Connectivity

by Aven Ellis

  Table of Contents

  CONNECTIVITY

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  CONNECTIVITY

  AVEN ELLIS

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  CONNECTIVITY

  Copyright©2013

  AVEN ELLIS

  Cover Design by Christy Caughie.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-303-9

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Dedicated to my family,

  who has always believed in me.

  And to my critique partners,

  Valerie and Lynn,

  for this book wouldn’t have happened without you.

  Acknowledgements

  So many people have played a part in Connectivity coming to life—I am eternally grateful to all who have been on this journey with me.

  First, thank you to Debby Gilbert, who believed in this book and understood William and Mary-Kate and the humorous journey I made them go on. You made my dream of becoming an author a reality, and I am forever grateful to you for this chance.

  Thank you to Libby Davis, who edited this manuscript like a pro and didn’t miss a comma out of place. Thank you for loving William and Mary-Kate as much as I do!

  Thank you to my husband and daughter, who understand my need to write and let me pursue my dream. I love you both so much.

  Thank you to Valerie Smith, who has put up with my early attempts at writing from the get go and always believed in my efforts and fought through some hideous first novel attempts. And to Cindy and Paige, who read the early stuff as well and always asked for me for more. I love you ladies!

  To my critique group: I never would be here without your criticism, your encouragement, and your praise. Cheers to all of us!

  To The Lovelies (My Beta Readers) and the JetBabes (you know who you are): You all asked to read my work, you were passionate about it, and at times, you believed in my talent more than I did. I would not be writing this page without ALL OF YOU. I am so blessed to have found you, and you will always be my first readers.

  Lastly, to Alexandra, who keeps me organized and tracks data so I can focus on what I do best—writing. You keep me sane, you support me, you believe in me. You are the best assistant a writer could ask for and I love you so very much.

  Chapter 1

  My timing for the first big jump in my television career is a freaking fabulous fail of epic proportions.

  Of course, having started out life being named after an Olsen twin, can I really expect anything less?

  I sigh heavily as I scan the news on my iPhone on the train. The city of Chicago rolls by in a blur on this dreary, snowy January day. I find the article I am looking for and read during my commute:

  WILLIAM CUMBERLAND PURCHASES COLLECTIVE MEDIA ENTERPRISES First foray into US market for British Media Mogul

  I bite my lip. The announcement came down at Collective Media yesterday, where I have worked as an assistant to the General Manager of TATS-Total Access Total Sports—for almost a year now. Which is ironic because I hate sports. I am not the best executive assistant in the world, but I kept my eye on the prize—a transfer, after one year, to the Beautiful Homes Network, a sister station. BHN is my dream place of employment. I would do anything to work in creative program development there! Which includes taking any job at the company, e.g., TATS, to make that dream happen.

  But now is it all for nothing? Will this sale completely change the stations, the direction, and the staff?

  I glance at the photo of Mr. Cumberland. He’s young, 32, and made his fortune developing Connectivity, a social media site that connects everything in one place: your career networking and portfolio, a place for family and friend updating, photo sharing, video calling, quick connect messages with your status. And you have the choice to “connect” these aspects with each other or keep them separate.

  Lately he’s been buying up various media outlets to expand his empire, with Collective Media Enterprises being his most recent acquisition.

  And he’s the British mogul who could change the course of my future.

  I take a deep breath. Stay calm, MK, I tell myself. Let the dust settle from this move and see where opportunities may arise. You have worked too long and sacrificed a lot to get this chance.

  The L stops where I need to get off, so I zip up my parka and head to my office on Michigan Avenue. God, it is brutally cold today. The winds roar off the lake, and despite the fact that I have a scarf wound almost completely around my face, my chin is already frozen.

  I head inside the tall skyscraper, peeling off layers as I go. I reach my cubicle and notice a big pile of crap from my boss in my chair.

  “MK!” Paul Metzinger bellows from his office. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Paul, I’m here,” I say, lifting the haphazard pile of papers to my desk. I put my tote bag on the floor and quickly pull off my boots and change into my heels.

  “I need 20 bound copies of those ASAP,” he yells back from his office. “We have a meeting with the Bears about training camp coverage this summer and I need those.”

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Please not bound. Please!

  “Um,” I say, getting up and peeking my head into his doorway, “are you sure you don’t want an electronic presentation?”

