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.
“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.
Close this deal. Last a week, or a month if I can.
I can play. I can deal.
Perfect. Quiet. Docile. Opinionless. Sterile.
Act as if the COYA file created me in a lab.
Whatever it takes. Whatever he needs.
30 days. At most.
An Emma-ectomy.
That is the new program.
I have a new plan.
9:45 p.m.
*
Location
: Hyatt—Top floor. Room 928. Across from Canon’s.
*
Room
: Could not be more beige.
*
Laptop
: Charging.
*
Suitcase
: Unpacked.
*
Bath
: Drawn. And cold.
WHY IS MY BATH COLD? Because I, purchaser of sadist shoes, needed to soak after wearing cheese graters on my feet yesterday and then traveling and walking and sitting through meetings and touring facilities and impersonating a pack mule today. ’Twas not meant to be.
Instead I have spent the last two hours typing up messages as Canon rattled them off in rapid succession.
He asked for bar charts. I generated them while he shaved.
He changed his mind to line graphs. I converted them while he took a phone call out in the hall.
He complained that he had left his blue tie at home. I produced the spare one I’d brought from the office.
Ten minutes ago, he’d loosened his tie, wrung his hands, and made an aside that he couldn’t relax. I prepared a cup of chamomile tea and texted Clara that I owed her big time for all the ridiculous stuff she packed. He began drinking it and asked why I was still in his room.
You’re welcome.
“When would you like the day to start tomorrow?”
“Their offices open at eight. We will get there at seven.”
No fashionably late for that guy. I tried to cover my surprise but failed.
He explained, “It’s best to see who arrives when, who’s dedicated. Actions over words.” His fingers twisted and pulled free the already loosened knot in his tie. His upturned chin and neck stretched above the shirt collar. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing smoothly. I swallowed too.
I nodded and gathered my things. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Canon,” I said, turning to face him from his doorway.
He tilted his head almost like a dog that is pretty sure you have something behind your back. “Good night, Ms. Baker.”
Now I’m draining the tub while I hang the rest of my clothes. The cocktail dresses go in the bathroom in the hope that steam will help with the wrinkles. Suits go to the closest.
While the tub refills, I place our breakfast orders. The hotel supplied coffee is a total loss, as they really don’t have a large selection. I order the cream and sweetener anyway. Because my middle name is Prepared, I brought a bag of his coffee. Muffins and eggs and some type of pig. I have no way of knowing if he is a protein or carb morning person, so I’m covering all the bases. Orange juice for him. Grape, apple, and cranberry for me in case he hates OJ.