Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

  And then I wake up. This was an evening specifically earmarked for negotiation prep, for gaining insight into Gerrold’s team. What am I doing?

  16

  Noelle

  * * *

  I’m in a daze of shock—at myself!

  Not only did we kiss; I instigated it. It was so surreal, us fighting over the iPad, and I was laughing, and feeling just so happy, and I practically threw myself onto his lap, and suddenly I was right up against his body, looking into those eyes, the color of tea in the sunshine, his gaze soft beneath the harsh dark slashes of his brows.

  And he was so…everything, all muscle and whiskers and infuriating Malcolm, right there under me.

  And I wanted to kiss him. It was all I wanted, but it also seemed somehow impossible and even dangerous, like kissing a god who has lightning bolt-throwing powers.

  But I felt like I was going crazy, that’s how much I wanted him. And then I said that thing about him persuading me, and he kissed me, and the kiss he gave me turned me inside out.

  I never knew a kiss could be like that.

  It’s a good thing he had to go to a meeting, because I might not have stopped. And honestly, what was I thinking? Kissing Malcolm Blackberg?

  I’m here on a mission and kissing him is not part of it.

  As soon as the door shut behind him, I told the driver to take me back to the hotel. I told the driver that I had important business, and that the session would be marked as complete. But really, I just didn’t trust myself to see him again while the kiss still buzzed through me.

  And oh my god, what would my friends say? I came here to inspire Malcolm to have empathy, not to encourage him to have bow-chicka-wow-wow sexytimes with me.

  Even so, our sizzling hot kiss is all I can think about all night, and it’s the first thing I remember in the morning.

  I worry things will be weird between us. Will there be strange sexy undercurrents that everybody detects? Will he expect me to fall into his bed now that we’ve kissed?

  Well, he definitely has the wrong idea there. “You can think again on that count, mister,” I say into the mirror.

  I plan to be focused on my mission entirely from here on in.

  My fears about sexy weirdness turn out to be entirely unfounded. Malcolm is subdued the next day at the negotiation session, even surly. Was it our kiss? Does he regret our kiss?

  Do I?

  He’s not paying even one iota of attention even as he sits down, as I start up the day’s footage. He’s barely there, even as my skin prickles with awareness of him.

  You’d think this would be okay with me, being that I was worried about sexy weirdness, but it’s not okay.

  And I’m not saying that just because of the kiss, just because I’ve given it every ounce of my attention while he clearly can’t be bothered—it’s more that the section of video I’m showing him is one of my favorites for displaying the beautiful camaraderie within our building—the trip to the Grand Bazaar to pick art to spruce up the walls. He needs to be paying attention.

  Finally I hit pause. “You’re not paying attention.”

  “I’m watching it, aren’t I?”

  “You’re not paying attention,” I say.

  “How can you think that I’m not paying attention?” he asks. “This thing is just distracting enough that when I’m watching it, I can’t think of anything else whatsoever. Kudos.”

  “You need to change your attitude,” I say. “It won’t work if you watch this in a negative frame of mind.”

  “There’s nothing in the settlement that stipulates the frame of mind with which I’m to undergo your training.”

  “If your attitude is extremely poor, the lesson is wasted,” I say.

  He gives me his dark look. “Will you give me an X?”

  Heat comes over me, remembering the hungry way he kissed me, his body hard against mine. “I want you to have a better attitude, that’s all.”

  “A person doesn’t change their attitude with the flip of a switch.”

  I frown. As long as he thinks of this as punishment, his heart won’t be open to saving my friends and neighbors.

  “Instead of punishment, try looking at it as something like a human interest thing?”

  “Attitudes don’t change just like that.”

  I sigh. He’s so surly! “I know what you need,” I say.

  “What?” he grouches.

  I fold my hands in my lap. “When I worked as a letter carrier, there was this total asshole on my route,” I say. “Stanley Manchette.”

