Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Cannon.” I offer my hand, and he shakes it. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“The boss calls, I come running,” he quips with a smile that pops out one dimple on his stubbled cheek.
“Technically, Callum’s your boss.” I lead him over to a buffet table where Tina arranged bagels, croissants, pastries, and fruit, as well as a carafe of freshly brewed coffee.
This is a breakfast meeting, so I told Cannon to come prepared to eat. Upon smelling the fresh-baked goods, it occurs to me that I didn’t eat dinner last night, other than a bite of the boxed macaroni and cheese I made to taste it. By the time the boys finished second helpings, there wasn’t any left, and I was too busy wrangling them and caring for Kiera to find anything else to snack on.
Despite having missed my workout this morning, I have no hesitation in taking a bagel and loading it up with lox, cream cheese, red onion, and capers. Cannon takes a croissant and fruit.
We move over to the round table that seats four, perfect for smaller collaborative meetings. It works well enough to have breakfast too.
After pouring coffee, we sit and make small talk as we eat.
Cannon’s an easy guy to talk to… humble, funny, and genuine. Small talk with him isn’t shallow, and we easily move through topics as frothy as the latest blockbuster movie he saw last weekend to the rising cost of gas due to global conflicts causing a riptide of economic disparity.
When our plates are clean, I pour us each another cup of coffee. Settling back in my chair, I look him square in the eye. “Be honest… how are you liking it here?”
Cannon doesn’t appear surprised by my question. There’s really no other reason I’d want to meet with him.
A man clearly skilled in word craft and decorum, he smiles. “I feel like I need to offer more thanks for the opportunity you’ve given me. There’s a lot of pressure to perform, and you took a big chance given my lack of experience, but honestly, I can’t think of any place I’d rather be right now. This organization is the perfect fit.”
I smile back at him. “I’m glad to hear that. No need to tell you the adversities this team has faced. You could have been walking into a team that wasn’t redeemable.”
Cannon scoffs, waving his hand. “This team doesn’t need redemption. They did that last season by continuing to fight. The men you gave me have the ability to be champions. It might not be this year, but under Callum’s leadership and your vision, we’re sitting on the edge of a new dynasty.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that.” I pick up my coffee. “Things seem to be going so smoothly right now, if you’d even hinted at any dissatisfaction, I was going to melt down.”
A bark of laughter escapes Cannon, those lines around his eyes deepening. “One thing I know with certainty is that Brienne Norcross does not melt down.”
I can’t help but chuckle and nod my agreement. “That’s true. But I do throw an impressive temper tantrum.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” And then his face softens, catching me a bit off guard. “How have you been doing? I know inheriting the team has been stressful, but you lost your brother on the plane. I imagine a lot of people forget that when dealing with you because you’re so strong.”
His thoughtful observation touches me. “Adam and I were very close. I still have some periods of deep grief. I seem to wander into pockets of them at random times. But at least I’m not reeling the way I was for the first few months after.”
“Those deep pockets will get easier,” he assures me, the tone of wisdom gained through the death of his wife settling around me like a cloak of comfort.
My laugh is humorless. “I’ve figured out if I take on more and more work, it keeps my mind occupied, and I don’t have too much time to think about it.”
Cannon’s look is chastising. “You’re avoiding. You need to deal with the grief, or it won’t get better.”
“How do you deal with it?” I ask. Because immersing myself in work has left little room for me to focus on my sadness.
Shrugging, Cannon taps his finger along the rim of his coffee cup. “It was probably a little different for me. Melissa was really sick long before she died. I had weeks to prepare for her death, and toward the end, it was a relief.”
A painful pressure settles on my chest, and I resist the urge to reach out and take his hand in sympathy.
“I hope that doesn’t sound awful,” he continues. “I didn’t want her to die, and I would have cared for her forever. But I hated seeing her suffer, and I hated how her dignity was taken because dying of cancer is so ugly.”