Falling for the Boss

by Jean Oram

  He left the bathroom and slammed the door, laughing to himself. Fax machine. Nobody sent faxes anymore. And this place didn’t even have a landline.

  2

  Connor had been hoping to find a wet bar after leaving his assistant to finish washing the conditioner out of her shoulder-length hair, but the only liquor he could find was a bottle of vodka stashed in the fridge freezer. He sat on one of the veranda’s wicker chairs and sipped the cold drink from a short glass.

  Much better.

  He stared at the swaying trees, then closed his eyes. There was the breeze his spitfire nymph had promised. It was nice. Strong enough to brush away any mosquitoes, but not so much he needed a sweater. His vision blurred and spun slightly as he looked out at the maples and oaks again, but it wasn’t the vodka. It was his new friend, fatigue. For weeks he’d found himself struggling to focus on conversations, unable to recall basic facts such as his phone number, and once, even his company’s name, which were his own initials—CM Enterprises, Ltd. But two days ago—or was it only yesterday morning?—he’d woken up, his vision blotchy, his head unable to retain a thought for longer than five seconds. He’d had to concentrate incredibly hard just to pretend to be alive. When he’d walked into his office door frame after arriving over three hours late, and couldn’t figure out if he was hurt or not, Stella had rushed him straight to the ER, fearing he’d had an aneurysm. Turned out he was only burned out. Really, really burned out. And according Dr. Tiang, about to collapse and have all sorts of permanent system shutdowns if he didn’t get some serious rest.

  Apparently his body hadn’t received the urgent memo that he was Connor MacKenzie and that he needed to remain an indestructible human. Instead, it was going rogue and humiliating him into submission.

  He had the weekend before he returned for his follow-up. A weekend to cure himself enough to prove that the man with the medical degree was over exaggerating. Sure, Stella had booked this place for two weeks, based on the doc’s initial recommendation, but she had to be nuts if she thought Connor—who could complete a merger from start to finish in less than thirty-six hours—was going to need longer than an extended weekend to get over a little fatigue.

  Connor sipped his drink, willing his mind to wind down enough that it would shut off the never-ending list of things to do, so he could relax. He absently patted his shorts pocket for his smartphone. Right. Stella had done something with it so he’d be forced to unplug on this executive retreat—she even got Em in on it, if he’d hazard a guess. Some retreat this place was. It was more like real life detox for the plugged-in businessman. He tapped a finger on the sweaty vodka glass. The worst and scariest part was that he couldn’t summon the energy to care that he’d dropped everything to go hang out on a remote island. He just couldn’t get there.

  And that freaked him out.

  He had mergers, acquisitions and glad-handing events he needed to take care of, and he’d gone totally off grid.

  He raised his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, being careful around the bruising on his right. He ran a hand over his face, wondering who he’d become. To his right, the old wood screen door that led to the living room banged shut with a tap-tap-tap, a loose bit of screen flapping in the breeze. Everything in this place was falling apart. He really needed to talk to Stella about what he expected in a retreat.

  “Are you ready for supper?”

  Connor turned, half expecting his mother. He flipped his shades down a moment too late. Oh well, he couldn’t keep the bruise hidden forever, and she’d obviously seen it when he’d stared at her in the bathroom.

  Smooth move.

  “Mr. MacKenzie, are you hungry?”

  She came closer, her brown curls leaving distracting wet circles on her T-shirt well below her collarbone. For a moment he wondered if he wasn’t allowed the vodka. Was it her own personal stash that helped her get over the quiet desperation that had to be her life if she lived in shoddy suits and this run-down place? He could sense her need for something more. It was all there in her eyes, waiting to be let out, along with a hungry fire and intelligence. It was the kind of hunger that would lead to her overworking herself to death for his benefit.

  Just what he needed. An opportunity to get a ton of work done when he was supposed to be kicking back.

  “All right, I’ll check again later.”

  Impatient lady.

  Although, maybe it was him. Everyone seemed to expect answers from him before they had even stopped talking these days. Which was perplexing. He was Mr. Snap Decision and had instincts that killed in the business world. He owned Toronto.

  He…was feeling slightly queasy.

  She’d said something about eating…

  That might be a good plan. He wasn’t sure he’d eaten today.

  “Yeah, food.”

  “Yeah, food?”

  He sighed at the contempt she was trying to hide in her voice. Oh, right. Manners.

  “Sorry. Food. Please.”

  “Much better.”

  “And could you hustle it up?” He loved the way her expression turned from satisfaction over his apology to mild outrage, her high cheekbones flushing. “I’m hungry and beat.”

  “You really aren’t the king any longer, are you?” Her sad tone held a touch of pity.

  He snorted to himself. As if he was someone pitiful. Didn’t she know who he was? Anger flashed through him, and before he could tamp it down, fatigue was causing him to say things he was already wishing he could pull back. “And you think you can top my position with your shoddy suit, and acting as my babysitter in a falling-down cottage? What do you think you have that will get you to the top, sweetheart?”

  Man, maybe he was burned out. Usually he could hold on to his anger and not treat others that way, especially an assistant. They put up with more than enough crap without him giving them attitude.

