Return Billionaire to Sender: A grumpy hero - opposites attract romantic comedy

by Annika Martin

  I widen my eyes at Francine, who does a little dance.

  “Noelle,” Willow says. “I’m setting you up with a new email address where all of Stella’s emails will be going from now on.”

  “Really?”

  She writes something on a Post-it and hands it over. “Why not check it now? Who knows, you might have email there right now.”

  The way she says it, I’m thinking I probably do. I sit on the bed with Jada and Antonio and check it.

  “Yikes. This is all of Stella’s work email from…forever,” I say. “Oh, this is so wrong.”

  “We’re not hurting anything,” Willow says, still tapping at her keyboard. “So if you send an email, it will be coming from Stella’s work email.”

  “Whoa.”

  Jada points to a subject line from a month ago with an attachment— “Blackberg info.” I click it. There are a few attachments. I start reading.

  “That is the motherlode,” Francine says, reading over my shoulder.

  I hit a file called backgrounder and we read.

  “Oh, man, this backgrounder. Look—” Francine points to the bottom of the screen. “Malcolm didn’t just fire this guy, Corman—he dragged him out through the lobby by his necktie and then punched him three times on the sidewalk. The emotional intelligence training you’re doing gets him out of potential jailtime for misdemeanor assault. He’s been brought up on assault before.”

  “Wonder what that Corman guy did,” Antonio says.

  Willow asks me for details on the town where I grew up. “Mapleton,” I tell her. “Population 501. An old railroad town.” I describe the hilly beauty of it.

  “May I?” Lizzie motions at my iPad and I hand it over and answer more of Willow’s questions.

  “Okay, check this out,” Lizzie says after a while. “This is the key to everything.” She squeezes onto the bed next to me and Jada and Antonio and Francine, because at the Four Seasons, you can get five on a bed.

  She has something new up on the screen.

  “A link in the main packet led to this interactive form,” she says. “This is your check-in. Every time Malcolm completes a session, you type a ‘V,’ and that makes a check mark. The only other option is to choose an ‘X,’ which I’m guessing is a fail. The blank box with today’s date is where you’d give him a check mark for today’s intro session. I’m thinking that’s how it works.”

  I study the form. Today’s session was supposed to last an hour and be about “setting expectations.” After the intro session, there are twenty boxes. Twenty-one hours of training and twenty-one-plus hours of observation to be checked off.

  “This is perfect,” Lizzie says. “This is how you check into the office—by making checks and X’s.”

  Willow comes over and takes my iPad, slides her finger around the screen. “It’s more than that. This is everything. This is the job right here. This form is shared with two law firms and Blackberg HR.”

  She hands it back and we keep going through.

  We find an info email that says, “Dear Stella, everything for the Blackberg job is enclosed, including co-branded shells.”

  “What are co-branded shells?” Antonio asks.

  “Like stationary with both logos,” Lizzie says. “Maybe she has to print out worksheets?”

  “You have to make him do worksheets on the people in our building,” Francine says, rubbing her hands. “He has to watch the videos and remember things about us!”

  “What is the name of Tabitha’s hamster?” Jada jokes. “What is Francine’s Holy Grail as a dancer? What city did Antonio grow up in?”

  Everybody is laughing now. Except me.

  “What is the name of the cutest dog ever, according to residents of 341 West Forty-fifth?” Lizzie asks. “Five demerits if you get it wrong, motherfucker!”

  “Be serious, you guys,” I say. “This has to at least seem real. The man’s not a dipshit.”

  “Incoming,” Willow says.

  More things appear in my mailbox. It’s the instructional program Stella devised for Malcolm. A PDF workbook and discussion topics.

  “It looks like she’s just an independent contractor,” Willow says. “They probably don’t even have an on-site office for her.”

  “Yeah, she said she was a contractor,” I say.

  “I think as long as you keep checking off the boxes, you’re good,” Willow says.

  “What about the comments area?” I ask. “I would never know what to put there. But I’m guessing Stella would probably just blow that area off.”