  He rubs his hands together. “Another letter carrier anecdote.”

  “If you’re gonna make fun of my lessons, we can just go back to the video,” I say.

  “No, please,” he says with a wave.

  “Stanley had this dog, Chuckles,” I continue. “Chuckles was this old dog, kind of a grouch like Stanley. He was a bulldog with a frowny face.”

  “Ironically named,” Malcolm observes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Chuckles didn’t like to be petted or anything.”

  “But on the upside, I’m imagining he wasn’t unpredictable and crazy like those little dogs.”

  “Nice to see you’re at least learning something. And yes, Chuckles was cool. He’d never bite me.”

  “Am I Chuckles the dog in this story? Or am I the asshole Stanley?”

  I give him a warning look.

  His eyes sparkle. “Do go on.”

  “Anyway, one day I found Chuckles wandering around in this subdivision miles away. My route covered a lot of territory, and I was surprised to find him there—I couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten so far. I was thinking he must’ve gotten out of the fence, like maybe it wasn’t latched, I don’t know. I picked him up and I brought him back to Stanley’s place on my way home, just quietly let him back into Stanley’s yard. A day or two later, I found Chuckles somewhere else—a different direction. I brought him home and knocked on Stanley’s door, thinking to let him know Chuckles was getting out, but Stanley was gone, so I just left Chuckles in the yard again.”

  “Chuckles is a little escape artist.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. “But a week later I ran into Stanley at the grocer and I asked him how’s Chuckles? And he’s like, ‘The damndest thing. That dog, I tried to get rid of him. I’d bring him miles and dump him out, and he’d find his way back—back inside the fence. I never thought that dog liked me, but he must’ve been running at top speed to get back to me. So I decided I’d best keep the old varmint. I didn’t realize he wanted to be with me so bad.’”

  Malcolm blinks, stunned, it seems.

  “I know, right? How horrible was Stanley to do that? When you get a dog, you are taking on the obligation to care for that dog for its entire life. That dog was depending on him.”

  Malcolm gazes into the middle distance with a stunned look on his face, as if he’s suddenly spotted tiny elven folk there, doing the macarena.

  “What?”

  “Stanley didn’t want the dog because he thought the dog didn’t appreciate him,” Malcolm says.

  “Exactly. Granted, Chuckles didn’t seem to like anybody. I mean, he was like Stanley in that way. But you don’t just dump a dog,” I say.

  “No—true. There’s a special place in hell reserved for people like that,” he mumbles, still with that strange expression.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Stanley thought Chuckles didn’t love him, didn’t want him, so that made Stanley not want or love Chuckles. But when Stanley thought that Chuckles loved him, his entire disposition changed.”

  “Exactly. It was a shift in his thought, a shift of perception. And that’s what I want you to understand. This video isn’t a punishment. It’s an opportunity—”

  “This is incredibly…interesting,” Malcolm says in a reverent tone.

  “Are you being funny now?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Malcolm says.

  “I think you might be just patron
izing me.”

  “Did Stanley say anything else? Are there any other details?”

  “Are you trying to get out of the video?” I ask.

  “No, I like that story, I really do. Are questions not allowed?”

  “Other details. Well, around a year later he showed me this trick he’d taught Chuckles, so they were clearly bonding. I mean, after Stan’s attitude shifted, he actually had a better relationship with Chuckles. Nothing changed with Chuckles—nothing about the dog changed, but everything changed with Stanley’s attitude, and suddenly their relationship was great. And that’s how this footage could be for you.”

  “Only the story Stanley told himself changed,” Malcolm whispers. He seems really taken with that aspect. “I’m Chuckles,” he says.

  “What? No!” I say, surprised that he’d be so dense about it. “You are Stanley and the video footage is Chuckles. The point is, this video isn’t a punishment if you don’t relate to it as a punishment. You need to stop telling yourself that it’s a punishment and it won’t be one.”

