Connectivity Page 4

  We simply stare at each other for a moment, surprised by this revelation. Then Cumberland gets the intense look in his eyes that I have come to recognize on sight.

  “With that said, Ms. Grant, why on earth are you an executive assistant? Your considerable skills and a Master’s degree from Northwestern are not well-matched with your current position.”

  My pulse leaps. Cumberland sees me. Unlike Paul, my old boss, Cumberland has known me for about a week and he completely gets it.

  “I took the job to get my foot in the door,” I explain. “I know you have to work from the bottom up. I had no delusions about that. And I am willing to work hard, learn different things, and eventually move over to the Beautiful Homes Network.”

  “Do you even like sports?” he asks.

  I feel my face grow hotter. “Um . . . no,” I confess. “I do not.”

  I can tell by his face he is assessing my words.

  Cumberland raises an eyebrow. “So you must really want to work for the Beautiful Homes Network if you are willing to make that sacrifice.”

  He pauses for a moment, then says, “I have a proposal. I like what you have done with your blog and your cubicle. Why don’t you decorate my office, write an article about it, and I will personally have it posted to the Beautiful Homes Network website? They could use some fresh voices over there. Then I ask that you stay with me for six months, while the transition is the heaviest, and then I will release you for any job you want. In the meantime, though, let’s see if we can get you writing over there, in addition to the duties you have for me, of course.”

  Oh my God! Elation pours through me as his offer sinks in. Cumberland is going to help me! He’s going to let me write and use my brain and get my foot in the door at my dream company!

  “Mr. Cumberland, I cannot even begin to tell you what this means to me,” I say honestly. “Thank you so, so much for the opportunity. I promise it won’t interfere in any way with the work I have to do for you. That is always going to be my top priority, I assure you of that.”

  “Very well then.” Cumberland moves back around to his desk, and I am about to walk out the door when he stops me.

  “And Ms. Grant?”

  I turn around. “Yes?”

  “If I see any décor items that say ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ I will bloody well scream,” he says, sinking down into his chair.

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and laugh so hard I snort.

  And much to my utter shock, Cumberland joins me with a deep, throaty laugh that catches me completely off guard. It is so rich sounding it completely fills the room.

  I am in shock, because I didn’t think he could laugh, and when he did . . . oh God, it was very attractive.

  What am I thinking? This is Cumberland. Media Mogul billionaire William Cumberland. My boss. Have I lost my freaking mind?

  “Bloody hell, did you just snort?” Cumberland asks, his intense blue eyes now dancing at me.

  “Um . . . yes,” I say, feeling my face grow warm for the sixtieth time.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Thank you for the verification, Ms. Grant.”

  And just like that, Cumberland’s expression goes back to serious. Almost as if he realized he has shared too much of himself with me.

  “All right,” Cumberland says, clearing his throat as he picks up a silver pen and begins reviewing a contract on his desk.

  I go back to my cubicle and bite my lip. Something just happened in there. For a moment, a brief moment, Cumberland became William. William, who revealed he knew people liked to “yes, sir,” “whatever, sir” him. William, who had the deep, contagious laugh . . .

  And for some reason I cannot explain, the realization unnerves me. More than I care to admit.

  During the next few weeks I begin to understand just how insane Cumberland’s world is. Everyone wants a piece of him—his cell is always blowing up; his email is overflowing; my line is ringing constantly with a person who has a crisis only Cumberland can solve.

  He travels a lot, too. In just the past month, he had been back to England once, to Tokyo, and South Africa. I have no idea how he keeps his time zones straight. I really don’t.

  Yet, no matter where he is in the world, he always comments on my blog. And I always text him back my thoughts, which leads to a little conversation via text.

  Beep!

  I smile to myself. Like now. I am sitting on the couch watching The Bachelorette with Reese, and Cumberland is in Los Angeles, a quick one-day trip to be the keynote speaker at a conference. And he has already replied to a post I loaded an hour ago about rosemary-scented cleaning supplies.

  I pick up my phone and see that he has texted me.

  Did you post this on company time, Ms. Grant? WC

  I smile to myself. I know he is teasing me. I text him back.

  With all due respect, Mr. Cumberland, you have your time zones messed up. I am sitting on my couch in Lincoln Park. I posted that an hour ago. MKG

  I take a sip of my wine and keep my phone in my hand. I want to see how he responds to that.

  Beep!

  I smile and read his response.

  With all due respect, Ms. Grant, I was giving you the benefit of the doubt that you might be working late to show your due diligence during my absence. WC

  Before I can respond, another text comes across.

  I am so bored. Please blog something else for me to comment on. WC

  “Who are you texting?” Reese asks, lifting her gaze from the TV to me.

  We always watch The Bachelorette together. Emily used to join us, but since the big breakup with Dan she can’t handle romantic stories without crying, so she went to a yoga class instead.

  “Cumberland,” I say as I text him back.

