Author's Note:

Below is an outtake for The Plan.
I realize that the original story is not available here any longer, but I do hope that an occasional outtake is still welcome. I left this story file open so that I could share my thought directly as to why I pulled the story a few years ago, rather than let there be speculation elsewhere. Also, I hoped to share little outtakes from time to time.

This outtake is NOT a part of the published story.
It was originally suggested by the very patient Twific Crackmum and Muriel Gaylee. I dedicate it to them and to my dear friend, Kyndall (celesticbliss) who I failed to include in the story dedication. Kyndall is a talented writer and amazing friend. She provided a great deal of the backstory elements for our favorite corner office asshole.

So, without further ado, an outtake from our hero's POV:

The Bane of My Existence
(The Plan – an outtake in alternate POV)

Test of Endurance – Day 2.2

She is sitting right beside me.

This woman. This…woe of man.

This man, anyway.

Not back in the office pool. Not safely tucked away among the steno or admin or whatever is the du jour PC term for PAs. Not on the other side of my door. Not scurrying about the break room, casting side glances and almost-but-not-quite looking away before I spy her spying on me.

And I do spy her spying.

A lot.

She is right beside me on this airplane seat for the next few hours and just as irritatingly, distractingly, unpredictably, infuriatingly…pretty.

Which truly should not be at issue as I cannot recall being bother by merely "pretty" girls. What has she accomplished? My attractions and pursuits need to be firmly centered, as ever, within the realm of accomplished females. Educated. Established. Exquisite.

Not simple…simply pretty.

What am I to do with someone like this tiny creature who works a barely above entry-level job? Who must have given up on the college in which she recently enrolled since she has nothing preventing her from taking this personal assistant position at a moment's notice? Who appears to have wielded a flat iron for the first time this week?

Let it be noted: I deduct a modicum of self respect for noting her hair and the care and maintenance thereof.

I imagine the feel of it wrapped around my fingers…

Damn it. Damn it all.

Focus. The forecast for this industry sector is promising and incorporating manufacturing in-house…

My hands still sting. The warmth of her waist as I caught her, caught myself from wrapping around her. Smooth skin. Some unknown scent that still teases me.

A full scale production line of enhanced SPF offerings coupled with bio-degradable packaging…

Her seat shifts as she rifles through her carry-on bag that is roughly the size of a Buick. My accursed eyes drift to the sliver of skin that I touched a short while ago.

She shifts again, fidgets with the pair of shoes she's wearing.

Profit margins on liquids between fifteen to twent-

Her finger slips absently between heel and arch.

Recyclable, er, reclaimed… reclaimed pack-

Smoothes hosiery from knee to calf.

Market reports…market reports…reports…want her knees on my shoulders…her shoes banging against my face like earrings…

I ponder the potential TSA reaction to a primal roar at 30,000 feet and vow to burn her shoe collection.

"Very well," she says and slips her notes into the aforementioned Buick.

A shift in the cabin pressure and my ears clog. Her voice sounds like she's standing in a glass of water.

"Very well, Sir."

This is acutely painful. Forget earrings. Ear amputation seems in order. I press my fingers strategically and sincerely wish I'd thought to bring a stick of –

"Gum?"

She smiles (not convincingly) at me with a piece of wintergreen gum in her outstretched palm.

I…

I am at a loss.

A capable assistant.

Long have I considered that an oxymoron.

Now, maybe I can focus on negotiation strategies.

Foreign market testing can be delayed until 2ndquarter. Print adverts in pre-launch across 17-35 female market readers. Online as early as-

The flavor has not even begun to fade when she nudges my arm with a book. "Have you had a chance to read this?"

Before me, she offers a copy of the new book by my favorite author. The book that I pre-ordered on the day it was announced. The book that was delivered yesterday. The book that I intentionally, and with a level of well-practiced restraint in which I can admit I take great pride, forced myself to leave on my nightstand at home so that I would not be distracted.

Custom-made, folks. She was designed in the mold to sabotage my productivity.

A/N:

So, that's that.
I hope to post a few others from time to time.