The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

by Annika Martin

  And I could’ve sworn she said Mr. Amazing is being amazing elsewhere, not he is elsewhere, like she claimed she said.

  Since when does a Vossameer employee say something like that? About me?

  I found it annoying, and then I felt annoyed that I cared.

  I did a little digging and saw that Sasha had used part of the social media budget to create a bonus that would attract top talent. Ms. Cooper had won an award of some sort.

  So maybe she didn’t join up out of a sense of mission.

  Still.

  Lying there in the middle of the night, I tried everything I could to get my mind off her. Because what do I care what some lowly admin has to say? What do I care about her impudent attitude if she does her work?

  But it agitated me enough that I couldn’t sleep. When the wake-up service called, I was ruder than usual.

  Even then, I couldn’t get her off my mind.

  Why her? She’s pretty, yes, but I’m a man of science. I know beauty is a scam, nature’s way of conning us into procreation, no different than birdsongs or peacock plumage.

  Though there was something…activated about her beauty—it was an angry, burning beauty, jaw set impudently. Hair the color of honey. A dark freckle on her right cheekbone. The freckle ruined the perfect symmetry of her face—normally I wouldn’t like that. But the freckle made her more perfect, somehow. And, god, the way her green eyes blazed.

  The blaze of her eyes seemed to have gotten under my skin, created this chemical reaction in me that eventually jolted me awake. And there I lay, with the memory of her growing brighter the more I tried to push it aside.

  I create lifesaving fucking formulas, and some admin…what? Thinks my breakthroughs are obnoxious? That I’m somebody to ridicule?

  Lying there in the dark of night, I realized, to my astonishment, that I found it…hot.

  I tried to tell myself it wasn’t hot. But it was hot.

  I should’ve fired her, but I wanted to…I don’t know what. Get in her face. Reprimand her, kiss her.

  I wanted her. It defied logic, how badly I wanted her.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I have better things to do than to obsess over the female of my species, to use my mental energy on an endeavor that barely sets me apart from the cuttlefish.

  I tend to have rational, low-maintenance girlfriends who are as career-focused as I am, preferably scientists and technologists who won’t give me drama when I cancel a date to stay late in the lab, women who respect that I’ll always be more passionate about my work than them.

  As I’ve become more successful and well-known, my girlfriends have tended to get more respectful and compliant. More convenient.

  Works for me.

  And then she bursts onto the scene. Takes over my entire brain. Some lowly assistant. No woman has ever compromised my focus like this.

  No woman has ever compromised my focus in any way.

  It’s all wrong.

  As any scientist knows, you always recreate your experiments, see whether you can duplicate your results.

  Lucky for me, I did that.

  And now, standing at some third-floor cubicle, I see my perception of her yesterday was off.

  A mirage due to exhaustion, maybe, because this admin, Ms. Cooper, is as obsequious as anyone at Vossameer. Good god, the woman’s barely able to look me in the eye.

  It’s not just that. Yesterday there was a fascinating intensity in her gaze. She felt bright, annoyed, slightly thrilling.

  Today, she’s…vacant. I’m not even sure she understands my question. Caught without warning in her natural habitat, she’s utterly dull. Maybe she came off as more confident yesterday because she was repeating something she’d heard. Could that be it? Like an actress in a play, rehearsing for the presentation to me?

  Something twists in my belly—a sense of loss. Sadness. I should be happy that my first impression was wrong. I can’t be distracted by silly investigations into the personalities of my staff.

  Maybe when I awaken in the middle of the night, I’ll be running chemical compositions in my head like I should be. Every extra day it takes to perfect my formula costs lives. Actual human lives.

  Sasha drones on. A lot of marketing speak I don’t care about.

  And seriously, what is this Ms. Cooper wearing? She looks like she just fell off a turnip truck. Did Sasha make her wear something business-like yesterday? But now she’s back to normal?

  This is who I was obsessing over?

