Part 2 (2/2)

Hayden

I checked the pads of my fingers for calluses before typing. 'I'll be out of town until Monday night.' Hiring a new a.s.sistant was supposed to mean less typing, not more. But I wasn't complaining.

'Going someplace warm and sunny?' Without fail, my new a.s.sistant answered almost immediately, as if she never stepped away from her computer. I wasn't sure why that bothered me so much, but it did. Even while hoping it wouldn't stop.

'It's for work, but I need you to redo a section of the contract proposal. It doesn't sound right.'

'In what way?'

'In the sound,' I typed.

'Hang on a sec. I need to stop laughing.' Less than two seconds later, another message popped up. 'Okay, I'm done laughing.'

My cheeks hurt from using muscles so rarely engaged.

'But you're going to have to give me more to go on than 'the sound.'' She was very impressive, by far the best a.s.sistant I'd ever had.

Even though the virtual aspect was still uncomfortable and my typing speed annoyingly slow, it gave me an opportunity I'd never had before. Something about communicating through messages in real time, but not being face-to-face, gave me a sense of privacy. Obviously false, because what happened on the internet stayed on the internet. But my reactions and expressions were my own-if I laughed, smiled, or grimaced, no one knew. The perpetual poker face, the one I'd perfected after years of hiding other people's secrets and a few of my own, wasn't necessary.

In business, I'd learned to be quick, decisive, and to speak in a way that got the most out of my employees or clients. I didn't do that with her. With her, I spoke without an underlying agenda. It was freeing. Stupid to finally be myself with someone I would never meet, but it was a nice change.

I typed, 'You're usually so good at knowing exactly what I want.'

'Stop being nice. I hate that. Maybe I'm having an off day. So how about you share what's going on inside your head for someone who isn't in it?'

I tried to explain, hunting and pecking for the correct letters. If this were to go on for much longer, I'd need to learn how to type properly.

The Inspex project was all mine, start to finish. It had started out simply enough, merely a desire for The Conure Group to be more than just a moneymaking venture for its stockholders. I'd been on the board of my brother's charitable foundation since the beginning and had watched Carson take the money our father had left him and turn it into something good, a way to help families and children. It took me a while, but I finally realized that I was following too closely in our dead father's footsteps. When my father's business partner, Bart, finally retired, I would be given his t.i.tle and position in a company that hadn't changed in thirty years. A company whose only motivator was financial gain. Regardless of how it was acquired.

Now, after an agonizing amount of networking, subtlety, and negotiating, I'd finally figured out a way to do both. In a few months, I'd be sitting in a senator's office to present the project, and I'd walk out with a contract that would set Conure on a new path. Create new jobs, ignite an explosion in the company's stock, and help people who would never know about the Conure Group or Hayden Bennett. I had no interest in fame, and if this project went the way it should, my family name would have nothing to do with it.

But in order for that to happen, my name was the only one that could be connected to it. Everyone else only knew the pieces they had to know, and nothing more. If I let anyone else in before everything was in place, I wouldn't be able to control the outcome. After this much time and effort, that was a risk I couldn't take.

When I presented the project, first to Conure's board of directors and then to the senators, it had to be perfect. No loopholes, no gaps, no what-ifs.

After a few minutes of trying to convey what needed to be changed in the manufacturing contract, her reply popped up.

'Okay, I think I got it. So basically, you just want me to fix the sound, right? :)'

I laughed. Five minutes of struggle and, 'Yeah, basically.'

Totally confident she'd figure out what I needed from her, I signed off and pushed my chair back from the desk. After a few minutes of staring at a blank screen, I glanced at the night sky out my window.

When every day was the same, why did it always surprise me when they ended?

Only then did I notice the silence of the building and realize that I was alone in the normally chaotic Conure offices. Everyone else had already gone home.

Home. Yet another place to be lonely.

”Good evening, Mr. Bennett, sir,” the security guard said as he took a few steps back from me.

I nodded and headed for the elevator. The luxury apartment building was home to very few families, so it shocked me when I felt something collide with my leg, then looked down at the child clutching my pants.

”I'm so sorry!” a woman, who was probably the child's nanny, said. ”Jonathan! Let go of Mr. Bennett right this instant.” She didn't look familiar, but I wasn't surprised she knew my name. Clare did an excellent job of keeping our reputation pristine and our secrets well hidden.

The boy, who couldn't have been older than four, looked up at me and smiled. The security guard left his desk and hurried toward us, pa.s.sing the equally concerned nanny.

”I don't think he plans to hurt me too badly.” I stopped them both with a raised hand and spoke to the boy. ”Do you?”

Jonathan shook his head.

”Well, what can I do for you then, little man?”

”I need to p.o.o.p.”

Huh. I glanced at the woman. She cringed apologetically and said, ”I'm so sorry. He never goes until his dad gets home. And Mr. Coyle is running late.”

”Hmm. That makes it tougher, doesn't it?” I asked the boy. ”So how do you propose we handle this?”

”I need to p.o.o.p.”

”I get that. Well, the way I see it, you have a couple options, but only one of them would keep those pants looking nice.” I blew out a breath, not wanting to laugh. ”If you want, I could take you to the bathroom in the security office, and you could see what happens.” I looked at his nanny. ”If that's alright with you.”

Her mouth hung open until she said, ”I...” Then I think it got stuck again.

Jonathan let go of my pants and took hold of my hand as soon as I offered it to him. I didn't remember ever having touched a child before. My experience with them was limited to smiles from a few feet away. His skin was so soft, so delicate, so warm, I didn't dare move for fear I'd break him. I swallowed, enjoying the slight pressure as he squeezed my fingers, all he could wrap his tiny fingers around.

”Mary-Anne?” a deep voice called from the front entrance. ”What's-?”

”Mr. Coyle!” the nanny said with relief. ”Thank goodness. Jonathan needs to go to the bathroom.”

The boy's hand disappeared from mine and reconnected with my pant leg, digging in even deeper than before.

”Jonathan? Daddy can take you now,” Mary-Anne said. ”Let go of the nice man.”

My breath caught in my throat, trapped by a memory I'd pushed away long ago. Even as I saw the boy's expression change into a grin as he let go of my leg and ran to his father, I couldn't let go of the panic. The need to stop him, protect him from a father who was nothing like mine.

I stood absolutely frozen, trying to regain control of my breath, my heartbeat, my sanity. The others must have perceived my stillness as annoyance or anger because all three of them started apologizing at the same time.

”It's fine,” I said finally, raising the hand Jonathan had held. ”No problem at all. Really.” I turned around and hurried to the elevator, letting out a deep breath when the door closed and their stupid, unnecessary apologies were silenced.

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