  I cross my fingers behind my back and hope for the
best. Please don’t say no. Please, oh please, oh please.

  “No, I need them bound.” Paul shifts his attention back to the newspaper spread out on his desk, which I can’t help but notice has a huge picture of William Cumberland on it.

  “That’s all, MK,” Paul says, looking up at me.

  “Right,” I say, blinking. I turn to my desk, scoop up the papers, then head down the hall.

  As I step into the workroom, I face my nemesis.

  The binding machine.

  I give it the evil eye as I begin running the original through the copy machine. This machine is an old piece of crap that sticks, jams, and tears. It takes forever to make a set of bound copies.

  And in all my television classes at Northwestern University, this was somehow never covered in the curriculum.

  With warm copies in my hand, I take a deep breath and unscrew the buttons. I meticulously line up the copies and begin punching them.

  But as I go to punch one of the last sets, the lever jams. I jerk it back and forth and hear the paper tearing. Shit! Now the lever won’t budge and I’m pulling as hard as I can.

  I reach across so both hands are on the lever and suddenly it jerks open and the teeth of the machine are grabbing my black cashmere cardigan, snatching it in a death grip.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I blurt out, my arm stuck. “Are you seriously fucking kidding me?”

  “So, please do tell,” a deep British voice says from behind. “Does this particular piece of equipment always elicit an expletive as a response?”

  I freeze. My heart drops into my stomach. Slowly I turn my head and see none other than William Cumberland staring right at me.

  Holy crap! What he is doing here? There was no memo about Cumberland coming, nothing in the papers.

  And now he’s staring at me. With my arm stuck in a binder machine.

  My face begins flaming and I know the color matches my copper red hair.

  “Um,” I say, completely stunned. “It’s just that . . . it is really old . . .” I am fumbling, just fumbling, as I look at him.

  He walks closer. His light blue eyes dart instantly to my arm. “Quite a quandary you are in this morning,” he says, shifting his eyes back to my face.

  I pause for a moment. He really is unique looking with strong cheekbones and a firm jaw. Tall and thin, he has dark, wavy hair that looks like he has to fight to keep under control.

  But his eyes are his most interesting feature. They are very intense. Observant. And right now they are zeroed in on me.

  Frustration fills me. “I don’t even see why I need to be making bound copies,” I blurt out as I try to free my sweater from the pinchers of death. “We should be digital. We should be sending presentations electronically. It is greener anyway.”

  Cumberland approaches and slowly removes his black leather gloves. Now he is next to me and I notice his is wearing a glorious gray cashmere trench coat. And that his cologne smells like pine needles.

  He wordlessly reaches over and with a flick of his fingers removes my now torn sweater. “That is all very fascinating information that I shall keep in mind,” he quips, his blue eyes appraising me. “And what is your name?”

  “MK Grant,” I say. “I am the assistant to Paul Metzinger at TATS. And it is an honor to meet you, sir. I have read so much about you—”

  “MK,” he interrupts, his stare unwavering. I feel sweat forming at the base of my neck. “What does that stand for, Ms. Grant?”

  I consider quitting on the spot so I don’t have to answer.

  “Mary-Kate,” I say simply, taking the torn copies out of the machine as a distraction.

  “Not Mary-Katherine?”

  Oh God, don’t make me explain my name! Why does he care? Why?

  “Um, no.” I glance up and I know instantly he is not going to let this go. “I am named after Mary-Kate Olsen. One of the Olsen twins.”

  He says nothing as he loosens the black scarf around his neck. Now I panic and feel like I need to fill the dead air with a more detailed explanation.

  “You know, the Olsen twins played Michelle on Full House in the ‘90s,” and as soon as I say it, I want to reel the words right back into my mouth. Like he cares? Or even knows what the fuck I am talking about?

  But I keep going, like a car that has driven through the ‘Bridge Out’ caution sign and is barreling toward a cliff. “My mom loved that sitcom, but really it wasn’t that funny, so it really shouldn’t be called that, but I digress. She liked the name Mary-Kate. So that is who I am named after. Mary-Kate, who played Michelle. Oh, but she shared the role with her twin Ashley. They both played Michelle.”

  Cumberland is staring at me like I am a total loon. Oh God. Any chance I had at moving out of an assistant role has just been blown to hell. He is probably wondering how I got hired for any position in the first place.