  Willow says, “Maybe you should check out the Bexley Partners website and read about Stella.”

  Jada’s on it. She lets out a hoot of laughter. I lean over. My picture is on Stella’s bio page. It says she’s from a small town in Pennsylvania and is committed to the synergy of excellence.”

  “Synergy of excellence? Did you make that up, Willow?” Francine asks.

  “Do you like it?” Willow asks. “I think it’s hilarious.”

  “You guys, this isn’t a joke,” I say. “Also, you think the Bexley Partners themselves won’t notice this?”

  “Companies never look at their own websites,” Willow says. “Trust me. I know. Entire sites are down for weeks and nobody notices. Did you read the bio? It’s your real background, plus some fluff. I included some stuff about your postal carrier background. I’m gonna insert the name Stella in your high school graduating class and elsewhere. Just in case.”

  “Oh my god,” I say.

  “I really think you could pull this off,” Lizzie says. “I really do. As long as you don’t make it too painful, I think he’ll just want to get it over with. Bexley just wants their money.”

  Jada says, “I have ten hours of footage total, but I can make more. Maisey alone would give me another seven.”

  Lizzie is laughing. “You’re gonna make him watch twenty-one hours of us telling about our love for each other and the building.” She pumps her fist in the air. “Yeah!”

  “Wait, excuse me,” I say. “There’s something I need to do.” I grab my iPad and enter a check mark in the box next to the introductory session. “There. Malcolm earned a check mark for today’s session.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Francine unscrews a plastic top off a mini bottle of champagne.

  “You’d better not have gotten that out of the mini fridge,” I say.

  Francine points at Willow. “She brought it. But I’m sure it’s fine to take things out of the mini-fridge,” Francine says. “You probably even have a meal stipend.”

  I widen my eyes. “A meal stipend that I would never dare use.”

  Francine rolls her eyes. Willow offers me a mini bottle of champagne and I take it. “Question—what if he refuses to watch Jada’s footage? That sort of thing isn’t in the packet. You should have been there, he was extremely uninterested in the footage.” I don’t tell them he called Maisey by five different wrong names. We all have such a soft spot for Maisey, our seventy-something galpal from the third floor. “Do I have the power to make him watch it? What if he really, really doesn’t want to watch it? Because he really doesn’t.”

  “He won’t get a check mark, then,” Lizzie says. “He gets a failing ‘X.’”

  “What happens if he gets a failing ‘X’? Would he even care? Is it just a grown-up version of a frowny face sticker? Does he get three and then a demerit?”

  We study the packet and the materials, but that’s one of those obvious things that isn’t written down.

  “You’ll figure it out,” Jada finally says.

  “I feel like there are probably a lot of other questions I should be asking right now, but I don’t know enough to even know the questions,” I say.

  “That’s easy,” Willow says, “just frame every question like it’s about their company culture. For example, ‘What time do we arrive on site vis-a-vis your company culture? What is the dining situation vis-a-vis your company culture?’ Like that.”

  “Like when you
get a fortune cookie and add the words in bed?” I say.

  “Exactly,” Willow says. “And if you really feel like you’re getting into trouble, say, ‘That’s proprietary,’ and don’t back down. Try it with me—That’s proprietary.”

  “That’s proprietary,” I say.

  “How are the worksheets graded?”

  “That’s proprietary.”

  “Where did you do your special advanced license training?”

  I frown. What is she even talking about?

  She frowns. “You can’t tell me the school you trained at?”

  “That’s proprietary?”

  “Yes!” She claps.

  Willow asks my permission to clone my Instagram. I give it.

  “I’m merging your past with Stella’s present,” she says. “One of my clients had a shady employee who did that, and it was quite effective. Until I busted the guy. Once Malcolm Blackberg starts getting curious about you, he’ll look at your bio and then click the Facebook or Instagram link and then he’s in my parallel universe. And he’ll have his tech guys try to research you, but his tech guys are my bitches.”

