.

H
E
I
S
W
ITHOUT
A D
OUBT
, bar none, the most infuriating man on the planet. If I didn’t need this job so desperately, I would tell him where to stick it. I could draw a detailed, relief map of it. Describe it so well that a police artist’s sketch artist’s rendering could look like a sixty megapixel image.

How long have I worked for him? Three days? Three full days and not a single word spoken to my face. Not a syllable or a gesture or even a yawn. The most I get from him is a condescending look now and again, as he shreds another file.

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 A
RRIVE
A
T
W
ORK
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.

R
EBECCA
W
HISPERS
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 O
PEN
A D
ESK
D
RAWER
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.

R
EBECCA
I
S
A
N
I
MMORTAL
.

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.

“T
HE
C
AR
W
ILL
P
ICK
Y
OU
U
P
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.