  “Interesting, Ms. Grant,” he finally says in that deep voice.

  Suddenly I hear heels against the tiles and his attention is diverted, thank God.

  “Mr. Cumberland, there you are,” a British voice calls out. I see a very pretty blonde headed over to us. “I have the conference room secured for you. As you can imagine, the office is buzzing now that your presence is known.”

  “Ms. Dalton, this is Ms. Mary-Kate Grant, an assistant at TATS. Ms. Grant, please meet my assistant, Ms. Arabella Dalton.”

  “Fabulous, you’re an assistant,” Araballa says quickly. “We are going to need some proper tea in the conference room for Mr. Cumberland. He likes it with lemon.”

  “Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Grant,” Cumberland says, nodding at me. “Until then.”

  Then Arabella leads Cumberland to the conference room.

  Shit! Cumberland is British and is not going to find the generic black tea bags in the conference room a proper tea. I hurry back toward Paul’s office to get approval to at least go to Starbucks and get something halfway decent to give to Cumberland.

  I go into Paul’s office and some of the directors are huddled around his desk, discussing Cumberland’s surprise arrival. The tension in the room is thick, and I’d rather go anywhere but in there, but I have to resolve this tea issue.

  “Paul, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Cumberland has requested a proper tea, and we have none, so I was thinking—”

  “MK! Tea is tea!” Paul yells. “That is the least of my problems this morning. Now go fetch him a cup from the break room before he’s pissed we haven’t given him anything to drink.”

  Riiiiight. Tea is tea. I try to swallow down the nerves attacking my stomach as I go to the break room. I rummage through the cabinets, praying that by divine intervention a box of Earl Grey had dropped down from the heavens, but no such luck. I cringe and grab the black and white box of “Tea Bags.” I check if we have any kind of nice ceramic cup to put it in but everything has a Chicago sports logo on it and is chipped.

  Shit. I am going to serve William Cumberland tea bag tea. In a Styrofoam cup. With a squeeze packet of lemon juice. Awesome times.

  I put the tea bag into the cup, add hot water, grab the lemon juice packet, and head to the conference room. His British entourage is surrounding him and they stop talking when I enter.

  “Your tea, Mr. Cumberland,” I say with the most calm, confident voice I can fake.

  Cumberland stares down at the cup for a moment, and then back at me. Then he pushes the leather chair back from the table a bit and puts his fingers together in a steeple position up against his lips.

  Oh good God. I wish he would just throw the tea across the room in disgust and fire me already.

  Then again, Cumberland is probably just contemplating some super articulate way of kicking my ass to the curb right now.

  “Right,” he says simply, his eyes focused
on me. “That is all, Ms. Grant. Thank you.”

  I can’t get out of that room fast enough. I go back to my cubicle, sick to my stomach, just certain that my year of hard work is for absolutely nothing. I have cussed, torn my sweater, babbled about Full freaking House, and served him tea bag tea with a lemon juice packet.

  All within the span of fifteen minutes.

  Yes, that has impressive written all over it, doesn’t it?

  So the rest of the day crawls by, with Paul running in and out to meetings and totally stressed. The office gossips are whispering that Cumberland is going to roll heads and possibly blow up the networks for his own version of programming.

  I just hide in my cube, praying I don’t cross paths with William Cumberland or any member of the British entourage for the rest of the day. It is just too humiliating to deal with.

  Finally it is 6 p.m. I breathe a sigh of relief and shut down my computer. I am just about to change into my boots when I feel a presence behind me. I turn around in my chair and find Cumberland standing at the edge of my cubicle.

  Fuck.

  I watch as his blue eyes dart over my cube, and I can tell Cumberland is assessing everything he can see. Which is really annoying. I mean, if he is going to fire me, can’t he just do it already?

  Suddenly his laser eyes shift to me.

  “Assorted items,” he says briskly. “First, that binder machine is going into the bin. It is a bloody relic and we don’t need it. Not after I issue iPads that will be used as presentation tools. Second, I have arranged for a proper tea service and tea to be shipped over from London tomorrow morning. Will you please see to it when it arrives? I like my tea served at 8:30 a.m.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cumberland,” I say. Okay, he’s not going to fire me. I have a chance here to make a second impression.

  He slips into his expensive trench coat and turns to leave. But then he stops and comes back to my cubicle.