Under My Boss's Authority (Under Him)

Though I’d never been known for doing things the usual way. Since I was a child and an evaluator told me to use a bridge with blocks, and I put down two blocks with the box they came in across them, I’d found different ways of getting the same result. A pattern of alternate processing I’d come to think of as ‘with the box thinking.’

“Wow.

Her surprise was predictable but appreciated. Not as grandiose as the bedroom, nor elaborate as the study, the office still had its charms. By far the most ‘modern’ space in the faux-historical house, it was where I’d run the publishing house.

An easier endeavor than one might think, the main operations of Boucher Books being decentralized from its founding. Everyone worked in their own space, according to the company line. We used the best managing and collaborating software available at the time. All printing and shipping was done by a company in Vancouver. A model that lowered overhead, a fancy but ultimately useless, office space in no way needed. The office politics were also kept to a minimum, which was a nice bonus.

The lock made a soft pop, the lid lifting slightly. “Guaranteed 85 percent theft proof. Even if they think to go after the hinges. There are four pairs. Two outside, two inside.

“Explosives?” Vega suggested.

“Most of the other 15 percent, but that would ultimately defeat the purpose.”

By way of explanation, I withdrew the manuscript. It consisted largely of fire-prone paper, the metal and plastic clip in the upper left corner the primary exemption.

“Is that - ”

“It is.

“I thought ‘project’ was a euphemism. Like that’s what we said when we would actually just be fucking for a fortnight,” she admitted sheepishly.

“A common misconception. Particularly on the part of the hopefuls. There is sex if desired. Stands to reason given the circumstances, though, there is also always a project that requires a second pair of eyes. I thought you were best suited to this one.”

“Thank you, sir,” The humility showed on her face. Not quite a blush but close.

“Pull up a chair.

“Okay,” she whispered.

She accepted the manuscript like a holy relic, laid across both hands. She placed it gingerly on the desk before turning the pages. As though to hold it too long might sully it. A further proof, if any were needed, that I had made the right choice.

Chapter Nine - Vega

Cold sheets greeted me the next morning. The notion, idealistic sure, was to get in a bit of a cuddle, or maybe more, before we went down for breakfast. An ambition made difficult by the lack of Hugo. Unsticking my eyes, I checked that my sense of touch wasn’t deceiving me, but there was only terrible confirmation to be found.

Panic struck slow, making itself known in small stages. First my heart then my breath changing tempo. From reverie to crescendo. I never thought it was too good to be true. Too caught up in the moment. The fact it had been a dream eluding me until that moment of clarity.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he remarked.

It was strange what panic could do. I could have sworn I’d heard Hugo come in. Even though it wasn’t possible. Still, being part of a dream made some aspects make a lot more sense.

“I gave Matilda the day off. She didn’t want to go of course but I insisted. She works so hard and deserves some time to herself. Did you know she is one of only three house staff I have left? Came as a surprise if I’m honest.”

It seemed real. The smell of the food on the tray. The slight dip of the bed as Hugo got on.

“You were gone.

“I didn’t want to wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully. Besides, I had to go and make breakfast.”

“Wake me. I’ll go and make the breakfast. Just never leave me like that again.”

I expected to sound angry, or at least upset. But instead, my words were coming out with a cold, steady efficacy that frightened even me.

He looked startled, but his expression quickly softened as my face crumbled. “I’m so sorry.

He took me in a hug I returned ten-fold. My sobs were muffled by the front of his shirt as he held me. I’d lived alone since I got to America. I should have adjusted, but reality was different than expectations. No matter how strongly held.

The first year, I would look for my parents every morning. Then call Maya, gladly accepting the ding on the long-distance fees, just wanting to hear a familiar voice. Maya at least feigned concern, despite the radical difference in time-zone between San Jose and Barcelona.

It had gotten better. Half way into the second year, it came to be just a short, sharp shock until I realized where I was. Moving in with Hugo and getting used to it, even in so short a time had been enough to bring it back.