  Mr. Cumberland, I would love to entertain you with another witty blog, but I am very busy keeping my roommate company and watching the less-than-realistic dates on The Bachelorette. You do have your finger on the pulse of that American pop culture touchstone, yes? MKG

  “Do you realize you have a ridiculous smile on your face right now?” Reese asks in an accusatory tone.

  I throw down my phone as if I am holding a toxin. “What? Oh, no, he just sent me a very entertaining text, that is all.”

  “Right,” Reese says, taking a sip of her wine.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not like that.”

  Beep!

  My phone goes off but I ignore it. Although I really want to see what Cumberland has to say. Does he think I am a loon for mentioning The Bachelorette? Or does my quirkiness intrigue him? Hmmm.

  “Oh, I think it is exactly like that,” Reese declares. “I think you are getting a little crush on your boss.”

  “What?” I yell. “Oh, that is insane, Reese! I am not even attracted to him!”

  “Oh, really?” Reese picks up the remote and hits pause, because heaven forbid we miss the one-on-one date that is going on right now on our flat screen. “Then how come I know he wears Prada shirts, has ridiculous dark wavy hair, intense blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a deep British accent?”

  I begin to fidget. I do not like where this conversation is going.

  And I really wonder what Cumberland just texted me.

  “Those are just character details,” I say quickly. “I am a communications person. I like providing details.”

  “I don’t know anything about your other boss and you worked for him for a year!”

  I feel my face grow hot, and I feel all flustered inside.

  “But . . . Cumberland is different. He is brainy sexy!” I blurt out.

  Oh fuck. I do think it! I do think he’s attractive and sexy!

  But he is just so damn smart that it makes him
hot. And you add in those cheekbones, the way he puts his fingertips to this lips when he’s thinking, the way a curl of his dark hair escapes and falls down on his forehead . . . I grab my merlot and take a big gulp. Jesus, how did I not even realize this was happening?

  “I knew it!” Reese yells gleefully.

  “Okay, so I think he’s hot,” I admit. “But he’s my boss. Off limits. Very off limits. And he doesn’t date. Period.”

  Besides, when would he have time to date? No wonder he has no personal life, I muse.

  “True,” Reese says. “Well, at least he’s fun to look at.”

  She un-pauses the show and the oh-so-important Bachelorette continues.

  And while Reese is sucked back into the world of elaborate, over-the-top dates, I am left shaken by my thoughts.

  I swallow hard. I didn’t even realize I was talking about him. I didn’t realize I had relayed every detail, or that I liked the fact that he texted me, and not about work. That I liked that Cumberland reads my blog, that he shares his thoughts on it. That his Prada shirts look so damn good on his lithe frame, that his intensity is so intriguing, that his sexy deep British voice reverberates in my head.

  Yes, I am attracted to William Cumberland.

  I didn’t realize it because I have never felt this way before, had this kind of attraction to a man like this.

  But as Reese said, he’s off-limits. I know that. Like he’d even look at me anyway. I’m just the quirky American assistant he’s helping along the career trail. He’s like a mentor.

  And he doesn’t date anyway.

  But if he did, Cumberland would date someone as equally sophisticated as him.

  Like a British society woman.

  I bite my lip. Even though I know all that is true, how come I don’t like that answer very much?

  Chapter 6

  By the second week of February, my decorating project is complete.

  I stand in Cumberland’s office and take one final assessment. He is due back any minute now. I arranged for the car service to pick him up at O’Hare after a trip to London and New York. And I want everything to be just perfect for the reveal.

  I purchased some silver lamps and vintage office accessories to spruce up his office. I pick up the pair of antique binoculars that I have strategically placed on his desk. I added plants, hunter green and plum plaid pillows for the tweed guest couch, a plum rug for a pop of color.

  I smile with satisfaction. Cumberland just told me to run with the décor and surprise him like one of the shows on the Beautiful Homes Network. And I cannot wait to see his reaction to his new office.

  Suddenly I hear him. That deep British voice talking into his cell from down the hall. A shiver instantly shoots down my spine in response.

  “Ms. Dalton, I sincerely hope after all this time you are able to render a decision like that on your own,” he says firmly. “. . . Yes . . . No. Absolutely not. Do not even discuss her with me—”

  Cumberland stops speaking as soon as he sees me in his office.

  I bite my lower lip, wishing he’d finish that sentence. Who was he talking about? What woman would he not want Arabella to talk about?

  My heart leaps for a brief second. Me? Could he be talking about me?

  Oh my God! Am I on drugs? Why would he be talking about me? Cumberland could be talking about anyone.

  “I need to terminate this call,” he says, his light blue eyes burning into mine with such intensity that my stomach does a flip. Cumberland punches his phone and stands in his doorway, staring at me.

  I swallow hard. Good Lord. The man can wear a scarf and trench coat like nobody’s business.

  “Good to see you, Ms. Grant,” he says, his voice in a completely different tone than it was a second ago.

  “Welcome back to Chicago, Mr. Cumberland,” I say.

  Cumberland steps into the office and stops.

