Chapter 6

Zach

The soft knock on my office door has me looking up from the email I was sending to the VP of Merchandising, Molly Tabanera. She’s been with Cannon’s for nineteen years, runs Merchandising with an iron fist, and butts heads with me almost every single day. Sucks, too, because she knows her shit and I learn from her, but she’s also close-minded and unwilling to listen to new ideas. Randall thinks it’s hilarious and only says, “I’ve been battling with her for years too. Suck it up, my boy.”

Lila stands just inside my door. Today, we were treated to a crisp, fall morning in Atlanta, and Lila seems to have dressed appropriately. She’s wearing a fitted blue turtleneck, which makes it obvious just how big her breasts are, a wide, black belt, and a slender, black skirt that comes to her knees. But because it’s just crisp and not cold, her long legs are bare and the muscles elongated because of black heels that have to be five-inches high. Her hair and makeup are flawless. Definitely a sexy look, still confounding to me as to her change in styling habits, and yet, I spare it just a cursory glance. Moira in a terry robe, wild, red hair all mussed and falling in her face… still hotter than that any day.

“What’s up?” I ask as I turn back to my email.

Molly,

While I appreciate your points about the increase to profit margins, I still believe we need to conduct some market research to quantify—

“…schedule some time today with you to discuss the analytics profile you requested to be compiled on—”

My brain disengages immediately from my email.

Schedule some time?

“I’m sorry. What?” I ask as my gaze snaps up to Lila.

“I want to know if I can actually schedule some time on your calendar to discuss with you that analytics profile—”

“Shit,” I mutter as I push back from my desk, the wheels of my office chair sliding across the plastic mat beneath.

Schedule some fucking time!

“I’m sorry?” Lila says in confusion mixed with wariness over my tone of self-loathing.

I give her an apologetic look, hopefully masking the massive guilt swimming through me right now that she just helped to conjure by her innocent words. “It’s not you,” I assure her. “You just reminded me I have to do something.”

“Oh, okay,” she says and looks at me expectantly, because she’s always ready to help.

“I need to make a call,” I tell her dismissively, but I tack on an encouraging smile. “But go ahead… block us out some time on my schedule this week, and I’ll go over the profile with you.”

“Okay, will do,” she says with a relieved smile. “Can I get you anything for this call you have to make?”

“Nope,” I tell her as I grab my cell phone sitting on the desk. “Just close the door on your way out.”

Lila nods and backs out, closing the door behind her. I take a deep breath and try to figure out the best apology I can come up with to cut through Moira’s potential ire.

I mean… she may be mad, but maybe not. So hard to tell these days.

Yesterday started into motion a series of folly’s that has me guilt ridden and anxious about calling my wife. That fuckwad Charlie Lascola resigned as Cannon’s chief financial officer, giving us absolutely no notice. A mad scramble was on to plug the void he’d temporarily leave until we could find a replacement, and I had to cancel spaghetti night with Moira, the kids, and Randall.

Which fucking sucked. I love watching Jaime get spaghetti all over her face. And up her nose. And once inside her ear. And more than once at least half a plate down the front of her diaper.

Surprisingly, Moira was understanding and waited for me in bed when I got home. Wearily, I updated her on what was going on. She had tentatively asked, “Do you mind if we talk about us for a moment?” I didn’t miss the look of rejection on her face when I asked if we could do it over breakfast in the morning because I was so exhausted. I wanted a fresh head and the ability to devote time to my wife, who wanted to have a serious talk. She immediately put on a brave face though, tucking into my body where I fell into an exhausted sleep while holding her.

Unfortunately, this morning, I woke up to several texts that started coming in around five AM that three vice presidents in the finance department were also leaving with Charlie, and all hell started breaking loose. I don’t know that I ever felt as small as I have in our marriage when I rolled over and touched her shoulder.

Her eyes opened, filled with sleep, but also immediate love for me. My heart throbbed for her, and then also quaked when I said, “Honey… I’ve got to get into the office. Appears there’s a mass exodus leaving Cannon’s. Can you handle the kids this morning?”

More guilt as I watched annoyance, sadness, and then resolve flicker through her gaze.

“Sure,” she said softly. I pulled her into me for a brief hug. She returned it strongly, her fingers digging into my back for a moment, but then I let her go and rolled out of bed.

Her voice held a hint of condescension though when she called out, “Maybe I can call Lila later today and schedule some time for us to talk?”

Stiffening, I was completely aware of what a douche it made me that my wife would even suggest such a thing. I was also slightly annoyed because fuck… not my fault Cannon’s financial division was falling apart this morning. I was half serious, half joking when I turned to her and said, “Might just have to do that, babe.”

She didn’t laugh, so the half-joke part certainly fell flat.

And just now, Lila asking to schedule time with me brought all of that back, along with the epic fail that encompasses Zacharias Easton and his poor attempts to be a good husband.

I don’t hesitant another moment; I just suck it up and dial.

She answers on the third ring, out of breath, sounding completely harried. However, her warm greeting reminds me how lucky I am.

“Hey stud, what’s up?” she says.

I can hear Jaime in the background yelling, “Boom, boom, boom.”