  Malcolm seems so happy. “Perfect.” He sits back and crosses his legs. “Let’s go on, then, with the video,” he says.

  “This seems too good to be true,” I say.

  “No, your anecdote really did change my attitude.”

  “Okay,” I say, warily, but I still don’t push play.

  “What now?” he says. “I’m eager to get on with your video. What more could you possibly want?”

  “I feel like you’re maybe eager to get it over with.”

  “F for self-esteem,” he says playfully. “You told me an anecdote in the hopes that it would improve my attitude in some way, and when it does improve my attitude, you find it suspicious.”

  I am suspicious, but he seems so buoyant, and he’s asking to watch more of the video. I push play.

  The footage is an all-building meeting from last year. It was such a sweet meeting, all of us together trying to make things great. Is Malcolm seeing what I’m seeing? Is it too much to imagine that his attitude really is better now?

  Malcolm is still in his good mood when the session ends, and he disappears right after.

  I head down later to sit with the team for dinner, and Nisha and Coralee are the only ones who show up. They tell me that Malcolm has Walt and Lawrence in a working dinner due to some project that just came up. All Nisha knows is that the creative team from the New York office is involved.

  17

  Noelle

  * * *

  People look sleepy the next day. Lawrence has an extra tall coffee with a shot of espresso in it, and Walt’s hair is lopsided until Coralee fixes it in the limo on the way over. Malcolm is riding in the other limo, still wrapping up the finishing touches on their mysterious rush project.

  We arrive at the Kendrick building, and the session starts as usual. I don’t see what all of the preparation could’ve possibly gone toward until the two teams hit some random sticking point, and Malcolm suggests they look at some of the “backgrounder” that the Blackberg team has prepared, as that will clarify some point.

  Gerrold furrows his bushy brows. “Backgrounder?”

  Walt pulls up an iPad, pulls down the conference room screen, and dims the lights.

  And the so-called backgrounder begins to play.

  It starts out with black and white images of a milk delivery van. Gerrold laughs and claps, looking all around. “Where in the world did you get this? That’s my grandfather delivering milk!” Apparently his grandfather delivering milk is how the company was started.

  After that, there’s a voiceover narrating the evolution from one milk truck to five. There are pictures of the first garage, a small place down in Millbrae.

  “How’d you get these images?” Gerrold asks, stunned.

  “Local archives,” Malcolm says. The footage rolls on. There are more shots of the budding company.

  “Look at that, would you!” Gerrold exclaims. “Pause it there, if you would.” Walt pauses the video. “Remember that, son?” Gerrold says to Junior. “Look there—we used to take you there summers.”

  Junior doesn’t remember it. “Neat,” he says.

  “You’d do your homework at that bench on the side,” Gerrold says.

  There are interviews with past employees, and then it comes to the section on how much the company grew under the leadership of Gerrold himself, beginning in 1981 when he took over. “Oh, that old Corvette. You remember that, son?”

  Junior grunts his yes. There are shots of Gerrold getting awards, pitching in with supplies after an earthquake, employees talking about their pride in the company.

  “This backgrounder is more extensive than our fiftieth anniversary retrospective,” Junior says. He tries to make it sound like a compliment, but it’s pretty clearly a complaint. Gerrold doesn’t care. He’s enjoying it.

  Is this what they were up to all night?

  Gerrold is delighted to see old Betty in the front office, and a guy with giant 1970s sideburns sitting atop their first semi-trailer hauler. There are quotes from locals about the importance of the Germantown Group to the local economy. Gerrold sometimes stops the tape and tells us extra things, like we’re at a barbecue instead of a negotiation.

  And right then, I see it all. I see exactly what’s happening. A chill comes over me.

  Gerrold had been rejecting Malcolm, believing that Malcolm doesn’t love or respect him or his company. Thinking that Malcolm only wants the company for its parts.

