He propels himself backward from the bed.
This is all so weird. I look down and remember the pity party that ended in donning a peach negligee with black lace inlays and fabric that makes Clara’s sheer robe look like plaid flannel.
“This? This is actually lingerie.”
I told him he would know it if I wore it. I don’t do things halfway.
“W-Why?”
Deer in headlights. Yeah, that description works here.
And just to keep things straight, I’m sporting the headlights.
Maybe we could call them blips.
I may have just set off the radar…
There’s something about flustered Alaric Canon I can’t get enough of. I’m practically naked, yet he’s the one uncomfortable.
“Why? What did you expect me to wear?” I stand to usher him out…and show off the cute little coordinating panties. “Did you think I sleep in the nude?”
“Good night, Ms. Baker,” he calls behind him. He has already crossed the hall.
“And a good night to you, Mr. Canon.”
Day of Employment:
380
10:00 a.m.
*
Meetings
: All day. Shoot me.
*
Location
: Conference room.
THIS IS OUR SHOW. Canon is in game mode. Proposals. PowerPoints. Power suit.
Sweet mercy, just look at him. Yum.
He points out that they seem to have “lost” an important sales area about the time this merger was proposed—a whole product category, just suddenly gone from the line-up.
His tone is smooth, his insinuation clear: he thinks they are attempting to retain an exclusive area.
Ms. Fralin adjusts her cleavage so thoroughly I begin to suspect the lost sales area is actually in there somewhere. She pulls an index card out from behind her neckline.
“That was part of a former associate’s territory,” she offers, glancing at the card. “Anyone have an explanation?”
Flustered, Peters shuffles through some papers. This guy knows zilch about his job. “Looks like LaCygne oversaw that most recently. Is he…let me see…he may be on site…” Peters flounders while clearly looking for who this LaCygne person might actually be.
Peters has forgotten to bring a file. He can’t find his pen. Fralin fishes one out of her bra. It’s like the damned Room of Requirement in there.
Canon is unimpressed. He’s been working the room during his presentation; this breaks his stride. His fingers are in his pockets, his shoulders set.
The tension is palpable. “I can go track him down,” I offer finally.
Looking down, Canon nods. He wants this info; he wants this deal between our companies to be on the up-and-up. This glitch was the principal concern that seemed to stand out to him in all those hours of research we logged.
11:10 a.m.
I FIND HIM ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. Just had to ask a non-suit. They always know the score.
LaCygne is Mitchell LaCygne. We went to undergrad together. Small world. Dated a couple of times.
Blue eyes and blue jeans. Baritone Scottish brogue. That is quite a perplexing family tree. Roots must span Europe.
My, oh my, why did we only go out twice?
Oh, yeah. Kellie.
Lucky ho.
“Hey, Emma, it sure is a pleasure to see you. You part of the new regime?”
I smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
The next hour plus is spent at a break table. He’s got records of everything. Looks like the line fell through because his predecessor had failed to deliver on time for the preceding several years. He had inherited a mess. A dying moose.
“I have no idea why. Just consistent bad luck…poor planning.” He stretches back in the chair, popping his back.
We catch up for a bit. He’s only been here a year.
“That’s something else we have in common,” I say, laughing.
“Ms. Baker.” Suddenly Canon materializes in front of us. “If you can manage to tear yourself away…”
Mitchell lets the chair legs hit the floor. “You must be Alaric Canon.” He offers his hand without standing.
Canon ignores him. “We’re breaking for lunch early. Since you have been enjoying social hour, it seems we will have to catch up before everyone gets back.”
I feel as though I’ve been smacked on the hand.
Mitchell tries the phlegmatic approach. “Emma and I went to undergrad together.”
“One big, happy OU family.” Canon scowls. “Ms. Baker?” It’s not a question. It’s a command.
Forcing a smile, my face on fire, I say goodbye to Mitchell and trail behind Canon. He leads us to our temporary office. I haven’t been gone that long, but he’s incensed. Quiet and fuming.
“Shall I go get your lunch?”
“Can you manage to do so without attracting a throng of admirers?”
“Excuse me?”
“You are paid to do a job. Why is it that at every turn, you are filling your dance card?”
“My dance card?” I don’t even recall the last time anyone danced with me. Probably when Shady still had people imitating. “I went to school with Mitchell.” One would think the instant rapport would be valued.
It occurs me that normally Canon would be grateful for something like this, for in-depth knowledge.
“Mitchell,” he snorts.
“Mr. LaCygne,” I correct myself.
“Expanding this trip is not ideal for me either, I hope you realize. Every hour is critical,” he says.
Unbidden, I think of him leaving with Ms. Fralin yesterday. Spending some untold portion of his day with her. Just exactly how critical am I expected to believe a late night meeting with Executive Expando Bra is? I want to ask.
I don’t.
Not that it should matter.
“Dinner is at the owner’s home tonight,” he says, tapping his pen. “Will you be able to make it, or will you be spending yet more quality time with the illustrious Mr. Mitchell?”
“I don’t normally spend quality time with my former college roommates’ husbands,” I level at him.
His pen stops clicking.
We work in silence the rest of the day.
6:15 p.m.
*
Location
: Samuel Dowry residence.
*
Dinner
: Pretentious dish. Name forgotten. “Tastes like chicken” would be a marked improvement.
*
Hair
: Down and straight.
*
Drink
: Rum and Coke.
LANCE ROWE, the executive who acquired a new limp in the conference room the other day, thanks to my pen jab, attempts to ply me with alcohol.
Let us observe the mating rituals of the lecherous North American lounge lizard in his native habitat: The Open Bar.
He thinks he’s being smooth. Suave. He tried handing me a Cosmopolitan at first. I told him that he might not wish to advertise that he digs Sex and the City.
Now he’s operating under the mistaken belief that I have consumed three rum and Cokes.
Let’s get something straight: I can drink. Hold my liquor. The table? That’s what I put other people under.
It’s a gift. The one thing I have inherited from my mother that I can truly use. Her favorite story is about the time a dive bar band challenged her, and whoever got drunk first had to pay. The night ended with her packing up the band’s gear after every member passed out. Sounds more like a hassle than a victory to me. Mom is a little off.
Humoring the guy seems like the path of least resistance. Not rocking the boat, I take the drinks, smile, and then set them down elsewhere. Or tip them into a potted plant.