Free The Plan by Qwen Salsbury

seeing Alaric Canon at a loss for words. Taken aback. Discombobulated.
    Well, no. Not quite that far.
    But he is surprised and surprised enough to not completely mask it. There is an adorable twinkle in his eye. Or the reflection of the emergency exit lights. Whichever.
    He takes it from my hand slowly, almost like he can’t believe it’s not booby-trapped. He looks at it for a moment then lifts it up in a strange salute to me before he starts reading.
    That’s all right. Just go ahead and be above verbal expressions of gratitude. I will get you to say the words someday, you ungrateful mother…
    The pilot has long since turned off the seat-belt sign, but I’m not certain that I’m free to move about the cabin. Upward of a gallon of coffee has gone down Canon’s gullet without a single bathroom break. Inhuman.
    I, however, do not have a retrofitted industrial bladder.
    I touch his armrest in hope to get his attention. His eyes flash to it, then me. I gesture toward the restroom. I tell myself that this is out of courtesy, but I feel pretty sure he thinks he’s granting permission. I’m not going to trifle, to split hairs. I just need to survive this trip.
    Close this deal. Last a week, or a month if I can.
    I can play. I can deal.
    Perfect. Quiet. Docile. Opinionless. Sterile.
    Act as if the COYA file created me in a lab.
    Whatever it takes. Whatever he needs.
    30 days. At most.
    An Emma-ectomy.
    That is the new program.
    I have a new plan.
    9:45 p.m.
* Location : Hyatt—Top floor. Room 928. Across from Canon’s.
* Room : Could not be more beige.
* Laptop : Charging.
* Suitcase : Unpacked.
* Bath : Drawn. And cold.
    W HY I S M Y B ATH C OLD ? Because I, purchaser of sadist shoes, needed to soak after wearing cheese graters on my feet yesterday and then traveling and walking and sitting through meetings and touring facilities and impersonating a pack mule today. ’Twas not meant to be.
    Instead I have spent the last two hours typing up messages as Canon rattled them off in rapid succession.
    He asked for bar charts. I generated them while he shaved.
    He changed his mind to line graphs. I converted them while he took a phone call out in the hall.
    He complained that he had left his blue tie at home. I produced the spare one I’d brought from the office.
    Ten minutes ago, he’d loosened his tie, wrung his hands, and made an aside that he couldn’t relax. I prepared a cup of chamomile tea and texted Clara that I owed her big time for all the ridiculous stuff she packed. He began drinking it and asked why I was still in his room.
    You’re welcome.
    “When would you like the day to start tomorrow?”
    “Their offices open at eight. We will get there at seven.”
    No fashionably late for that guy. I tried to cover my surprise but failed.
    He explained, “It’s best to see who arrives when, who’s dedicated. Actions over words.” His fingers twisted and pulled free the already loosened knot in his tie. His upturned chin and neck stretched above the shirt collar. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing smoothly. I swallowed too.
    I nodded and gathered my things. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Canon,” I said, turning to face him from his doorway.
    He tilted his head almost like a dog that is pretty sure you have something behind your back. “Good night, Ms. Baker.”
    Now I’m draining the tub while I hang the rest of my clothes. The cocktail dresses go in the bathroom in the hope that steam will help with the wrinkles. Suits go to the closest.
    While the tub refills, I place our breakfast orders. The hotel supplied coffee is a total loss, as they really don’t have a large selection. I order the cream and sweetener anyway. Because my middle name is Prepared, I brought a bag of his coffee. Muffins and eggs and some type of pig. I have no way of knowing if he is a protein or carb morning person, so I’m covering all the bases. Orange juice for him. Grape, apple, and cranberry for me in case he hates OJ.
    They send up the