  I watch as his eyes widen and dart and I can tell he is assessing every detail, every change, every addition I have made.

  “Ms. Grant,” he says, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto his desk in a smooth, fluid motion, “I have to say this is rather impressive. I think it is brilliant. Just brilliant.”

  Okay, why do I feel like doing cartwheels across his office?

  “Thank you. I’m glad to hear that,” I say honestly.

  Cumberland takes off his scarf and trench and moves behind me to hang them up. As he goes past me I smell him, the scent of pine needles and soap on his pale skin. Sexy smelling. Very sexy indeed.

  He moves around the office, picking up objects and inspecting them closely. Finally he picks up the binoculars and I can’t contain my excitement about them.

  “Aren’t those cool?” I say excitedly. “I found them in a little antique shop out in Long Grove,” I say, referring to the suburban Chicago town. “They are my second most favorite thing for the room.”

  Cumberland turns and raises a brow. “And the first?”

  “Wait just a second,” I say, smiling. I go out to my desk and pick up the object. I hide it behind my back and walk over to him.

  “It just wouldn’t be British without this,” I say. Then I show him a bright red ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ coffee mug.

  Cumberland stares at it, then at me, and a huge grin passes over his face.

  My heart jumps in response, as it is a genuine, beautiful smile that he is giving me right now.

  “Bloody hell, Ms. Grant,” he says, laughing deeply.

  I laugh with him, and he’s still smiling at me.

  “You Americans and your love of this slogan,” he says. “I do not understand it. Nor do I get the fact that you put mince turkey into everything either.”

  I furrow my brow. “What?”

  “Ground turkey, as you Americans call it,” he says, putting the mug on his desk. He walks around and sinks into his chair. “The woman next to me on the flight this morning was raving about how she uses it instead of beef. You put it into everything and it is horrible. I don’t understand that.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “This coming from the country that gave the world steak and kidney pie?”

  Cumberland grins at me. “Touché, Ms. Grant. Touché.”

  Suddenly his phone rings and we are jolted out of our conversation. I circle behind him and pick up his phone, answering it professionally. “William Cumberland’s office, this is MK speaking . . . yes . . . please hold and I shall see if he’s available.”

  I put the caller on hold and turn to Cumberland. “It is Louis Steele,” I say, referring to a lead attorney with Connectivity. “He said he has a very urgent matter to discuss with you.”

  “Right,” Cumberland says. He instantly shifts gears, seamlessly going into the man who runs an empire mode.

  I go to leave but before I do he stops me.

  “Ms. Grant?”

  I pause in the doorway.

  “Thank you for the mug,” he says, his eyes intense. “I shall find a way to repay you in kind for it.”

  I laugh and walk back to my cubicle.

  I am sure you will, William Cumberland. And I look forward to it.

  On Valentine’s Day, I find myself in another dreaded Lincoln Park bar for the evening. You know, to cheer up Emily in the face of the worst holiday of the year for the brokenhearted. Or, if you asked my sister and mother, a tragic holiday for—gasp—single people like me.

  Of course, being out with Reese and Emily gives my roommates ample opportunity to tell me my crush on Cumberland is a recipe for disaster.

  “MK, seriously, there are like a million guys in the city of Chicago for you to pick from,” Reese yells from across the table. “There is no need to get hung up on your unobtainable boss.”

  I look around the bar
at all the complete fools surrounding me. Drunk, young, and upwardly mobile. Yes, I have choices, all right. Many, many craptastic ones. Ugh.

  My phone vibrates in my lap. The whole time I have been here with Reese and Emily I have been texting with Cumberland. I have told him I am miserable and stuck in this stupid bar for the sake of solidarity in the face of the Valentine’s Day holiday. I told him I am sending back drinks, I am giving out the ‘leave me alone’ vibe, etc. but nobody can read it.

  Of course the texting didn’t start out that way. Cumberland was giving me feedback on the article I drafted about his office makeover and, as it always did, it became a conversation about everything but the article between us.

  “Quit texting him, MK!” Emily begs, putting her hand on my arm. “This is so dangerous, what you are doing! He is your boss!”

  “He could be texting about business!” I cry, knowing that is a complete lie. “So I have to check when he texts me, okay?”

  But just to prove a point, I ignore my phone for the next hour.

  Which gives me a really twitchy feeling inside. I wonder what Cumberland might be talking about or if he is wondering why I haven’t responded to his last witty text . . .

  Thankfully, I manage to divert the conversation away from my quote unquote unobtainable boss. And after an hour of discussion of how men are jerks, of turning down drinks being sent over to the table, and other assorted drunken tomfoolery by guys in the bar, I am done. I am ready to go home. I want my yoga pants and hoodie, and I want to be reading witty text messages from Cumberland.

  I am about to announce that I am leaving when a waitress comes over to our table and puts down a cocktail napkin and a glass of red wine in front of me.

  “A gentleman at the bar would like for you to have this,” she says.

  I shake my head firmly. “No, no, thank you. Please tell the person who sent this over I buy my own drinks.”