“I wanted to beg your forgiveness for rushing out this morning without being able talk,” I tell her truthfully, hoping I get bonus points for that. Then I throw on the piece de resistance. “Up for a romantic dinner out tonight? I can get Randall to come over and stay with the kids. I’ll leave work early; we’ll dress up, have some wine, and talk all night. I’ll even throw some dancing in if you’re—”

“Oh, honey… I’m sorry,” Moira butts in, and then her sound is muffled as she pulls away from the phone to yell, “Cannon… don’t you dare stick that in Jaime’s nose.”

But because my wife is the multi-tasker from hell, she immediately speaks directly back into the phone, picking up where she just left off. “I can’t… I was going to text you, but I got a call yesterday from Jeff—”

“Jeff?” I ask, completely confused.

“Yes, Jeff Parton… my new boss?” she says in exasperation, and I know I must have been given this information at some point, but I’ve forgotten it.

More guilt.

“Anyway,” she continues. “Senpace just got contracted for a huge research project on ancient Persia that they want me to handle, and they are assigning me an intern to help manage it. I’m going to head over to Emory this afternoon for interviews with some doctoral students. I’ve already texted Randall, and he’s going to come over to the house this afternoon to stay with the kids.”

I blink several times, trying to process what Moira is saying.

What I’m feeling.

Which is neglected. I mentally kick myself in the ass, because I have no fucking business feeling that way. I’m smart enough and man enough to admit that Moira is the only one that gets to feel that way right now.

So I man the fuck up.

“That’s great, honey,” I truthfully tell her. “I’m glad you’re going to have some help, particularly since this is part time.”

“I know, right?” she says with glee. “I was so relieved to hear that. If I can get someone really bright and focused, this should be a piece of cake to handle along with mommy duties.”

“You’re amazing,” I murmur. “You’re like Wonder Woman.”

If you thought I’d get a gushing reply of “aww shucks” and “self-deprecation” over my compliments, you don’t know Moira. Instead, she’s telling me, “I gotta go. Jaime just took the spoon away from Cannon and is trying to stick it in his nose right now. Love you, babe.”

Then she’s gone.

And I’m still feeling guilty as hell that I didn’t give my wife the time she needs, and I’m slightly unsettled that she has apparently moved on without me giving her what she deserves.

For once, I’m at home in the evening with the kids and Moira is not. She had texted Randall and me around five PM and said that interviews were still ongoing for the internship as there were several well-qualified candidates that wanted a shot at this. Apparently, Senpace is a hot-ticket company, and there were many potentials chomping at the bit to get their foot in the door.

So I stop for pizza and bring it home, where Randall and I eat it with the kids and discuss what a fuckwad Charlie Lascola is for leaving Cannon’s high and dry. Well, I’m the one that puts him in the fuckwad category, but Randall’s a bit more circumspect. While he acknowledges that it’s totally unprofessional at that level not to give some type of significant notice, pilfering of high-ranked people from other companies happens all the time. They’ll wave big dough at the prospect, lure them over, and hope to gain insight and intelligence that’s not protected by confidentiality agreements and non-competes.

After the kids go down, Randall and I sit in the living room and watch a re-run of the Pebble Beach Classic on the Golf Channel. Randall is the one who first introduced me to the sport when we’d come to visit him on holidays before we moved here. I really took to it, which was amazing seeing as how the only sport I had ever engaged in before was trying to shoot a howler monkey out of a jungle tree, and that wasn’t really sport… that was survival.

Filled with pizza and drowsy with fatigue, my eyes pinned to the TV… seeing, but not really seeing… I don’t even notice Moira walk into the living room until she’s two feet away.

It happens more often than not, but that first moment when I see my wife after not having seen her for more than a few hours, I get a jolt of supreme awareness of her beauty. Early on in our relationship, that was because visually… she was utter perfection. Sinful red hair, jungle-green eyes, and a body that was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen or will ever see in my life. Over time, it’s morphed. She still has all that and a bag of tricks, but she’s even more ethereally beautiful because she bore me two beautiful children, loves me even though I often don’t put her first, and still loves to swallow when she sucks my cock.

“Hey baby,” I say, my voice going down an octave when I look over and see Randall has drifted off on the couch. I hold my hand out to her, and she crawls onto my lap. She squirms a little, settling in and tucking her face into the crook of my neck.

“Hey,” she says softly, punctuating it with a yawn. “The kids go down okay?”

“Yup. Stuffed them with pizza and a shot of bourbon. They were out like a light.”

She gives a fatigued chuckle and burrows in closer.

“How’d the interviews go?” I ask quietly, my hand stroking her back.

“Great,” she mumbles, her voice sounding so tired. “I hired a really smart guy. Name’s Josh. He’s from Boston.”

“Josh from Boston,” I say in acknowledgment that I’m listening. “Got it.”

She doesn’t reply, so I give her a slight squeeze. I don’t get one back.

“Moira?” I whisper.

Nothing.

I tilt my head to the side, angling my eyes sharply down and to the left so I can see her face.

She’s sleeping. Dead asleep in mid-conversation.

My beautiful, exhausted wife can’t even give me five minutes to hold a conversation, and I can do nothing but chuckle internally, because now it seems I know exactly how she’s been feeling when I come home at night with the weight of my work pressing me down so hard that I can’t do anything but succumb it.