The Plan (14 page)

“You may have boundary issues. I should have redirected you after you showed up in my room the first day.”

“You insisted we have access cards to both rooms,” I point out.

He shakes his head and seems rooted to the floor over by his window. As if lingerie cooties are catching.

If Diana Fralin showed up in this, I bet he would pull her into the room and do something other than lecture her about trust.

I think maybe he’s offended that he’s been forced to look at me. Well, screw him. I’m not repellent. Many guys would be freaking thrilled if I knocked on their doors in this. Or less.

Calmly, slowly, I bend ever so slightly and set the files on his bed. Without the papers in front of me, I should feel more exposed. I don’t. I am livid.

I smooth the fabric over my front. Pull the tie tighter.

“Mr. Canon, with all due respect, you have made it abundantly clear that I am to do as you say, when you say it. Without question.” He starts to talk, and I don’t know why I lose control of my persona and I sure don’t know what possesses him, but I hold up my hand to stop him from talking and he actually does. “It is abundantly clear that seeing me like this is distasteful to you. In the future, I will take the time to fully dress and suffer your wrath for the delay rather than forcing you to look at me when it is evident you find the view so distasteful.”

“Ms. Baker, I—”

“Mr. Canon, in the spirit of protecting you from things you don’t want to see, I need to leave.” I fight to keep tears from forming. “Good night, Mr. Canon.”

9:21 p.m.

M
Y
P
HONE
R
INGS
. It’s him.

Has he called to apologize? I may faint…“Hello, Mr. Canon.”

“We have been invited to lunch tomorrow.”

Not a problem. I brought an extra outfit just in case. “Very well. Is there anything more, Mr. Canon?” My voice breaks. I don’t want to examine why.

“No.” His voice falls off. Pause. “Good night, Ms. Baker.”

11:20 p.m.

T
HIS
I
S
A
N
I
NCREDIBLY
L
UMPY
M
ATTRESS
.

That’s probably what he thinks about my ass. That is, if he thinks about my ass at all.

Still…I think of the person in the next room…I want to be happy, to be grateful that I have this opportunity. I can surely use the raise. Perhaps of vastly more importance, with good reason, is to find a moment that satisfies this fixation I have about wanting him to “notice” me, so I can then get back to being a well-adjusted, contributing member of society. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

But seriously, the raise would come in handy, too.

Debts. Potential therapy’s on the horizon.

Should have requested hazard pay.

1:14 a.m.

I
’M
A
SLEEP
.

It’s not something of which I’m often aware, but this dream has that weird level of self-awareness.

Canon’s silhouette breaks the doorway. A part of me feels a glimmer of hope.

And the part in which that glimmer is located has direct contact with a cotton lining.

My dreaming hope is that he’ll ask something akin to “Will you let me show you how much better that lingerie looks on the floor?” and tilt his head back in invitation toward the open doorway. Back toward his room.

Instead, I cough softly as if to clear my throat. “I’m cold. I want to stay wrapped up.”

At least in my dreams, I can be hard-to-get.

He pauses. His shadowed hand picks at the door frame. “I have another blanket. I saw it in the dresser.”

My little glimmer fizzles, tucks itself into a ball, like an old television tube shutting down. “I’ll be okay.” Try to sound casual. Smooth the bedding out. Turn down the corner. “Thanks, though.”

Even in my dreams, I’m disappointed. I have failed spectacularly at not letting myself hope he would offer to share.

As I tuck the sheet under the cushions, I notice him stretch to turn off my bathroom light.

“Oh,” I say, my voice cracking for some reason I don’t want to analyze. “Please…please leave it.”

He looks at me, then the glow of the 75 or so watt bulbs. He shrugs and leaves it on.

I don’t feel like explaining that I’m scared of the dark. Not to a guy who must give the boogeyman the heebie-jeebies.

He looks back at me. I fight my eyes not to follow the slope of his sides. “I can get the blanket now. Just in case you need it.”

“I’ll be okay,” I repeat. I haven’t even convinced myself yet. Fluff the pillow and drop it in back place. “If I get cold, maybe I’ll knock on your door.”

It’s a comment I haven’t thought about, and I don’t know where it came from. I want to say it was a joke…not to acknowledge I was testing the waters.

Behind me, I hear him pad onto the tiles near the door. “Um…” His voice trails off in an unspoken question.

I scramble to save face. “J-Just for body heat. Not to snuggle or anything.” I force a short laugh.

Yes, yes. Yes, it’s all so fucking funny.

“I barely do that with my girlfriends.”

Ack. My mental spine goes straight. Girlfriends. Dates. The kind of women he has voluntarily spent time with. Unlike me. Not ones he has been harangued into working alongside.

I’m still in panic mode from my slip into revealing how much I wish…

“Just for body heat.” Fuck, did I already say that? “Like to prevent frostbite. Like to not lose toes. Plane crash in the Andes. That sort of thing. Not to cuddle.” My God. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup. Plane crash in the Andes? Really? That’s harkening up some sexy imagery there, huh?