  We go through my entire social media life and take out all of the photos that show people in the building or the building itself. Which leaves me with just arty shots I’ve taken on my route, a few inspirational sayings about courage, and random stuff from my past.

  It impacts me here big time, how really empty my life is without these women. Without 341 West 45th.

  8

  Noelle

  I’m heading down through the posh lobby at two the next day toting a chic brown fleur-de-lis suitcase I borrowed from Tabitha this morning. I packed one yoga pants lounge outfit, one fun going-out skirt outfit, and all of my pantsuits except the one I’m wearing, plus a selection of butterfly ties, because I think I’ll be in business meetings most of the time.

  For the plane ride I’m wearing my favorite pantsuit—maroon with a white shirt underneath, pulled together with my lucky clip-on butterfly tie with little hedgehogs, because hedgehogs are my fave.

  Francine had stopped me at the door and tried to get me to change. “Seriously, the pantsuit? It says sexy detective. But the lady-bow-tie? It says you’re a sexy lady detective who miiiight just have a collection of creepy antique baby dolls at home.”

  “One more word about my butterfly tie and I will start a creepy doll collection,” I told her. “And it’ll be the kind of dolls that don’t close their eyes at night. And some might migrate to your room while you’re sleeping!”

  She’d laughed. And it was the first time we talked about the future without this gloomy cloud of sadness over us. Because what if this works?

  Still, there’s so much that could go wrong. I’m crossing so many lines. Willow says they’d never press charges, but how can she be sure? I try not to think about that as I wait outside in the muggy August air. Eventually a stretch SUV with tinted windows rolls up. A driver gets out, then Lawrence pops his head out the window and waves. “Stella!”

  I wave back and head over, praying Janice or Anya aren’t in there. Because they’d definitely recognize me now that I’m in a pantsuit again.

  I hand the driver my suitcase, thank him, and pulse racing, I get in. “Hi, everybody!”

  Four faces. No Janice or Anya.

  I take a seat next to Lawrence, who introduces me around. “Coralee is West Coast—East Coast admin,” Lawrence says. “Nisha is legal serving as liaison to the San Fran legal team, and Walt is Malcom’s overall PA. I’m Malcolm’s admin assist. We’re the lowly rabble of the traveling team. The legal and accounting hotshots are already on site.”

  “Oh, stop,” Coralee scolds, shaking her cute brown bob. “We’re not the rabble.”

  “Li’l bit?” Lawrence says with an impish smile.

  I don’t know what to say about the rabble thing so I just smile. “I’m Elle from Bexley Partners.”

  “Oh, we know,” Walt says. He has a friendly, weather-beaten face and a huge Adam’s apple. “Malcolm’s new coach,” he says, emphasizing the words with extra drama. He bites his lip, as if to keep from laughing. “We hear that you’ll be helping Malcolm learn to be a nicer, kinder, gentler person.” The phrase “a nicer, kinder, gentler person” not only gets extra emphasis, but also a widening of the eyes.

  They’re all smiling like it’s the funniest thing ever. I smile back, just to be nice, and I adjust my tie, wishing I’d come more casual. The two guys wear casual sports coats and jeans; Coralee and Nisha are in casual jackets and some kind of space-age pants that look like business pants from afar, but up close they are really stretchy like yoga pants, and on their feet are comfy space-age boots. This is what business people wear for travel, I think. And probably for their downtime in the hotel.

  Coralee has pale brown hair in a bob and piercing gray eyes. She declares that she plans to sleep. “Don’t let me go on Twitter.”

  Nisha, pronounced knee-sha, groans. “I’ll keep you off of there.” Nisha has close-cropped dark hair and shiny pink hoop earrings and a cute pink briefcase, which makes me incredibly thankful that Tabitha made me bring her brown satchel, boring as it is. Otherwise I’d have my beat-up old bag, and I’d immediately be busted.