  I grip the side of the cubicle, angry with myself for wasting precious time. Googling marketing trends for an excuse to come down and see what it was about her.

  Nothing, I affirm to myself. The what about her is nothing.

  Though even in her boringness, there’s something strangely compelling about her. She’s watching Sasha, eager and impressed, but I have this strange sense of her; it’s as though I feel her in a way I don’t feel other people.

  Exhaustion. That’s all. I’m exhausted. Overwrought. I saw what I came to see.

  “Thank you, then,” I say. “Write it up and…make a proposal to me.” I turn and walk. Somebody follows. Sasha.

  I head out into the hall. Still she follows.

  “A few quick questions.”

  “Walk and talk.” I make for the elevator bank.

  Sasha comes along.

  “The new one’s a little quiet, isn’t she?” I say. And then I want to eat my words.

  “Lizzie? Ms. Cooper?” she asks. “The one I presented with?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “She’s a little incompetent, I’m afraid,” Sasha says, walking beside me now. “She tries, but she’s…” She shakes her head sadly. “I’ve already given her two write-ups. She won’t last through probation. I hate to say this, but she’s a bit of a moron. Slow-witted. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.” I stab the up button, mind already on my formula. “You had a question?”

  “Yes. Do you have a due date?” she asks. “For the Instagram?”

  I don’t give a fuck would be the answer there, but this partnership with the Locke Foundation is important to me. And the Locke people don’t want to put a logo on their website that doesn’t lead somewhere impressive.

  Because apparently it’s not enough for the Locke Foundation people that we have the most effective hemostatic gel in the world. And it’s not enough for them that we want it distributed free to those who otherwise couldn’t afford it.

  “What’s a reasonable due date?” I stab the button again.

  “It depends. I’m thinking we could work up a creative brief and strategy, but if you want the proposal to contain a budget, that might add time. We’d need a set of measurable goals and a timeframe to get the budget.”

  My only measurable goal is me getting into the elevator alone.

  But that won’t work, so I turn to her. “What would you recommend? How would you prefer to proceed?”

  “Let’s do goals and strategy by the end of the month. Once that’s approved, we’ll establish a budget.”

  Finally the doors open. “Make it so.” I step in. Then I slap my hand over the door. “One more assignment.”

  She raises her brows. “Yes?”

  “My receptionist is out today…”

  Sasha brightens up. “I heard about that. She’ll be a grandmother.”

  “Yes.” Not what I was getting at.

  “You need someone…to office up there?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Better than fine. I enjoy having the entire area to myself. No people. No cheerful greetings or questions or requests to put things on my calendar. “My wake-up-call service is no longer viable. Do you think you could arrange for a new one?” I pull out a card and write my bedside number. “This is not to be used for any other purpose. Have a wake-up call placed to me at 4:30 in the morning, every weekday morning, starting Monday. If I don’t answer, it’s to repeat. If I answer and hang up, it’s to repeat. They need to make su
re I’m awake. You understand?”

  She nods.

  “Thank you.”

  Five

  Lizzie

  * * *

  Sasha appears at my cubicle, eyebrows in full anger mode. “Do you realize you didn’t make eye contact with Mr. Drummond once today? Do you think that’s polite?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was wondering why you wouldn’t even look at him,” she says. “What was that? Some kind of elusiveness game?”

  Mr. Drummond said something to her? I grit my teeth. It’s like the man wants me fired. “I was trying to be non-distracting.”

  “You think that was non-distracting? To so pointedly ignore him when he was speaking to you? This is a workplace, not a forum for testing out strategies best left to singles bars.”

  I nod obediently, clenching my fists under my desk. She has no idea how hard it was not to look him right in the eye and tell him to lay off the crack pipe, because, seriously? Instagram? Without nice images?

  And what was Mr. Drummond even doing coming all the way down to the third floor to ask about Instagram? He doesn’t even like social media.

