Connectivity (3 page)

Chapter 4

“I really want a gold champagne fabric,” Michelle declares, going through mounds of swatches on the kitchen table. “Not
beige
champagne. But
gold
champagne. That is very important. MK, do you
understand
the difference?”

Oh my God. I am trapped in hell. Which today is apparently located at my mother’s Pottery Barn kitchen table in suburban Milwaukee.

“Yes, Michelle, I get it,” I say, absently flipping through a fabric book.

“It must look like a glass of champagne,” Michelle says with the seriousness of a CIA agent planning a covert mission. “Because that is my favorite drink, and all the bridesmaids are going to be dressed in champagne fabric.”

“Right,” I say.

“And it is so perfect for a New Year’s Eve wedding!” my mother gushes, happily flipping through yet another pile of potential fabrics.

I get up to refill my coffee as they both squeal in delight. Yes, leave it to Michelle to hijack a holiday for her wedding. It is just so . . . Michelle.

As I put the pod into the coffee machine, I watch my mom and Michelle eagerly touch each fabric,
oooohing
and
aahhhing
and seriously weighing the merits of each.

I wrinkle my brow. How am I from this family? My brain just doesn’t operate like this. I mean, there’s no talk of Jason, her fiancé, or the romance, but all about the
production
of this wedding. Like this is the Royal Wedding or something.

I pull out the bottle of amaretto creamer from the fridge and pour it into my mug. As I stir it, I gaze out the big window in the kitchen and watch the snow come down in big, fat puffy flakes on this Saturday morning.

I bet Cumberland is at the office
, I muse, taking a sip of my coffee. He’s a total workaholic, at least from the recon mission I have self-conducted since I learned I was going to be reporting to him yesterday.

What fascinates me most is the story behind Connectivity. Cumberland studied economics at Oxford and went straight to work in the financial corporate world upon graduation. He was brilliant at investing, but completely bored in his job. So he decided he wanted to develop his own business. Cumberland, also very media savvy, noticed how people used different social media applications and didn't understand the inefficiency of storing your pictures one place, giving brief character updates in another, using another site to keep your friends updated on your life, going somewhere else for video calling and yet another for career connections and online portfolios of work.

Never one for inefficiency, and seeing a gap in the vast social media world, Cumberland created Connectivity—the one place you could manage everything in your social media life. Connectivity "Connects" were coded how the user saw fit—business, personal, etc., and you could "Connect" things and people together—or not. 

Now this is where it gets interesting. Loads has been written about Cumberland's brilliance, his innovation, his ability to surround himself with people who could help his vision come to life yet—and this is very intriguing to me—I have read
nothing
about Cumberland that is personal. People they interviewed in the articles referred to him as a "business associate" or “acquaintance” but not “friend”. In fact, the man who created one of the front-runners in the world of social media is not social at all. In fact, the exact opposite. Cumberland was business only, and kept personal matters—even small ones—to himself.

Then, of course, there are rumors that Cumberland is gay.

I take another sip of coffee. I don’t think that is it at all. I don’t even think he is asexual, which was the other big rumor I read last night. I think he is just
business only
and sex doesn’t even land on his radar screen.

Which, oddly enough, I can completely relate to.

“MK!” Michelle bellows, interrupting my thoughts. “You are not paying attention, and you are not helping like you promised!”

My mother lets out an exasperated sigh. “MK, really, if you could just think about your sister this morning and focus it would be nice.”

I come back to the table. Michelle is pouting, and I am fuming. Have either one of them, since I got here this morning, taken five seconds to ask how my job is going? To ask what the Cumberland take over has done to my company? If I am worried about losing my job?

Of course not. Because for my mom and Michelle, my worries are stupid. In fact, in their minds, I should be flipping out because I haven’t had a date in two years. This is what is considered to be a DEFCON 1 crisis. Not a silly little corporate takeover where I work.

“I’m sorry,” I say, picking up a pile of swatches. “Gold champagne. I’m on it.”

But I am not. Not at all.

I act like I care but my head is already thinking of Monday, my first day as Cumberland’s assistant. I have decided to approach this as my reboot, if you will. I am actually going to be with people at the Beautiful Homes Network. I will work hard, be visible, and impress my new colleagues.

And this time, I will not be derailed.

I get to work insanely early on Monday morning. I lug my box of belongings up to the 15
th
floor and open the doors to the Beautiful Homes Network. A shiver of excitement rips down my spine as I step through the gorgeous lobby.
Wow. Wow! I am here. I am actually going to be walking through these doors every day, at my dream place of employment!

I happily find the empty cubicle outside of Cumberland’s new office. I set the box down and then slide out of my winter wear. Then I go about decorating my cubicle. After all, I need to show everyone here my unique style and taste, and what do they see first when they come over to Cumberland’s office? My cube.

I put up my silver desk lamp, add a small tartan pillow to my chair, artfully arrange silver framed pictures of me with Emily and Reese; display my old-fashioned Roman numeral desk clock, and put up my white orchid plant.

There. Now everyone can see I have a decorator’s eye.

Next I walk to the restroom to do an appearance check. I am carrying over the theme of looking fashionable but of my own making. Today, I put on a vintage tweed black and white cropped jacket; multi-layered stone necklace, black trousers, and high-heeled black boots.

Satisfied, I go back to my cubicle and snap a few pictures with my iPhone. I can use this for a new blog article about creating a stylish workplace.