  We arrive at the Teterboro airport, a private airport across the river from Manhattan. Mr. Blackberg’s plane is a gleaming white jet with a silver nose. It’s parked inside a giant airplane garage, and walking in, I feel like I’m walking onto an action-adventure movie set.

  I follow my new coworkers up the mobile stairway and into the plane, feeling like a stowaway in a forbidden world.

  The plane is like a really nice living room with velvety gray armchairs and comfy-looking couches arranged around various tables. Tasteful maroon accent pillows are strewn about; they match the fun little window curtains as well as the panel that separates the front and back areas.

  I try not to react, but I so wish my friends could see, because…oh my god!

  The flight attendant leads us right on through into the back section, which features a lovely and intimate little lounge, also with maroon accents. Malcolm sits, tumbler in hand, ice cubes clinking.

  My gaze collides with his. He seems to be sizing me up, dangerous and elegant predator that he is. His lazy gaze lowers to my neck. The weight of it makes my pulse race, makes me feel warm and strange.

  My belly whooshes with something like fear, or maybe just adrenaline.

  “Back to the lady ties, I see,” he says.

  I put my hand to my neck. “Yes,” I agree.

  The flight attendant helps us stash our luggage in a back compartment. I can feel him watching. I’m sure my hands are shaking.

  We settle into our seats up front. Lawrence and Coralee are on one side. I sit across from Nisha. Walt’s behind us.

  “So he rides back there?” I ask Nisha. “That’s his half of the plane?”

  “It depends, but generally he keeps to himself on trips,” she says. “He would never socialize with the team, which is…” She ends her sentence with a half-smile and a little shrug, which seems to mean that it’s a good thing.

  I watch out the window as we line up at the runway, as we get up speed and lift into the air. People are tapping away at their computers.

  “I have a sixty-minute session with him on this plane,” I say to Nisha as we rise above wispy clouds. “It’s scheduled for transit time, and this is transit, but I’m not sure…”

  She waits for me to finish the sentence.

  I’m not sure how to. Do I go back there and tell him it’s starting at a time of my choosing? Or does he choose the time? Am I waiting for him to appear? I’m here by court order. How much power does that give me?

  “Not sure of what?” Nisha asks.

  “How this works,” I say, “vis-a-vis your company culture. I want to be respectful of your company culture in terms of scheduling.”

  “Oh.” She nods. “Walt has his calendar.” She twists around in her seat. “Walt, when d
oes he have his coaching blocked out?”

  “Never. It’s four hours of prep time,” Walt says.

  “Elle gets him for an hour of transit time,” Nisha says.

  Walt’s frown is big like his Adam’s apple. “Hmm.”

  “Should I schedule our sixty-minute block with you?” I ask. “Or directly with him?”

  He looks at me strangely. Was that a weird question? Am I giving myself away? He picks up his phone and texts. Is he texting Malcolm?

  9

  Malcolm

  I feel distracted. Off my game.

  I tell myself it’s the upcoming negotiation with the Germantown Group, a large logistics firm with a massive network of distribution centers, trucking lines, and logistics software. We need to take over their network to make another acquisition pay off.

  I’m looking at background docs, but I’m thinking about Stella. Will she still do her letter carrier schtick now that she’s back in a pantsuit?

  And really, why a letter carrier? Was that her own twist? Something so corny? Is it something this Bexley Partners trained her to do, or is it yet more of Corman’s fuckery?

  Will we watch more of the insufferable amateur documentary? Not that it matters. At all. Really, I shouldn’t be devoting any more time to it than what my lawyers signed away, but I’m feeling agitated because I like to know.

  We’re airborne. Out the window opposite us, you can see all of Manhattan, looking like a thicket of trees rising from the shining Atlantic. The wheels retract below us with two heavy clunks.

  I pull out my phone and find myself looking up Bexley Partners. I locate the coaching firm’s About Us page. I like to know who’s on my plane. And I’m going to need to find a way to buy her, because I’m not spending twenty hours being coached by some random country mouse; I don’t care how hot she is.