  One of the books I got about forgiveness told me to write letters to people I was angry at. I start composing one to Mr. Drummond in my head. Dear asshole, please stop looking at me. You and your sizzling eyes and hot lips. Please never come down again. Uhhhh.

  Also, singles bars? On the upside, Mia will think that’s funny.

  When I look up, she’s still all angry eyebrows. I brace myself. Is she going to give me a third write-up? God, please no.

  “I want you to attempt to write up a credible Instagram strategy. Let’s see what you’ve got. Propose a reasonable set of goals and a strategy to get there.”

  I sigh, thinking of my bakery, of the fun shots I’d put up of the ironic cookies of the day. “Can we use stories of real-life people who were helped by the products? With the details changed, of course. But instead of people pictures, we could have images like a bicycle if they were a biker…”

  The brows go full active. “And run afoul of medical-records privacy laws? Does that sound like the kind of marketing Mr. Drummond would appreciate?”

  “Guess not,” I say glumly. “Wait, I have an idea,” I say. “We do two directions—one that’s on the passion of employees here, and maybe even a work-journal blog-type thing on a breakthrough. Even better—you know how Mr. Drummond’s working on that new thing? We could send a junior chemist up to take notes on his progress, and get shots of beakers and things, and it would be like an exciting race to find a cure. I bet Mr. Drummond would love that—he’s so focused on his formulas, right?”

  “Hmm.” Sasha folds her arms.

  “And then a third direction—a rationale on why Instagram is a waste of money for Vossameer.”

  “He asked for Instagram.”

  “I think he’d appreciate it if we evaluated it critically instead of just saying yes. ‘Why Instagram is wrong for Vossameer.’ I bet he’d love it.”

  She frowns. Why do I care? But I do. I have this sense that it’s exactly what Mr. Drummond would want.

  Sasha sighs. “Work it all up, and I’ll decide how I feel about it. End of next week. Can you do it?”

  I grin. I can put my head down and work like a dog all next week, and that’s how I run out the clock. Then I pass go. I collect my sign-on bonus. I do not go to loan-shark-beat-down jail. “I will make this Instagram proposal amazing,” I say.

  She gives me a skeptical look. “See that you do. Oh, and this.” She hands me a business card. The front says, simply, Theo Drummond. CEO. Vossameer Inc. The other side is a scribbled phone number. Pencil. Deep, severe lines. “You’re to arrange a wake-up-call service for Mr. Drummond for 4:30 in the morning, every weekday morning. Don’t screw it up. He’s very particular about managing his sleep patterns.”

  “Is there a recommended company resource for wake-up calls?”

  “If there were, I wouldn’t be tasking you with it. Find a service on Craigslist or something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Arrange the first one for 4:30 Monday morning. Can you handle that?”

  “Got it.” I give her my most pleasant smile, even channeling a bit of the gummy bear goodness. Can I handle it? It’s a phone call to order a service. How hard can it be?

  Three hours later, after I’ve called every wake-up service in the state, and then the region, and finally the nation, I discover exactly how hard it can be.

  Fun fact: thanks to the invention of alarms and things that slowly turn on your lights, there are not that many wake-up services out there. And the ones that do exist already know of Mr. Drummond, and they won’t touch this account with a ten-foot pole, because apparently Mr. Drummond is more of a jerk in the morning than he is normally. And really hard to wake up.

  At one point, I actually go down to main reception and beg the woman at the desk to give me Mr. Drummond’s receptionist’s cell. I put in a frantic call to her and reach her in the hospital waiting room. I tell her the situation and ask her whether she had any contingency plans for when this wake-up-call service quit.

  She sounds surprised and unhappy—she thought that service would hold up, and it was the last of the options she knows of. She was thinking of trying services out of Canada or the UK.

