by T. F. Walsh
“You’re driving from Colorado to California?” No catch? A two-day drive through the mountains alone with Edward Everett Kirk? Sealed in with those shoulders, that chest, that smile? Huge catch. “I can drive myself.”
“You could.” He stepped closer, so close she heard his tie rustle against his shirt, felt his heat. So close she could shut her eyes and lean forward and raise her face . . . she snapped straight. “But why should you, when I’m already driving?” His voice deepened. “Let me do this for you, Edie.”
“Is that . . . ” Her voice was breathy. She swallowed, tried again. “Is that an order?”
“An order.” He sighed. “If I must. Now go home and pack.”
“Now? But it’s only Friday and my team—”
“Will be perfectly fine for a few hours.”
“But what about Project Pleiades? The deadline—”
“Mr. Kirk!” Bethany wedged a sharp elbow between Edie and Kirk. “While Edie’s gone, why don’t I take care of her team?” She shoved.
Kirk was a mountain and didn’t move, but Edie got drilled in the diaphragm. She managed to gasp, “Over my dead—”
“No need, Bethany,” Kirk cut in smoothly. “I think they’d be best off without both of you for a while.”
He smiled, unleashing the dimple. And while Edie stood stunned, he sauntered out.
Chapter Two
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Internet Jokes
Dear Prez,
My grandma warned me against giving out my phone number on the web, so you shouldn’t send me yours either. Unless you’re a pervert? Then I guess it’d be all right :)
A year already since we met? Have you ever felt from the first moment you met someone that you’ve always known them? I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. Silly, when I don’t even know your real name.
Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar. One frowns and looks around. The other asks, “What’s wrong?” The first says, “I lost an electron.” The second asks, “Are you sure?” “Yes,” the first replies. “I’m positive.”
;)
—ED
Out of sight of the conference room, Everett massaged his temples. Pain sliced his skull behind his left eye, despite two extra-strength ibuprofen. His last girlfriend, who’d lasted all of three weeks, thought the headaches signaled an imminent stroke. She insisted he see a doctor. The wait for an appointment lasted longer than the girlfriend did—she broke up with him two days later.
Well, she’d always been more interested in his Lambo than him anyway.
The doctor told Everett he was suffering from stress. Surprise, surprise. Not only was HHE awash in stress—and carpeted, wallpapered and tastefully furnished in it—he’d become the rope in a corporate tug of war.
On one end was the mastodon of senior management led by Houghton Howell III, COO by way of being the son of the chairman and the founder’s grandson. Most HHE senior management came up through Nepotism ’R Us. Not to say Howell Junior was out of touch with the worker, but he’d stepped right from his exclusive school into the executive wing and now played with management productivity tools in his air-conditioned corner office, shuffling positions on the company chart as if they were paper dolls instead of real people.
On the other end was a 110 pounds of Edie.
Despite his headache, Everett smiled. The day they’d met, she’d been filling the cafeteria napkin holder—backwards. When he told her she was doing it wrong, she calmly handed him the holder and told him to do the job himself. People laughed at her for treating him like a janitor, but none of them dreamed he’d done jobs even more menial to get where he was.
Edie was a beacon for employee rights—no, a bonfire. How appropriate that one small fireball of a woman balanced a whole org chart of self-entitled one-percenters.
Well, not balanced, exactly. Even with her fire, the tug of war would have been over long ago if the rope hadn’t been secretly siding with her. She’d never know how many times he’d come to her rescue.
Pain stabbed Everett’s brain, abruptly killing his smile. He detoured to a water fountain to wash down another pair of ibuprofen.
Hanging onto the basin, he willed the pain to recede. A good, brisk workout at his health club took care of his worst headaches, but he hadn’t been there in weeks. Countering murderous rumors and sabotage had a way of eating into “me” time. And now he had to smooth Edie’s path of self-righteous destruction yet again.
He massaged his aching forehead. She was the best team manager he had, but so young. True, he was only three years older, but he’d learned long ago that not everything could be solved by simply being right. Being effective was much more important.
Effective and quiet. In corporate America, the squeaky wheel didn’t get the grease, it got the boot. Companies were like parents—they didn’t care what you did, as long as you were quiet.
Hopefully camp would open up Edie’s eyes. Her fine, dark eyes. His headache receded, thinking about those beautiful eyes. Thinking of them watching him as he drove through the mountains. Even fighting with her would be more fun than the boring, lonely trip he’d originally envisioned. With her sunny red curls, her lovely pink mouth, her pert breasts that bounced so prettily as she trotted down the hall . . . his groin tightened.
He didn’t dare massage that ache away.
In fact, he hadn’t taken care of that particular ache for some time. Thank you, grueling schedule. Nearly two years now since he’d had time for a relationship outside the company.
Although if he was honest with himself, it was also due to his standards. He wanted, not a bed buddy, but a companion.
Finding a mate for his corporate self wasn’t a problem, not with so many board bunnies opening their, ahem, wallets. But he fiercely wanted a woman who could complement all of him—even the part he kept well hidden.