  “Good grades haven’t done it yet,” she said, pulling her shoulders back in defiance. “So yeah, why not babysit some washed up has-been?” She sat in the chair beside him, grabbed his drink and knocked it back.

  He blinked at her, trying to prod his brain into processing this new side to his assistant. Was she being insolent? Insulting? Or simply delivering his own secret fears in a blatantly direct way that felt similar to a hard-hitting turn-on?

  He liked her. A lot.

  “Has-been, huh?” He forced his hand to unclench.

  She leaned on the arm of her chair. “Where did you go?”

  He stared at the dancing trees, buying time in order to delve meaning from her words. He hadn’t gone anywhere but here, and he had a feeling her question had to do with the pitiful look she’d given him earlier. He blinked long and hard, and took a sip of vodka, but his glass was missing. Brain definitely not engaging. All cogs plugged with something gooey.

  Connor blinked again and the glass was back in his grasp, the woman at the screen door. He blinked again and she was gone. He peered into his empty glass. Was it the vodka clogging his mind? He didn’t think so, seeing as his assistant with the swaying hips seemed to have downed over half of it, and he was a man who could hold a drink. He’d had plenty of training in business meetings and was known for being able to knock them back for hours on end and still retain his sharp business edge.

  Which meant he was fried, if a few fingers of vodka had him gummed up.

  Or…

  Nope, probably just fried.

  Sleep. He needed two full days of sleep, then he’d be better again and could go back to Toronto to finish the merger for some young company that had grown too big too soon, and was ripe for this T. rex to devour. Oh, life. So beautifully predictable.

  His assistant reappeared, coming at him in fragmented chunks of information. First at the door, then closer. Then in the seat next to him. A fresh drink appeared in his hand. One in hers. She was tipping her glass to clink against his, and hers cracked from the impact.

  His world was tipping.

  He shoved his sunglasses back u
p his nose and tried harder to focus, to control his movements.

  The woman let out a bitter, jaded laugh, rubbed her eyes, then chucked her glass over the veranda railing, leaving an arc of clear liquid streaming through the air.

  She lifted the bottle to her painted lips instead of getting a fresh glass.

  Ah yes, he preferred this version of his assistant so much better. They could get into such fun.

  She was staring at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Where did you go?”

  He closed his eyes. She was confusing.

  “You. Where did you go?” She was drawing out her words as if he was new to the language.

  “To business school?”

  “Are you on drugs?”

  He laughed. She was funny, too.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “No. Maybe I should try some.”

  She let out a sigh so heavy it could rival any teenaged girl having a conversation with her parents. “What’s your deal?”

  He shrugged.

  “No, really. I came to see you last October at the Metro Toronto Conference Center, where you were the keynote speaker and were talking about the confluence of—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He couldn’t concentrate when she used long sentences. He was still trying to figure out “October” and “Metro Toronto Conference Center” and what that should mean to him. He pointed to himself. “Five-words-or-less lane.”

  “See?” She turned to him, her knee pressing into his leg. Her skin was smooth. She shaved a long way up her thigh, and he wondered where she stopped.

  He studied his own leg. He was wearing shorts that seemed familiar. He fingered the material. They were nice, but he didn’t recall owning shorts that fit. Did his assistant buy them?

  Wait. He’d already had this conversation with himself, and the hem was slightly frayed and they were loose in the waist. Part of his brain wanted to recall these shorts.

  His assistant sat back, slouched in the wicker chair, the bottle back at her lips. “Where’d he go?” she asked. “Who’s the grouch who showed up today?”

  Connor let out a laugh. This woman played hardball. “I really like you, too.”

  “My name is Maya. Since you have obviously forgotten it already.”

  “Says who?”

  “I can tell.” Her voice became slightly breathless, her face alight. “Can I call you Connor?”

  He had been right earlier. She was some new grad who thought he’d spout a million-dollar tip if she hung around him long enough. There had been a time when he’d got off on feeling as though he was someone magical, but now it was just another thing dragging on him. He was too busy to mollycoddle newbies and explain every little thing. Besides, most of what he did was instinct based on knowledge and experience, as well as being able to read people. And oh, tarnation, why did his head hurt so bad?

  “Can I?” she repeated.

  “I don’t care what you call me.”

  “Thank you.” She sat up, her chin set in a chippy way that sent off warning systems in his brain. “Connor, I think you should know that I recently graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto…”

  Oh boy, here it came. The sales pitch. I’ll work for you for free if you just give me a leg up. Let me stalk you. Be your shadow. You’ll never know I’m there.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she’d moved on to talking about something else.

  “…and so if you need anything at all while you are here on vacation, let me know.”

  He’d fallen asleep. Thank goodness he was wearing his shades, so she likely hadn’t noticed.

  “…I know I’m not intimately familiar with all of your systems, but I’ll do my best to help you enjoy your time here at Trixie Hollow while—”

  “Trixie Hollow? What is this? Disneyland?”

  “It’s the cottage’s name.”

  “Sounds like Disneyland.”

  She appeared taken aback and he fought off an apology. Old money and their cottage names. How had he forgotten? He was putting his foot in it, left, right, and center, as though he was trying to do the hokey pokey with a bunch of toddlers.