  I thank her and hang up. It’s 5:30. I’m going to end up on the most crowded subways possible because of this. But the Canada idea is good. I go back to my cubicle, and I finally find one that will do it. I make sure they understand the time difference, and that the call is to be placed Monday at 4:30. The woman on the other end assures me they’ll place the call, assuming the boss is good with taking international payment.

  “What do you mean? We’re good for the money,” I say. “We’ll send cash if it comes to it. We’ll send Canadian dollars through the mail if you want.”

  “I just have to clear it,” she says. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “When will I know it’s cleared?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine as is,” she says. “You’re on the docket.”

  The docket is not inspiring faith in me.

  Don’t screw it up. Sasha’s warning keeps buzzing through my mind. Just for the heck of it, I arrange for an additional wake-up call to be placed to my phone for twenty minutes before his. Just to make sure.

  It’ll suck to be woken up at 4:10, but I’m sure I’ll be lying awake anyway, freaking out at what happens if I lose my job and my bonus.

  Six

  Lizzie

  * * *

  They say a watched pot doesn’t boil. And unfortunately, sometimes a watched phone doesn’t ring at 4:10 in the morning. Or 4:15. Or 4:20.

  It’s Monday morning, and I’m standing in the corner of our kitchen, which is actually the corner of our living room, sucking down coffee, and freaking out.

  All because Mr. Drummond apparently can’t operate any of the thousands of technological innovations designed to wake people up. Mr. Drummond has to have an old-fashioned phone call. And then he’s a jerk about it, or he goes back to sleep.

  And now there’s no service that will take him. And my repeated emails to the Canadian wake-up-call people haven’t been answered.

  I thought I was on the docket!

  “Damn,” I whisper. “damn damn damn.”

  The only option is to call him myself, but what if Sasha finds out? She’ll fire me for sure. This number is to be used for wake-up services only.

  Damn.

  I look up to see Mia staring blearily at me. “They didn’t come through? With the call?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I think it was the coffee smell.” She pads in and grabs a mug. “It’s okay. I have to memorize a scene for tonight.” She pours. “You didn’t get your test call?”

  “No,” I say.

  She leans on the counter across from me. “You have to call.”

  “He’d figure out it
was me, and Sasha is looking for a reason to fire me. Anyway, I don’t even know what a wake-up call says.” I check my phone for the hundredth time to make sure the ringer’s on and put it aside next to Mr. Drummond’s business card. “I can’t.”

  “This is not rocket science,” Mia says. “He just needs a call.” She grabs my phone and pretends to dial. “Ringing.” She puts it to her ear and holds up a finger.

  I smile wearily. Mia would do role-playing at a time like this. I suck down more coffee. I’m feeling punchy. Tired. I need a plan.

  “Yes, hello,” Mia says into the phone, modeling how to do it. “This is your wake-up call…”

  I narrow my eyes, imagining arrogant Mr. Drummond, so confident of his superiority to the rest of the human race.

  I grab it. “Wake up, motherfucker,” I say. “It’s time to rise and shine, okay?”

  Mia raises her hand like she wants the phone back, but it’s my turn.

  I spin around. “It’s another day, full of promise and possibility, another opportunity for you to step over whatever people you step over on your way to wherever the hell you go at this weirdly stupid hour.”

  Something soars in me.

  I continue—with gusto, “Time to start your day of being a complete and utter asshole, a man who thinks he’s all that and totally isn’t. And you need a wake-up call because you’re sooooo special. Because for whatever reason, you’re too much of an asshole to work an alarm clock like ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of people are able to do.”

  I turn back around to find Mia looking stunned. Maybe she didn’t think I had it in me. She’s the thespian of the household.

  “Oh, wait.” I spin back around, continuing in a sweet voice now. “I’m sorry. You’re such an important person. I mean, oh my god! The whole world shivers in admiration.”

  Mia’s behind me, grabbing my arm, like she wants a turn.

  “The birds fall from the trees when you approach, stunned by your glory. Everybody can’t wait for you and your enchanting thoughts.” I pause, and then add, “Not.”