Edie’s special light attracted that hidden side of him, nourished his secret self. She might not be the companion for Corporate Everett, but he’d wanted for some time to get to know her better anyway. If not for her prickles, he’d have made his move well before this. Well, prickles and the company policy of no fraternization.
He was of a mind to give it a try despite company policy. If, after management camp, she still worked here.
If he still worked here.
That brought his headache back. The enemy who was trying to oust him from HHE would gleefully use this latest mess as ammunition.
He pushed away from the water fountain. Resumed his usual purposeful stride, camouflage for the crippling headache. He’d find another job. But Edie . . . there was the rub.
Without him here to protect her, she was vulnerable. Blinded by her self-righteousness, she’d thrust her neck onto the corporate chopping block, unseeing until it was too late.
Picturing HHE without that fiery hair, that bouncing enthusiasm, that beacon of light . . . No. Unacceptable.
So. Goal: keep Edie at HHE. Dodge the attacks of the unknown enemy, stay president, get Edie to the seminar in one piece.
Hope she actually learned something and could begin to protect herself.
Savagely massaging his temples, he wondered which impossible task would prove hardest.
• • •
Blinded by his headache, Everett nearly ran into Bethany outside his office, tête-à-tête with a tall, classically handsome man whose red breast-pocket flourish and gold everything was overdone. Houghton Howell III, aka Junior. His father was technically Howell Jr. but with the founding Howell gone to the great stock market in the sky, Junior and Senior were more fitting for III and II.
Bethany shot Everett a triumphant look and sauntered away.
Delightful. She’d run straight to Howell then, to kick the confrontation up the ladder. Dear Bethany. Everett rather understood how she’d earned the vulgar nickname he wasn’t supposed to know.
Well, better deal with this now, on his home turf
. He nodded Howell into his office.
Howell neutralized Everett’s advantage by planting butt in Everett’s leather chair. For added insult, Junior kicked his feet onto Everett’s desk.
Everett heaved a silent sigh. They’d been playing pinstripe apes since day one, beating chests and baring teeth in displays of corporate dominance. All because Everett was hired for the presidency Howell wanted. Everett was getting tired of it, but it went with the job. And he did his job damned well.
Crossing arms, he leaned against the wall, seemingly nonchalant though his head was killing him. “Comfortable, Howell?”
“Just getting used to the lay of the land, Kirk old boy. You’re going soft, you know. You’d never have made a mistake like this in the early days, my friend.”
“I don’t recall making any mistakes, my friend. Enlighten me.”
Howell smirked, the expression prissy on his narrow features. “The Rowan woman, of course. You need to fire her.”
Everett shook his head. “She’s our best manager.”
“Best screw-up, you mean.”
“No. I don’t.” Everett straightened away from the wall. “And it’s my decision to make, not yours.”
Howell studied buffed fingernails. “It may be mine in the future.”
“Perhaps—but not today. Time’s up, Howell.” Striding to his desk, Everett poked Howell’s heels off. They hit the floor with a thud.
“Fine.” Howell stood. “You’re president—for now.”
“Exactly. I’m president.” He let his anger show. “And Daddy’s enterprises are profitable. That’s all the board of directors cares about, Howell.”
“Not all.” Howell leaned forward, toe to toe and eye to eye, invading Everett’s space.
Everett neutralized him by simply straightening to his full height and glaring down.
Howell backed off. A mean glint entered his eye. “You may top me in the org chart but the board tops you. I wonder whom they favor? Oh wait. We’ll find out next month at the annual review meeting. My brass nameplate will look good on this desk, don’t you think?”
He spun and left.
Everett closed the door quietly. They’d bared their teeth and beaten their chests, and Everett had won.
But in retaliation Howell had brought in King Kong.
• • •
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: About me
My real name. Well, my mom called me Ev, my college friends called me E.E., and the people at work call me Hardass—they don’t appreciate my sterling qualities. Pick one ;)
Were you trying to electrify me with that last joke? Speaking of . . . How many programmers does it take to change a light bulb? None, it’s a hardware problem.
—Prez
That night—after she’d told her MMO guild she’d be away from keyboard for a week—Edie got on a Skype session with her grandparents. She told them about the camp and why she was going—but not whom she was traveling with.
Yet her grandmother said, “Who is he?”
“He? There’s no he.” The heat in Edie’s face said she was blushing like crazy but at 240p her grandparents wouldn’t see it.
“Of course not.” Fortunately her grandmother let it drop and they ended the call as they always did.
“I just want you to be proud of me,” Edie said.
“We are, sweetheart. We are.”
• • •
The next morning, the first thing to breach Edie’s awareness was soft, soothing music from her clock radio.
Followed by loud, masculine swearing from her apartment door.
A startled glance at the clock told her she’d overslept. Jingling jump drives, Kirk was here to pick her up. Two days alone in a car with his authority, his shoulders, his smile—
Pounding blasted the door. The man had fists like sledgehammers. Something told her he’d been pounding quite a while.
She groaned. She hadn’t even had her coffee yet. Thank goodness her brand-new, theft-deterrent door stood between her and a blistering lecture. She clambered out of bed and threw a robe over her oversized T-shirt. More pounding, blisteringly loud, drowned out the soft padding of her bare feet. Hopefully the door was as good as the sales rep promised.