  “You should build a real cottage.” He knocked back his drink and winced, surprised to see her smile. He had kind of been hoping to ward her off so she’d go find some food. He needed to eat, then sleep. Maybe take turns doing each one until his doctor-mandated penance was up.

  She stood and shook his hand. “I was going to offer you a refund and put you on the next boat out of here, but I think we’re going to get along just fine, Mr. Mac—Connor. I’ll go fetch supper. Stay here and enjoy the view.”

  With a hop in her step, Maya vanished into the cottage, and Connor shook his head, wondering when he’d get off the island and back into his life, where everything made sense.

  Maya set out plates and cutlery on the old painted table on the veranda. While she worked, she played a podcast about developing effective calls to action, stopping every so often to make notes. It was a typical gorgeous Muskoka evening, and they would be able to see the water, the trees and the busy bird feeder as they dined. The bugs wouldn’t be too bad if she lit a mosquito coil or two upwind from where they sat.

  Smoothing her shirt over her ribs, she closed her eyes, shaking her head in disappointment. So far this day had been a humiliating, gut-punching disaster−everything from Connor handing off his bag as if she were a bellboy, to him busting in on her in the shower. Thankfully, she hadn’t been having one of her Connor MacKenzie fantasies. She straightened a fork and stepped back. On the bright side, she supposed the chances were fairly high that she wouldn’t be having any more of those fantasies to worry about.

  What had he been thinking, walking into the bathroom and throwing back the curtain? Other than him believing everything in the world was for him, and the only reason other people existed was to make his life easier.

  She snorted and let the kitchen door slap shut behind her as she went to check on their supper. She still couldn’t believe the way Connor had just stared at her as the water poured over her skin. His eyes had been so blank, so assessing, with no hint of lust or longing. She had a nice figure, so what was his problem? Why hadn’t he reacted? He’d just stood there and gazed at her as if…as if she was an asset he was considering merging with.

  Well, if he was going to be like that, then she would be herself and not hold back, as her sisters had recommended. True, being her tell-it-like-it-is self might not be the best way to get the job she wanted in Toronto, but the temptation to throw his boring, washed-up self in his face was simply too strong. Besides, it almost seemed as though he enjoyed her tough and sassy attitude. Plus, if there were sparks flying they’d get a lot more work done than if they were perpetually pussyfooting around each other.

  And when he’d suggested building a real cottage? She’d never fallen in lust faster in her life. Her hormones must be in overdrive, because this version of Connor MacKenzie didn’t exactly line up with her checklist of what she sought in a man. Yet suddenly she was cooking him supper. Well, that was part of the package deal, but still... She wanted to make supper for him, to show him that she appreciated his point of view. That she, too, valued new and modern. Yeah, this place was great and all, but if given the choice between this old cottage and something that kept the mice and bugs out, as well as cleaned up properly, she was in. Maybe if it also had better solar panels, or a brand-new, energy efficient generator. Having her long, steamy shower earlier had probably cost her five bucks, as running the ancient generator to power the aging water heater wasn’t exactly economical.

  She paused in the small kitchen, wondering if one day they could renovate this place as the neighbors across the strait had with JoHoBo. They’d taken an aged behemoth similar to Trixie Hollow and totally redone it. Nothing was the same, and it looked great. Fabulous, even.

  The egg timer dinged. Time to check on the deli pizza toasting in the oven. Do
ne. She tossed a layer of fresh tomatoes overtop, before slicing it on an old cutting board that would double as a serving platter. She had added more cheese and a layer of olives and bacon bits before putting it in the oven, in hopes that Connor might believe she was a real cook and not just dressing up premade meals.

  She wiped her hands and carried the pizza out to the table. Maybe he ate out so often he didn’t know what a home-cooked meal tasted like.

  “Ready!” she called.

  She heard a surprised snort from around the corner of the veranda and smiled. Probably woke him up. Good. She could pick his sleep-addled brain for business tips while dining.

  She set the pizza on the table and realized the meal wasn’t going to be enough. There weren’t even appetizers, and only cookies from the bakery section for dessert. What had she been thinking? This wasn’t going to do for a man used to Michelin-star meals.

  Connor stumbled around the corner, one hand on the wall as though he was about to fall. “Big eater, huh?” He made his way toward her and crashed into the nearest chair, at the head of the table as though he owned the place. His shades were drawn down over his black eye and he moved as though he’d had an incredibly long day. She half wondered if she should take him to see a doctor. He seemed way too tired.

  “Um…” Maya stared at him as he started filling his plate. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Maya sagged into the chair kitty-corner from Connor. She was half tempted to sit on the other end of the table, but it would seem ridiculous whenever they had to pass anything. Tomorrow she’d take a few leaves out of the table, then she could sit opposite him and create an equal balance of power. At breakfast, the showdown would be on. For now, she’d simply be grateful that he was more talkative than when she’d picked him up at the airstrip. Even though he still wasn’t the man she’d idolized for years and dreamed of being mentored by. This man to her right was only a husk.

  “So, what are you working on these days?” she asked, taking a piece of pizza.