Good thing the guy trying to squeeze on is reputedly not encumbered with one.
“Morning, Mr. Canon.” A random coworker steps off and gives up his spot. Canon and his pinstripe suit slide in and regard the man in much the way one would jetsam.
The elevator whirs upward. Everyone looks dutifully forward at the climbing numbers.
Everyone except Canon, who stares at his phone, and me, who stares at Canon staring at his phone.
I will savor the next eleven floors just as I do the hint of cinnamon roll that still emanates from him.
7:59 a.m.
*
Floor
: 8.
JUST THE TWO OF US.
This has never happened.
In 359 days of working in the same office with him, I have literally never happened to be in the same proximal location as the man before.
Red numbers climb. The floors. My body temperature. Not going to quibble.
He continues to assault his phone and a few of my favorite senses.
Wintergreen. Pumpkin spice and coffee. Sunshine.
I swear, heat actually rolls off of him. Scorches. Vibrates. We are riding up in a stainless steel, solar hot-plate box.
I inch closer. Tilt my head and try to break into his peripheral. Waste a few moments distracted by angular jawlines that put a 1980s Rob Lowe on notice. Gesture toward the elevator keys in a motion as if I mean to verify that his floor button has been already pushed.
You know, as if it would’ve escaped mine or anyone’s notice that they work in the same place as this guy. You could pick him out in a Cecil B. DeMille crowd scene.
This was not the most stellar plan. I just wanted to steal a moment. Get a tiny bit of eye contact. It would be a welcome pick-me-up after such a dud date. Plus, I must admit I put in a little extra effort today; it’s a rare Good Hair Day with big, fat waves rather than motley curls. The kind of day where you’d refer to your hair in terms of descriptive endearment such as “auburn” or “chestnut” rather than most days when you just want the brown lot of it out of your way in a hair band and be done with it.
I have even broken out my favorite turquoise wrap skirt, plus eye shadow put on in front of bathroom, rather than rearview, mirror.
No judging. Text and drive is a big no-no, but to commute and multitask is an aged and revered tradition which must be upheld. These are dark times. Darker still if we must forego the snooze button.
His phone continues to be the most interesting thing ever.
Frustrating. Another oh-so-casual sidestep and I’m positioned well within his radar zone. In a last ditch effort to generate a blip, I let my keys hit the floor and fail to bend fully at the knees while retrieving them.
I will chastise myself later for stooping to such adolescent, second-string cheerleader tactics.
And by chastise, I mean snarf a Reese’s.
Not even tinny, metal clanking sounds break his concentration. Unfazed. He either doesn’t notice or could not care less.
The doors swoosh open on our floor, and he exits swiftly. Not even a sideways glance.
11:05 a.m.
*
Location
: In my box, like a good Schrödinger’s kitty cat.
“WHAT’S THE SOONEST YOU’VE GOT?”
Madeline, with a pencil behind her ear and looking not unlike a real bookie, peruses her chart. “Bert has end-of-day…today.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Wow, that’d be a record. He’s got confidence.”
Still peering over the cubicle wall Madeline and I share, I look out across the office tundra to spot and evaluate the personal assistant who walked through the doors for the first time approximately twenty-seven hours ago. Tidy, strawberry blond bun; pencil skirt; gray shirt with only top button undone. All in the positive column. It appears she has managed to read the past assistants’ file on Canon’s preferences, and brought the right coffee, and kept out of his way. She looks perpetually busy and nervous.
All signs indicate that she is going in the long-term column.
I dangle a twenty over the partition.
Madeline snatches it and huffs in playful exasperation. “What’s your bet?”
I purse my lips as I contemplate. “When did you say the board meeting was?”
“I didn’t.” She half-smiles and looks at me knowingly.
“That’s a lunch meeting today,” Bert pipes up from across the aisle. “She already booked Bread in Captivity for the food, but your friend said they’re understaffed this afternoon and can’t squeeze in another delivery. So that assistant is picking it up herself.” A snort escapes him as he tries to keep his laughter contained.
“Wha—? She’s going off-site right in the middle of a meeting?” I feel the blood drain from my face. That is a disaster in the making. “I can’t watch. Don’t you think we should warn her?”
“Oh, Emma.” Madeline tsks up at me. “You’re such a softy.”
My heart clenches. Just thinking about the tongue-lashings I’ve heard reverberate through those walls for lesser offenses causes me to cringe. No one deserves the kind of hellfire that would come from being absent without leave during a critical meeting.
And it appears Canon considers all meetings critical.
Critical. Maybe that’s what Alaric meant in ancient Gaelic…
In my estimation, the person who these personal assistants were assisting was not completely unreasonable; of course, it’s easy to be objective from my safe vantage point. I’m not interested in loitering on the Grassy Knoll.
Canon is particular and demanding. He’s busy and paid to think. The few times I have heard him dress down someone—and, let’s face it, if he is speaking to someone, he is insulting them—it’s all centered on talk of “impacted productivity” and “wasting” his time.
I have never spoken a word to him, nor has he to me, but I have studied him every day for going on a year. He has high standards and low tolerance. Very low. Subbasement low. Everyone knows it. Everyone stays away.
Everyone who can, that is.
I can’t look away.
Alaric Canon is the single most attractive man I have ever seen. Bar none.
He’s the guy you wish Jennifer Aniston would be with just to get back at Brad.
Scientists should extract his cells and use them in electromagnetic experiments. Those tubes that can destroy the planet if the particles align improperly. Something along those lines. I would look that up if I had time. Maybe when I’m researching ancient Gaelic.
When he passes through the lobby on the way to his corner office, it’s like looking into the sun—in all the good ways and the bad.
From what I can discern, he’s also the most stern and unforgiving individual ever to grace the world with his glorious presence.
He is hard and fierce. There’s something both hawk-like and leonine about his features. Predatory. A lightning storm of power, terrifying and beautiful.
Thankfully, most of the office has a fascination with him as well, albeit a different one, so my fixation doesn’t stand out like it might otherwise. Others watch in morbid curiosity to see how long those who work for him last and what they have done wrong to get their asses handed to them. Madeline runs the pool for PA terminations. There’s a separate pot estimated at around $400 waiting for the day one gets their pink slip and is not reduced to tears. Canon is legendary for cutting to the quick. He made a former Navy SEAL cry.
I have the luxury of distance. I’m certain a few moments behind that thick, cherry door and I would be quite over my little crush. Surely someone who tore through people like so much silt is grating to be around.
He has to be an ass of epic proportions.
He has an epic ass.
I’ll take “What is Irony?” for $200, Alex.
The (non)incident in the elevator this morning continues to irk me. I’m deeply considering squeezing some lemonade out of it and using his lack of attention to my…details in order to motivate myself, for personal progress. Just once I would like to have him notice me, to look appreciatively at me, a chink in his armor of sorts. I want to see if I can coax a glimmer of humanity from him.