I boot up my computer and log in. Since it is just eight o’clock, I decide to visit my blog for a second so I can download these pictures. The last post comes up, the scones, and I take a moment to transfer the pictures over. Then I go to the break room to begin tea prep. I fill the electric teakettle and turn it on, so the water will be hot and ready for the teapot the second Cumberland arrives.

After I get the kettle going, I come back to my desk.

And find Cumberland standing there, staring at my computer screen.

Oh my God
. I panic as I realize he is looking at my blog, which I must have left up when I went to do the tea.

“Mr. Cumberland,” I say in a rush, “I—”

“Was looking at the Internet on company time?” Cumberland supplies helpfully, lifting an eyebrow at me.

Fuck! I fly into my chair and immediately click out of the screen. Damn it.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!

“I am so sorry,” I say sincerely, looking up at him. “I just pulled it up for a second while I went to start the water for your tea. It will not happen again, I assure you of that.”

Cumberland’s laser eyes stay on me. “I see,” he says in that deep British voice as he pulls off this leather gloves.

Which is not exactly the “It’s okay” or “No big deal” response I was hoping he would give.

Then he turns and goes into his office without saying another word.

While he is in his office, I fight the urge to throw up on my desk. I take the teapot and go fill it, and I come back and arrange the tea service items on the tray. God, I feel so sick. I do not want to face him. But since I have no choice, I pick up the tray and walk into his office. Luckily I manage not to face plant this time.

Cumberland is already on the phone and typing on his computer as I arrange his tea on his desk. He turns around at the sound. Cumberland nods at me without even breaking his conversation.

I retreat to my cubicle and find an IM waiting for me.

From William Cumberland.

Please read the attached corporate policy on Internet use. Let me know if you have any questions upon review. WC.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck! My face is on fire with humiliation as I read the message. I read the attachment, which specifically states the Internet is for company use only. I swallow every ounce of pride I have, because Cumberland is right on this one, even if the entire company surfs the net during the day. It is still a rule.

I don’t have any questions, Mr. Cumberland, and I will comply fully. Please accept my sincerest apologies, MKG.

The rest of the day I lay as low as possible. Luckily Cumberland has meeting after meeting with all the network people in Chicago, so he’s busy. Arabella has sent me a slew of bossy emails from London dictating what kind of supplies I need to order for Cumberland, how he likes things organized, blah, blah, blah.

I am working through the massive supply order list when my cell phone beeps with a notification. I have it parked next to my keyboard, so I pick it up.

And to my surprise, I see it is a response to my blog.

Oh my God! A real reply to my blog! My first real response!

I excitedly open the message on my phone.

William Cumberland is now following your blog.

I gasp out loud. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!!!!!!! My heart begins to pound. My stomach completely bottoms out.

Beep!

William Cumberland has commented on one of your posts.

Panic engulfs me. I access my blog from my iPhone. Oh mother of God, he is reading my posts.
In which I talk about him!

Oh shit. He has written a comment on the scone one, in which I oh-so-brilliantly commented that he was too thin and needed to eat more scones.

I read his comment in horror.

I prefer the word “lithe” instead of “too thin” myself. WC

Beep!
My phone goes off again.

William Cumberland has commented on one of your posts.

I put my forehead into my hands and groan. Apparently Cumberland is going to read every single thing I have ever written.

Beep!

And comment on it as well.

Beep!

I shut off my phone. This is nothing short of a disaster. And I have no clue how I am going to face him after this.

Chapter 5

I sit at my desk for a good hour fighting the urge to throw up before I finally decide to take the bull by the horns and step into his doorway. Cumberland is on his cell phone, walking around his office. He is in front of the large window, which has a fantastic view of the Magnificent Mile, sprawled out below in all its glory.

Cumberland sees me and holds out his hand, signaling for me to wait. I watch him as he stops in front of the window. The snow is cascading down from the gray sky, and I can’t help but observe how his crisp white shirt stands out against the backdrop.

I notice a lock of his dark wavy hair has fallen out of place and is resting against his forehead, and as I combine the image with the brilliant and in control way he is speaking right now, there is something very magnetic about him. You are drawn in, and you just can’t help but stare at him.

Cumberland finishes the call, and as soon as he does, I clear my throat.

“Mr. Cumberland, I want to thank you for following my blog,” I say simply. Then I see it. A slight expression of surprise flickers across his face.
Ah-ha!
Cumberland didn’t expect this and that is good! My confidence grows and I smile at him. “And you are absolutely correct that lithe is a better way to describe you.”

Cumberland folds his arms across his sleek white shirt. That is all he wears—modern-cut designer shirts. I am pretty sure they are Prada, too. And I have to admit, they suit him very well.

“You have a talent for writing, Ms. Grant,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

I feel my face burn hot.
No, don’t blush!
I will myself.
Don’t!

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Why am I the only follower?” he asks, his laser blue eyes riveted to mine.

I swallow hard. And then I give him the honest truth. “I don’t want pity follows.”

Cumberland’s brow creases. “Pity follows?”

I nod. “Yes. Like my family and friends ‘following’ me because I ask them to, not because they really want to. Does that make sense?”

“Very similar to people telling me ‘yes’, no matter what the question is, because my name is William Cumberland,” he says slowly.

I suddenly realize that we might be more alike than I ever could have imagined. We are both career-oriented, and we are both prideful. It was an interesting thought. 

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?