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“To ‘orient them to the file,’ you might say?”
“Yes, exactly. To teach them what they need to know as they start something.”
“And here I thought you were already oriented to the file.” He looked at her evenly. This Mr. Benz guy had a great poker face most of the time. Occasionally, though, he would do this thing where he flared his nostrils and pursed his lips—but only for a second, and then the poker face would be back.
It was a surprisingly handsome face, regardless of which mode it was in. He had gold-flecked green eyes, close-cropped dirty-blond hair, and stupidly full lips. His jaw looked like it had been chiseled out of granite—it looked like it could chiselthroughgranite, actually, and also all kinds of bullshit. It was odd: if you really looked at Mr. Benz’s face, he was probably in his thirties, but his general demeanor brought to mind someone older. It was partly his suit, which was clearly well-made but was a three-piece style—not something you saw much of these days. There was even a watch chain attached to one of the vest’s buttons that disappeared into a small pocket. His formal way of speaking, which she suspected went beyond the fact that they had different nativetongues, also contributed to his old-soul aura. He looked like a millennial dressed up as a boomer. A fancy boomer. With a great poker face.
A great poker face that occasionally slipped, and she knew what those slips signified. He was pissy about her being here. She hadn’t expected that. To be fair, she hadn’t expected anything. She knew this file—she had taken the lead on the pitch and had been checking in on it since CZT won the contract. But Brad, given his background as a mechanical engineer and his fluency in German, had been the project lead—and the point person for the Eldovians.
So Cara was going into this trip without a bead on any of the players, which was suboptimal but couldn’t be helped.
But she knew clients. There were only so many types of clients. The source of Mr. Benz’s ire was almost certainly one of two things. First, it could be plain-old sexism. He could be annoyed that he’d been working with Brad but now had to deal with agirl.
The second option was that it wasn’t personal, that he was pissedanyonewas here. This happened sometimes when CZT had been tasked with coming in and cleaning house. Cara was here to begin an overhaul of the operations of Morneau, a historic luxury watch company in the vein of Rolex but smaller and, depending on who among the old-money set you asked, more exclusive. The royal family owned two-fifths of the privately held company, and Morneau’s history and that of the throne were intertwined, so she could appreciate that hers was a delicate task.
As she understood it, Mr. Benzwasthe man behind the throne, even if he didn’t like to phrase it like that. She had seen the royal family’s org chart. Mr. Benz was his own, high-level box on that chart, but awhole lotof people had dotted-line reportingrelationships to him. He had his hand in every department from the kitchen to public relations. And perhaps more importantly, he had, according to Brad, the king’s ear and his unwavering trust. Cara knew the king wanted her here. He, in his role as chair of Morneau’s board, had personally been involved in the vetting of firms vying for the job. What she didn’t know was if anyone else wanted her here. Just because a boss wanted something didn’t mean the rest of the team did, even if—maybe especially if—that boss was a hereditary monarch.
Was she going to be facing a lot of resistance? Were people going to help her? Undercut her? These were the kind of behind-the-scenes questions she couldn’t answer until she was on-site, and she’d been hoping Mr. Benz might have some insight on the politics of the situation. And whatever happened, when headsdidhave to roll, this guy’s wasn’t going to be on the chopping block.
“I am oriented to the file on paper,” she said carefully, returning to Mr. Benz’s remark. “But as I’m sure you can appreciate, that’s quite different from having boots on the ground in a place.”
“Boots on the ground,” he echoed quizzically.
“Sorry, that’s another idiom. It means—”
“It’s a military metaphor.”
“Yes. I was hoping you might be able to give me an insider’s view of the company and the context in which I’ll be operating.”
“And in this metaphor, you are an invading army?” He looked off into space and smirked as if at something amusing only he could see.
“Not at all. I’m merely—”
“What does that make me?” he went on, ignoring her, still entertained by his private joke. “The poor, backward village you’re here to pillage?”
“Of course not,” she snapped before she could think better of it. Damn. She hated that he was getting to her. She extra-hated that thanks to that snippy tone she hadn’t been able to rein in, he wouldknowthat he was getting to her.
He turned his head slowly, finally giving her his attention. She really did think his jaw could cut granite. Or, okay, maybe just a very soft shale. But still. There was challenge in his gaze. “Whatdoesit make me then?”
Oh, for god’s sake, this man was a lot. “You should give yourself some credit. You don’t really seem like the backward-village type to me. Maybe you’re actually a guerrilla fighter. Or a spy.” She was trying to lighten the mood.
It didn’t work. “Ms. Delaney, I am not on the board of Morneau, and as such am not privy to any, as you say... insider information.”
Jeez. He acted like she was talking about insider trading. But okay. Whichever was the explanation for his standoffishness, sexism or a more generalized animosity—and it could be both—it was unfortunate. But she was adept at rolling with the punches. Change is the essential process of all existence, right? Her job now was to make sure Mr. Benz remained a neutral party rather than a saboteur. To do that, she needed to disarm him, to stick with the military metaphor. To dothat, she needed to figure out what exactly the stick up his butt was made of.
But not literally.
Ha. Too many metaphors.
“Is something amusing, Ms. Delaney?”
He wanted to start tomorrow—Monday. Maybe he was a work-to-rule type who had a more European sense of work-life balance. She was aware that those sorts of people, and cultures, existed. Once on a job in Spain, the entire company shut down for two hours over lunch—and they’d hired CZT to find inefficiencies in their processes.
To test her theory, she asked, “What is there to do in Witten on weekends? I was just laughing to myself because I understand that Eldovia is known for its skiing, but I’m not a skier.” She wasmostdecidedlynot a skier. She pushed away those memories. She was not that girl anymore. “I’m actually extremely talented at finding myself in places where I’m not able to partake in a signature activity. I once spent a month in Barbados without knowing how to swim.”
“If you’re interested in learning to ski, I can arrange lessons for you. But there are numerous other distractions this time of year. There’s a skating rink in the village.” She made a face, and he said, “I gather from your expression that you don’t skate, either.”
“I never had a chance to learn.” Which was true about skating, if not technically about skiing.
