The Plan

“Not like…not like him. They’re guys. He’s a…well…” I hadn’t really thought about this before. Guys wear ball caps. Sometimes backward. This I ca

“Man.” Clara hums the word. Chomps a bit of zucchini. “Sooo how long has this succulent slice worked there?”

I fidget. “About five years.” …two months and nine days.

Silence. I really do not know why I brought this up. Why I couldn’t contain it.

Clara wears a look that I have learned over time is a sincere attempt to mask supreme a

I clear my throat and hopefully the air as well. “I don’t work with him.” We interrupt this message to thank God. “He’s got a corner office and a commanding presence and wears suits so very, very well.”

Clara quirks an eyebrow.

Another bite. She squirms in her seat. “Go on. What makes this one so special?”

I shrug. “He’s not special. He’s an asshole.”

“Oh, yeah. Assholes are not special, Emma. Assholes are, however, your specialty.”

I chuck a snow pea at her. But it’s true.

She lobs it back to me.

“So…probably not my Prince Charming then, you think?” I smile.

“You know, Emma, you kiss enough frogs and you end up with HPV.”

“Pretty sure that’s only toads and warts.”

Day of Employment:

361

10:30 a.m.

*

Dress

: Same red sheath number as my first day.

*

Wardrobe

: In need of upgrade. One that does not run on a two-week repeat cycle.

*

Desk

: Clutter-free.

*

Cactus

: Withering away.

“ALREADY?” I’M IN SHOCK. I didn’t even get to place a bet on this last one.

“You snooze, you lose,” Bert says, fa

Across the floor, a red-faced man (with the potentially fakest blond dye job I’ve seen possibly ever) packs up his belongings from the desk outside Alaric Canon’s closed office door. Not his desk. The desk. No one has it long enough to lay claim.

“I was not ‘snoozing.’ I was discussing the profit and loss reports with Rebecca in her office ever since I got here today.”

Bert remains unruffled. “Snooze, schmooze. Same diff.” We all watch Clairol #103 chuck a knickknack dead center against Canon’s door. Then Bert continues. “All I know is I’m going to be buying some new shoes, and you are still go

Well, perhaps he is always a tad bit ruffly.

But, I note my shoes definitely are of the sensible heel variety. I smooth my skirt and tuck my feet under my desk.

Easy, Breezy, Beautiful PA flips his now former boss the bird and snatches his freshly cut check from Rebecca’s hand as he flies out the door.

1:03 p.m.

*

Lunch

: Skipped.

*

Savings

: Dipped into.

“WHOA.” BERT NUDGES MADELINE. “Somebody skipped lunch.” He points toward me.

She looks down. “Ooo, nice shoes. You went shopping? Without me?” She feigns hurt.

Spi

Whether or not impulse purchase resistance levels are low due to increasing irritation with heedless corner office occupant will not be taken under consideration in this matter.

I head over to give Rebecca the reports before her meeting.

Unfortunately, she’s not in her office.

She is also not to be found in the supply room, copy room, or bathroom. By the time my search reaches our deserted break room, I regret not breaking in the new shoes before wearing them at work.

I take a moment to lean over a table and take the weight off my feet. Just a second. Please. Ugh. A moment of relief, that’s all I’m asking.

I’m pretty certain I look a sight: my face plastered onto the cool table, and my ass up in the air, feet swinging in the wind.

Thunk. One heel slips to the floor.

My toes fumble around until I feel the leather, twist into it, and oh-so-carefully lift it up behind me like a crane until I can reach back and put it on properly again.

I stretch and grunt and twist and probably cha

Well, that was certainly…relaxing.

Grabbing the reports, I leave just in time to see one Alaric Canon round the corner, gorgeous jaw clenched.

All the air squeezes from my lungs.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance.

Whew. A few moments earlier and that would have been supremely embarrassing.

4:45 p.m.

*

Email

: Empty.

*

Spreadsheets

: Done.

*

Mind

: Preoccupied. To say the least.

ALARIC CANON.

His door stares back at me.

I watched him go in there about five minutes ago.

Or twenty.

Black suit, sky blue tie.

Outline of his frame burned into my retinas.

“Emma? You okay?” Madeline peers over her cubicle wall.

“Hm? Oh…oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Shake the cobwebs from my head. I need to do the same for other parts of me. “Long day.”

“They all are,” Madeline says and performs her end-of-day station shut down shuffle. “I’m heading out after I run over to HR with the picture that PA left today.”

“He was in a hurry to get outta here, huh?”

“More likely, to get away from Canon,” she says, laughing. On the betting pool chart, she makes a wi

She’s right. Bert is wi

Or—I think back to his comment about my shoes, my whereabouts, everyone’s happenings—he’s just observant as hell.

I am the quintessential, definitive portrait of observant.

Why I’m not wi

Hell, no one is more observant of Canon than I am. Need to get my head in the game and apply this recon I have been doing in a more constructive ma

I look at the closed, hardwood door.

There are worse things to look at.

Oh, I will be ready tomorrow.

Thinking about Canon, I’m ready now.

Madeline leaves.

The office sounds fade away.

No clicks. No buzzes. No chatter.

Nothing but me and that unforgiving door.

Clearly, I have read far, far too many trashy romances in my lifetime—because I ca

Canon would emerge. Starched white shirt. Crisp.

Jacket over his arm. Hair…doing whatever the fuck it is that it does.