She padded a bleary path from her bedroom, along the hall toward the living room.
The pounding stopped.
He’d given up. Yay. Not that Kirk was known for giving up, but she was desperate for caffeine. She U-turned for the kitchen.
A bam spun her. A bang, and the front door burst open in a shower of splintered wood.
Kirk rushed through. “Damn it, Edie. Are you all right?”
“Don’t swear. Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
He stepped into her living room and she saw the damage. Her eyes opened wide. Both door and jamb were splintered.
Apparently the rep had overstated its solidness.
“I still have eleven easy payments left on that!” She scurried past Kirk to get a better look.
And stepped on a chunk of broken wood. “Ouch.” Pain slashed her sole, stabbed her big toe.
“Damn it, Edie. You should have slippers on.”
“Please don’t swear—”
“Screw that.” Kirk swept down on her and scooped her up.
Her belly swooped. She’d been carried by a man once but not so effortlessly. Kirk’s arms were immensely strong and secure and he smelled beguilingly of crisp air and cedar-packed wool. When he settled her on the living room couch, she was disappointed.
Disappointed? That scared the skit out of her. “I didn’t need slippers. My floor was perfectly clean until a moment ago.”
“We only have your word for that.” He sat on the couch at her feet. Grabbing her injured foot, he pinched her toe.
“Yowch! What are you doing?”
“Removing a splinter. A big ’un.”
“Sure you weren’t trying to pop my toe off?” But it did feel better.
He lifted her foot. “Hmm. A couple gashes.” He spread his arms to forklift her again. “We need to clean this.”
“No, we don’t.” She ducked and scooted to one corner of the couch. “I can walk.”
“Bare feet versus this floor? I’ll carry you.” He reached for her with his all-too-capable arms.
She leaped up, her injured foot slapping against hardwood. The gashes screamed protest and she stumbled, nearly face-planting into the wall.
Kirk leaped after her. “Damn it, Edie—”
“Language!” She palmed stop. “You’re right. I’ll keep it off the ground, see?” She lifted her foot high—pulling something in her groin. She winched down a grimace and bunnied one-legged into the hallway.
Out of sight, she cautiously set her foot down.
“If you risk infection by putting that foot down,” Kirk called from the living room, “I will personally lash your ankle to your thigh. Let me warn you, I tie some pretty wicked knots.”
“I just bet you do,” she muttered. Did the man install an AuthorityCam to see around the corner? Stupid president, autocratic and demanding even off the job.
Grumbling, she hopped to the bathroom, found disinfectant and cotton balls, flopped onto her toilet seat, and pulled up her foot.
It was a dirty, bloody mess.
Phooey. If she hated his high-handedness, she hated worse when he was right. He was already arrogant enough.
She doused the cotton ball with disinfectant and swabbed her wounded foot, but it was like cleaning a muddy car with a makeup sponge. She just smeared the blood and dirt. So she started the water in the tub to rinse her foot instead. Then she decided she might as well shower. It was only efficient. Amazingly rational, considering she hadn’t had any caffeine yet.
But in case Prince Omniscience decided to be his usual argumentative self, she locked the door.
She stripped quickly, got right in, and started shampooing. She’d work
ed up a good lather when the pounding started at the bathroom door.
Half-blinded, she stuck her head out. The door bowed with each thud, Kill Door Part II. In hindsight, locking it might not have been the smartest move. “What are you doing?”
“We need to get going.” Kirk’s deep voice carried easily through the composite. Another thud told her he was serious. “What are you doing?”
She started to yell, “I’m taking a shower,” but it would only get lost in the next bang. She grabbed a towel, twisted it around her, unlocked and opened the door.
Mid-swing, Kirk’s large and capable hand froze. He blinked. His gaze dropped. Widened.
Turned molten silver.
“I’m taking a shower.” Her voice came out a husky whisper.
“So I see.” His eyes closed and he sucked a bushel of air through distended nostrils. When he opened his eyes again they were fastened on her face. “Have you heard the weather report? No, of course not. You just woke up, didn’t you?”
“Well—”
“Are you even packed?”
Her cheeks heated. “Mostly.”
“Which means what, you have a suitcase out?” He blew a disgusted breath. “Don’t you take anything seriously?”
“Of course I do. The important things.” She straightened to her full five-three and glared. Barefoot, her glare hit mid-chest. No tie today so she had it out with the press of his pecs against a soft white sweater. His very hard, very nice pecs . . . she shook herself. “I care about supporting my people. About keeping up with technology. I could care less about whether we leave at eight or eight-oh-five.”
His shook his head, ponytail swishing lightly. “What if five minutes makes the difference between life or death?”
“Oh, right. Because Freddy Krueger is now punching a clock.”
“No, because there’s a blizzard hammering Canada.”
“Headed south?”
“Headed east. It’s not forecast to hit us, or I wouldn’t risk the drive. But I want to get an early start just in case.”
Avoiding even the possibility of getting stuck in the mountains. Prudent and annoying. “Fine. I’ll hurry.” She slammed the bathroom door in his face.