  Malcolm is Chuckles, changing the story by showing his appreciation for Stanley—aka Gerrold and his firm.

  My pulse races. Malcolm is going to do this thing. He’s going to buy the company, and he’s going to throw those people out of work.

  And it’s all because of me and my dog anecdote.

  I look over at Malcolm to find him gazing at me with that evil, sexy look of his that always makes my skin feel too tight.

  Arrgh. I force my gaze back onto the screen, where there are images of the two logos side by side—the heraldic Germantown Group logo alongside the Blackberg Inc. black mountain.

  I glower.

  Junior glowers.

  The session ends. Gerrold is warm in saying goodbye. He wants a copy of the “backgrounder” and Walt promises to send it.

  I go up to Malcolm when we’re all filing out to the hall. “What have you done?” I whisper.

  Malcolm smiles innocently. “What?” His phone pings. “Sorry, I have to take this and then I’m headed across town.”

  I grit my teeth. I can’t believe I ever kissed this man!

  “Oh, and we’re going to have to do a dinner session tonight,” he informs me. “I’ll have Walt text details when we’re en route, but I’m thinking seven-ish.”

  “What?” I ask. “Since when do we do dinner sessions?”

  But he’s already gone.

  Our dinner session is to take place at the nicer of the onsite Maybourne Hotel restaurants—the one my new coworkers avoid because it costs an arm and a leg.

  But this is to be Malcolm’s treat, according to the instructions Malcolm’s NY admin texted me. The instructions are also to dress for dinner.

  I only brought my work pantsuits and one of my going-out-with-the-girls skirt outfits.

  I decide I’ll wear my work pantsuit, complete with a blue-and-white striped butterfly tie, in order to demonstrate to Malcolm that this is a work thing, and that we are not in any way socializing.

  And I apparently need to demonstrate that to myself, too, because I still can’t stop thinking about that kiss.

  I walk in. The place is elegant in a minimalist way, with white walls and ornate plaster ceilings and candles flickering like scattered diamonds.

  I’m led across the main dining room to a small side room off the main dining area. The side room contains a few candlelit tables, but only one is occupied—the farthest one, nestled against the far wall near the corner. And there sits Malcolm, relaxed and darkly elegant in a casu
al black suit jacket and jeans and a white shirt with no tie.

  He stands as I approach, eyes falling to the tie at my neck. I can’t read his expression, but I’m sure he’s disappointed that I chose not to follow his dress code and instead arrived in my dorky business suit.

  Good. If he thinks this is some sort of celebration for his evil triumph, he’s so wrong.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” he says.

  I sit, setting the iPad on the table, further signifying to us both that this is a business meeting.

  He touches his neck. “The blue with white stripes. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Is he messing with me? “Whatever you say.” I fire up the iPad. If he wants to eat dinner, it’s fine with me, but he will watch his hour while paying keen attention. And I’m not telling him any more post office anecdotes, either. Or kissing him.

  The waiter appears, fills my glass with something bubbly, and leaves.

  “Umm…”

  “You don’t like champagne?”

  “Yes, but we’re at work right now.”

  “Oh, come on, now, you won’t let me treat you to a nice dinner session? A bit of a thank-you? Your story was brilliantly helpful. And this is the best champagne you’ll ever have.” He lifts his glass. “I was Chuckles after all. How about that?”

  “I didn’t tell you that story for you to be Chuckles.”

  “Why not? I’m happy to be Chuckles. Chuckles was the most dynamic character in your story. I had something to offer Gerrold that I didn’t realize I had—a new story about the two of us. He wants the cow butchered by somebody who will honor the cow. That’s all he ever wanted.”

  “Why in the world would I toast to the fact that all of those people that work for Germantown Group are a step closer to losing their jobs?”

  Malcolm does his weary sigh, like I’m being entertaining in a tiresome way. “They were always going to lose their jobs,” he says.

  “They’ll lose them sooner now. Why should I be glad about that?”