Strait Laced (Excerpt)

Part 3

The morning went horribly. My stomach lurched with every pothole the taxi went over, my head pounded relentlessly, and I was twenty minutes late to my appointment. Although the manager guiding me around was gracious, I was bitterly disappointed in myself. I never let my personal life get in the way of business—never—and to do so today of all days was unthinkable.

I'd been an analyst with Parkes & Jones Executive Business Consultants for almost three years, and this was the first time they'd entrusted me with a new contract. Most of my clients had established relationships with the company so I knew what to expect. AZ Mutual was still in its trial consultation. Given the deal would turn into a multi-million pound contract, I couldn't afford to mess up. Not if I wanted a promotion before the end of the year instead of a severance package.

Fortunately, once I was settled in an office and had a chance to examine their systems first-hand, my jitters subsided. I was good at my job, one of the brightest business minds of my generation if my degree meant anything. I'd worked with enough corporations in the last couple of years that I could guide AZ through an infrastructure overhaul with my eyes closed.

The morning flew by, pages of notes stacking up nicely as I identified areas where the current system was bloated. The floor was quiet, although enough staff strolled nonchalantly past my glass-walled office for me to know they were curious and apprehensive. In the long run they had reason to be; the point of my consultation was to trim the fat from the company's current system, both technological and human. The better I did my job, the more people lost theirs, although not as many as the staff probably feared.

I'd been working for three straight hours when the noise level and activity in the surrounding offices increased. Recognising lunchtime, I put down my pen and stretched to ease the kinks out of my spine, freezing mid-motion when I saw Ben standing at the door to my office.

My heart thundered, and for a desperate moment I wondered if I could hide, but obviously I couldn't: he'd already seen me and besides, if he'd followed me intent on making a scene I needed to contain it as quickly as possible, not run away and hope he simply gave up.

He opened the door without knocking and let himself in. The moment it closed, I demanded an explanation.

"Is there something wrong with you?" I hissed, keeping my voice low but failing, I was sure, to properly school my expression. A quick glance at the window showed nobody in the immediate vicinity, and I had no intention of Ben sticking around for long. "What did you do, follow me here? Decided you want to humiliate me at work, is that it?"

"No, I—"

"Because that's really low, Ben. I know what I said this morning was uncalled for, but this is too much. I can't believe—" I stopped talking as something soft and white hit me in the chest. Snatching it from my desk, I examined the small wax paper parcel he'd thrown.

"Ham and pickle," Ben said. "Or I've got tuna mayo if you'd prefer."

"What?"

He shook the large cooler bag I hadn't noticed he was carrying, I'd been so disarmed by the sight of him. "Sandwiches. Lunch delivery. Do you want ham and pickle or tuna mayo?"

"You're not—what—I mean...." I turned the sandwich over in my hands, feeling like an utter moron. "You're not here because of me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Ego, much? No, I'm not here because of you. I deliver for the deli down the road. This place always orders from us."

"Oh." I put the sandwich down and hung my head.

"Yeah." He stared at me for a long moment, seeming on the cusp of saying more.