The fern may need detox.
I dump most of the latest drink. Say hello to my little fronds…
This is the largest dinner party I have ever attended. It’s also the only formal one. There are about twenty people roaming around. Execs and a few spouses enjoying drinks.
“Ms. Baker, how long have you worked for the company?”
“Ms. Baker, how are you enjoying our fair city?”
“Ms. Baker, this is an exciting opportunity for us all, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Ms. Baker, that is a lovely dress.”
The banter is innocuous enough, but I feel the need to guard my words. Remain opinion-free.
My dress actually is lovely, I must agree. It’s silk in a gradient fade from teal to charcoal with a neck so wide the straps sit on the very edges of my shoulders. Nothing revealing, but the way the air touches my collarbones feels sensual. Sexy.
My heels click across the marble floor as I position myself in the corner.
From behind the rim of my glass, as I pretend to take another sip, I watch Canon. He maneuvers through the clusters of people. Talking. He slides to another group when Fralin appears. A few minutes later—after she appears to count down to “not too obvious” parameters—she inserts herself into his new group. Shortly after, he moves away.
Their game begins anew.
Oh, his discomfort pleases me greatly. Enjoy, sir. Enjoy.
9:20 p.m.
IN MY HAND, I hold the ninth rum and Coke of the evening. All totaled, I’ve taken enough sips to equate one whole drink.
This guy thinks he’s adding stains to my hotel bedspread tonight.
Moron. I’m not even acting tipsy.
“No, thank you, Mr. Rowe. Enjoy the veranda without me.”
“Thank you for the drink, Mr. Rowe.”
“Really, Mr. Rowe? Four touchdowns in a single game?”
Canon is looking at me from across the room. I may have been hasty in congratulating myself on how I’ve handled this situation. That is one heckuva scowl he’s rocking.
Extricating myself from the lecherous delusions of Mr. Rowe yet again, I walk closer to Canon. Letting him know I can tell he has something to say. I stop a few feet away; I am not going to heel. He can come to me.
He does.
“I see your reputation for professionalism is undeserved,” he hisses over my shoulder.
“If you feel I have behaved unprofessionally, please clarify, Mr. Canon.”
“Drinking.”
“I can handle it.” I turn to face him. As punctuation, I take a sip. “You are drinking too.”
“It seems Rowe thinks he is what’s going to get handled.”
“He can think what he wants.”
“That is your fifth drink.”
“Ninth,” I say just to irk him.
His mouth drops open. “Do not move. I will say the goodbyes.”
Before I can formulate a response, he’s gone. He makes the rounds, shaking hands enthusiastically and thanking the owner for a lovely dinner. When he sidesteps Rowe’s outstretched hand, I can’t help but smile.
“Give me your arm.”
“Excuse me?”
He rolls his eyes, grabs my hand and wraps it around his bent elbow. His pace is slower than normal as he leads us outside.
Utter silence until we’re in the car.
“I’m not drunk.” My voice echoes in the car.
At a stoplight, his gaze shifts to me. Silently assessing. His hands wring the steering wheel.
“I didn’t do anything to embarrass you,” I say in the hotel parking lot.
“Surely you’re not implying I should’ve waited until after you did.” His sentence is punctuated by the door’s near slam. He escorts me through the lobby. I allow his flat palm at the small of my back to guide me. Our pace is quicker, closer to normal.
Mute elevator ride. He removes his jacket and watches the numbers climb.
The doors open, and he turns toward our rooms.
He’s going to fire me. Maybe I don’t care anymore. I have done my best. I have been his ideal. Even when I felt certain he wanted to find fault, I gave him nothing to complain about.
Well, fine. Have it your way, Canon. Enjoy the stimulating company of Lawrence Peters without me. Good luck with closing this deal on your own. I’m taking your coffee with me too, you picky bastard.
“Good luck,” I say, seething as he watches me open my door. I’m so pissed I actually do fumble and miss the first two times I try to slide the card. Fantastic. “I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Be quiet.” He steps into my room.
“Quit telling me what to do!”
“Don’t act like you need to be told.”
“You can’t boss me around!” I switch on the bathroom light in the darkened room.
“It may have escaped your notice, but I am your boss.”
“Not anymore. You’re firing me!”
“You’re being nonsensical. Sleep it off.” He towers over me, his breath smoothing across my exposed shoulders.
Sensory overload. I’m so exhausted I can’t think properly, and I can’t take it anymore. I put my hands on his shirt and push him. Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s surprised.
“Either you are firing me or I quit. Either you fire me because you’re convinced I was going to embarrass you or I quit because you actually did embarrass me.” I shake my arms, but he must think I plan to slap him because he grabs both my hands in his.
“Emma,” he says, jaw clenched. “You may very well not be intoxicated but neither I, nor any reasonably observant human for that matter, would be able to conclude differently from your antics. Also, for some unfathomable reason, you did not see fit to clue me in,” he spits and lets go of my wrists with a shove, as if he suddenly realized he was holding an oven fresh Idaho spud. “Emma, you can hardly fault me for being rational.”
“Antics? Fault you! You do the social equivalent of dragging me out by my pigtails and you think I shouldn’t ‘fault’ you?” I step closer, heels stomping the carpet. “What I think is that there is an apology in order.”
“See? And you thought we were at an impasse,” he says and moves enough tower over me. “Proceed. I’m ready to hear it.”
I bump my shoulder into his chest, curse myself for reveling in the treacherous warmth, and stand firm, pressing against him enough that his stature sways. “You enjoying pushing people, don’t you? It’s different when someone else is doing the pushing, isn’t it?”
“Good night, Ms. Baker.” He turns to leave.
“You think you’re so superior to me.” I’m hot on his tail.
“Ms. Baker, I’m not insulting you. It’s simple biology: your body mass can’t handle the amount of alcohol which you appeared to ingest.”
This is it. This is the final straw—a drinking straw, no less—for my tolerance of Alaric Canon. These may be my final moments with this man, and I can’t even see him properly in this damned dim light. Sometimes he seems to connect with me, but now he is so condescending. Who does he think he is? “Any reasonably observant human.” Pfft. He won’t hold me “responsible for my actions.” He thinks I would embarrass him, that I would embarrass myself, by drinking too much at a business function, that I “can’t handle that much liquor.”
Drunk, huh? He thinks I’m drunk? Ha! If I was drunk with Alaric Canon in my room…well, let’s just say this would go down differently.
An idea: it hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. Hell, what have I got to lose at this point?
He’s such an ass. Underestimating me. Doesn’t think I can handle things. I’ll show him what I can handle. I’ll show him I can handle an ass.
I reach out and grab hold of that glorious ass and squeeze for all I’m worth.
Air whooshes from him, and he wheels around.
If I’m going down, I’m going down in a blaze of glory.
I don’t give him a chance to say anything, and I stretch around him with both hands and knead the ever-loving fuck out of his butt. It is motherfucking glorious, and I think the memory will keep me satisfied when I’m living off ramen for the next few months.