Hey, man, how did you first realize you loved her?

When I was starving and got her confused with a savory pot roast.

“Just kidding,” I add a bit too quickly.

He’s back at his door. Pauses. Looks back. Smiles. Smiles a smile that I can’t decipher; it’s impossible to tell if he thinks I’m funny or pathetic or insane. “Good night.”

“Good night,” I say, pulling the corner of the blanket away from cool sheets and slipping under. Under the blanket. Further under his spell.

Between the door and the floor, the air is pitch black.

Maybe his smile meant it’s a unique situation for him to go to sleep with a woman so close and not be tempted to be intimate.

Not sure what time it is. Or how long I have been asleep. Or how long it took me to fall asleep rather than replay the past days’ events again and again.

The calls. The complaints. The flayed pelt of panda bears.

Multiple nightmares revolving around our sixteenth president.

Look this over. Organize that. If it needs gotten, get it.

It. Yeah, I get it.

But I do not get him.

Now, hopefully not looking too much like an overeager puppy, I’m his PA. I’m still trying to let that sink in.

The dream shifts.

The room is decorated. It’s still night, a tree is now lit, and the hotel room is dressed to the nines. Like an apparition, I open my door and practically float across the hallway over into his room. Garland over the doorways. Candles on the minibar. Greenery adorns his headboard.

The lights from his tree barely stretch to illuminate his bed, barely show the shadowy sheets which flutter and rise with his breaths. Barely light the contours of his face.

He’s right in the middle, where I would have imagined him to be. Walking to him, my hand hovers above his form. I trace his frame, note the tug of his warmth.

Suddenly, his hand encircles my wrist, and I tumble across him.

I wish I could actually feel the scorch of his skin against my own.

His hand presses against my lower back, pulls me to him. Heat. And hard. And desire. And too, too good to be true…

…so I grab this little glimpse of REM heaven and stare and study and stake my claim. My thumbs learn the lines of his face. My chest mirrors his rise and fall. My legs entwine with his.

In darkness, my eyes see what I want to see in daylight: Love behind his eyes.

Warm. Mine. His. Real. Or as real as I can get.

Gasp. Echo.

Impossible.

He can’t be gasping, simply can’t, because this is a realistic dream—I insist, I insist—and my tongue is somewhere around his third molar.

But someone gasps. Moans. Practically purrs.

Again. But different. Low. Lower.

Shit. The spell breaks.

And double shit.

It’s me. I’m full-on, unadulterated
moaning
.

Is it not enough that my every waking moment has been monopolized by this man and his persnickety patoot? Must he now rampage around like a prize bull in my slumberland china shop as well?

Rampaging anality. Raging hormones.

If I get any more regressively juvenile with these fantasies, I’m gonna need to invest in some Clearasil. And lube.

Pull the covers up to my nose. Cast a wary look at the door that stands between myself and Canon.

He’s right over there. Asleep. Or recharging the lithium ion battery cell that runs his mainframe. Waiting for another opportunity to make me question myself, my choices, my sanity.

Unlike John Wilkes Booth, I may actually miss Lincoln.

Day of Employment:
378

8:00 a.m.

*
Clothes
: Jeans and black turtleneck sweater.

*
Hair
: Pulled back severely.

*
Breakfast
: Skipped.

*
Mood
: Foul.

T
HE
P
LACE
I
S
E
MPTY
. As it should be. Coming to an office for three hours to marvel at the wonders of meticulous bookkeeping on the Saturday before Christmas is not something most people would choose to do.

Alaricenezar Scrooge.

“Do you have access to the cleanser and toner market trials?”

“Yes. Here they are, Mr. Canon.”
Enjoy them, asshole.

“ETA for the POs?”

“They will be delivered to the hotel late today. They’re stored off-site, sir.”
Sir Asshat
.

“Does market data suggest—”

I hand him the market research analysis for each test product before he can finish. Final scores have been highlighted.

Lunch with the execs is early and casual. I say nothing. I point to my selection on the menu. I’m all quiet smiles.

Stepford Secretary.

12:15 p.m.

“Y
OUR
C
OFFEE
, S
IR
.”

“We will set up in my room and go through the POs.”

All of them? Years’ worth?

“Yes, sir. As you wish.”

“Order room service.”

“As you wish.”

“Could you bring me some water?”

“As you wish.”

“You do realize I have seen that movie.”

“Sir?”

His eyebrows rise.
Oh, Buttercup, you smug bastard.

4:00 p.m.

*
Purchase Orders
: Cover every flat surface of the room.

*
Mood
: About one purchase order from conniption fit.

*
Ass
: Asleep. As are both feet.

B
EEN
S
ITTING
F
OR
H
OURS
. Need to walk around.

Canon yawns. Even his yawn is magnificent. Sickening.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Okay,” I say, perking up.

He stretches, treating me to a glimpse of skin between his shirt and jeans. “My ass has been mostly dead all day.”