In darkness, my eyes see what I want to see in daylight: Love behind his eyes.

Warm. Mine. His. Real. Or as real as I can get.

Gasp. Echo.

Impossible.

He can’t be gasping, simply can’t, because this is a realistic dream—I insist, I insist—and my tongue is somewhere around his third molar.

But someone gasps. Moans. Practically purrs.

Again. But different. Low. Lower.

Shit. The spell breaks.

And double shit.

It’s me. I’m full-on, unadulterated moaning.

Is it not enough that my every waking moment has been monopolized by this man and his persnickety patoot? Must he now rampage around like a prize bull in my slumberland china shop as well?

Rampaging anality. Raging hormones.

If I get any more regressively juvenile with these fantasies, I’m gonna need to invest in some Clearasil. And lube.

Pull the covers up to my nose. Cast a wary look at the door that stands between myself and Canon.

He’s right over there. Asleep. Or recharging the lithium ion battery cell that runs his mainframe. Waiting for another opportunity to make me question myself, my choices, my sanity.

Unlike John Wilkes Booth, I may actually miss Lincoln.

Day of Employment:

378

8:00 a.m.

*

Clothes

: Jeans and black turtleneck sweater.

*

Hair

: Pulled back severely.

*

Breakfast

: Skipped.

*

Mood

: Foul.

THE PLACE IS EMPTY. As it should be. Coming to an office for three hours to marvel at the wonders of meticulous bookkeeping on the Saturday before Christmas is not something most people would choose to do.

Alaricenezar Scrooge.

“Do you have access to the cleanser and toner market trials?”

“Yes. Here they are, Mr. Canon.” Enjoy them, asshole.

“ETA for the POs?”

“They will be delivered to the hotel late today. They’re stored off-site, sir.” Sir Asshat.

“Does market data suggest—”

I hand him the market research analysis for each test product before he can finish. Final scores have been highlighted.

Lunch with the execs is early and casual. I say nothing. I point to my selection on the menu. I’m all quiet smiles.

Stepford Secretary.

12:15 p.m.

“YOUR COFFEE, SIR.”

“We will set up in my room and go through the POs.”

All of them? Years’ worth?

“Yes, sir. As you wish.”

“Order room service.”

“As you wish.”

“Could you bring me some water?”

“As you wish.”

“You do realize I have seen that movie.”

“Sir?”

His eyebrows rise. Oh, Buttercup, you smug bastard.

4:00 p.m.

*

Purchase Orders

: Cover every flat surface of the room.

*

Mood

: About one purchase order from conniption fit.

*

Ass

: Asleep. As are both feet.

BEEN SITTING FOR HOURS. Need to walk around.

Canon yawns. Even his yawn is magnificent. Sickening.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Okay,” I say, perking up.

He stretches, treating me to a glimpse of skin between his shirt and jeans. “My ass has been mostly dead all day.”

So you’re gonna flash trail and throw in a reference joke, then still expect me to function? Hardest job ever.

We walk around the Plaza shops and admire this city’s many fountains. Most are ornate and traditional.

There are several cow statues. Who knows why anyone thought that was a good idea?

The bronze boar statue reduces us both to fits when we spot it near to the hotel.

This is easy. Conversation. Interaction.

He’s never been so attractive. That’s saying something. I’m doing a terrible job of staying mad.

“Want some?” Canon points toward a little mom-and-pop donut shop. Rough around the edges. Needs a bit of paint. I bet they’re amazing. The kind of place that outlasts corporate sprawl. Grandfathered-in equipment. My mouth waters. Canon motions again. “Want some?”

So tempting. Oh, we’re only talking about donuts. “I better not.”

“Do you have something against donuts?”

“Oh, no. I have something against walking them back off.”

He shakes his head and mutters something as he heads to the doors. I guess I’m supposed to follow.

Painful. The display is truly fucking painful. Strawberry. Crunchy peanut butter cinnamon rolls. Apple spice cake.

“Ready?” He holds the door open, purchase dangling from his hand.

9:14 p.m.

*

Room Service Trays

: In the hall.

*

My Thoughts on Purchase Orders

: #%*&* $#@!

*

Donuts

: Gone. I caved almost immediately. He had bought enough for two.

TIRED. I’M TIRED. And I do stupid shit when I’m tired.

“Would you like for me to put on some coffee?”

Canon is sitting on his bed. Legs crossed and barefoot. Stifling a yawn, he shakes his head.

Oh, please let that be a sign this day is nearly over. I mean, looking at him in faded jeans is a definite perk, but I am so over cataloging purchase patterns.

“Long day, huh?” His eyes change somehow. I nod. “Maybe you could find some Cokes?”

Oh. We’re not done yet.

“Okay,” I say, unintentionally laying a bit too long on the last syllable.

“I know this is taking forever. This is our only chance. It is the best way to make sure they are not fudging their numbers. Go change into something more comfortable.”

More comfortable than jeans?

“I have pajamas,” I say.

He sits up straight and rubs his hands over his face. “All right.”

Twelve minutes later, I’m back with Cokes and wearing my “That is what I’m Tolkien About” PJs.

To say Canon looks relieved would be an understatement. He may have been expecting the kimono again.

In that case, I wonder why he would torture himself.

I’m thinking this is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. Canon’s wearing pajama pants and a white tee. All my theories are blown.

It is almost a foregone conclusion that I will embarrass myself by ogling him at some point. I can imagine what point: his point. The hold I have on my wandering eyes is tenuous.

He takes a swig of pop. Plunking myself on his bed and being careful not to scatter papers everywhere, I pat the mattress. “Let’s do it.”

Spit-take. Coke everywhere.

“You okay?” I ask.

Canon nods. And coughs. A lot.

Sometime…

“HEY…HEY, EMMA. WAKE UP.”

I feel hands in my hair. They shake my shoulder. I’m cold. I turn toward the warmth beside me.

“Emma. Emma?”

Just ignore them; they’ll stop.

They do.

Then the warmth goes away.

Lincoln chases me. Through Walmart. I don’t know which part is scarier.

Day of Employment:

379

8:30 a.m.

MY PHONE IS RINGING. Somewhere. It’s not on my nightstand.

Screen light shines through papers on the bed. Nothing seems right.

“H-Hello?”

“It is after eight. The day needs to start.”

“Huh?”

“I need to get ready.”

In a flood of revelation, it becomes clear this is not my room.