Connectivity Read Free Page A

to a kneeling position and don’t even look at him. My face is absolutely on fire with mortification, and I glance down and see my shirt has tea splattered all over it. And, oh, mother of God, I feel scone stuck on my chin!
    “I’m so sorry!” I gasp, rubbing my chin. I quickly pick up broken pieces of china and put them onto the tray. “I am very, very, sorry, Mr. Cumberland. I caught the chair leg and lost my balance and—”
    Suddenly I am aware that Cumberland is on the floor with me.
    He is crouched down across from me, calmly picking up china pieces.
    Oh my God! Please just shoot me. Someone just come in here and shoot me now! The British mogul is on the floor picking up scone bits!
    “Perhaps,” Cumberland says slowly in that deep British voice, “I should get you a tea trolley, Ms. Grant.”
    I snap my head up. Okay, now he’s pissing me off. And since odds are he is going to fire me anyway, I tell him exactly what I think.
    “With all due respect, Mr. Cumberland, I am not going to serve as a flight attendant pushing a drink cart. Or air hostess or whatever is the proper British term for that.”
    Good Lord, am I talking to the most powerful man in communications like this ?
    But I am so worked up I can’t stop.
    “Furthermore,” I say, continuing, “I will be happy to bring you a cup of tea, but I am the assistant to Mr. Metzinger. So while I am more than glad to assist you while you are here, I will not let you treat me as a waitress.”
    Cumberland trains that intense, observant gaze right on me. “Who is treating you like one?” he asks. “And I do believe you were the one who brought scones in an effort to impress me, Ms. Grant.”
    Oooooooh! I’m furious. Because I know he is right.
    “I was not trying to impress you!” I lie. “I was trying to be nice!”
    Cumberland stands up. He puts his fingertips together in front of his lips and stares down at me on the floor.
    “Oh, Ms. Grant. Please do not lie. It does not become you.”
    Arrrgh! Now I’m in an embarrassed rage. I angrily pick up the mess on the floor and decide I am not going to speak to him unless he asks me a question. 
    Which, of course, he does in a nanosecond.
    “So what kind of scones were they, Ms. Grant?”
    “Lemon thyme,” I say through gritted teeth.
    “What a pity. They would have been delightful.”
    I pick up the tray with the mess and stand up. Cumberland is still assessing me with his damn laser eyes and I really want to toss this tray straight at him.
    “If this is all,” I say through gritted teeth, “I would like to dispose of this and call the janitorial staff to come up and vacuum please.”
    “Oh my God! You destroyed his tea service?”
    I look over my shoulder and see Arabella in the doorway. She eyes me with a combination of repugnance and horror.
    “Do you have any idea how expensive this is?” she cries. “What a bloody mess!”
    Oh fuck, please, please, let the floor swallow me up .
    I am about to apologize when Cumberland interjects, “It is not a travesty, Ms. Dalton. Please go out and purchase a new set for me today,” Cumberland says.
    Arabella, looking like a total kiss ass, nods gravely at the situation. “Oh, absolutely, Mr. Cumberland. Please do trust that I will take every precaution to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”
    Then she shoots me a look of disgust and leaves the office.
    I swallow hard. Just put another check in the awesome column for me as this morning is going oh so fabulously.
    I swing back to Cumberland. “May I leave now?”
    “Yes, of course,” he says, sinking down into his chair.
    I am just about out the door when he speaks again.
    “Ms. Grant?”
    I turn around and he is staring at me, his fingers once again in that steeple position he seems to favor.
    “I hope you put a rush delivery on that Full House DVD,” he says as he puts his fingers to his lips. “I am rather anxious to see your namesake.”
    I stare at him. Holy crap, are his eyes actually