Page 22 of Work: Strictly Professional

But based on the evidence currently needing to be rearranged in my pants, I have a bad feeling. A terrible, nonsensical, indisputable impression. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, I like it when this little shit bosses me around.

To avoid thinking about that, I get stuck in emails and calls. I fly through them. My productivity is out of this world. My recall and attention to detail are next level. I’m functioning like someone I hardly know. Someone I distantly remember. Someone I vastly prefer to the uncaffeinated version of me.

I’m about to dial into my next call when an alert pops up, letting me know it’s been pushed back…by me. I click into my schedule to investigate, only to find a thirty-minute window has been blocked out every day between one and one-thirty for the rest of the month. It’s been labeledLUNCHand highlighted in red, along with a no-nonsense comment letting everyone with access to my schedule know it isn’t flexible.

At precisely one o’clock, Wyn breezes in and pushes my keyboard out of my grip to clear space on my desk. He drapes a white linen napkin on my lap with a slight flourish and lays out my cutlery, taking his time to arrange the knife and fork just so. Then he sets down a plate laden with chicken, pesto, a smattering of greens, and a veritable mountain of pasta.

I find myself unable to speak, and not just because my mouth has pooled with saliva at the mere sight of carbs within arm’s reach.

Wyn stands to my left, watching me with his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t blink. Big blue orbs observe me. Softlips press together. I’m left with the distinct feeling that if I don’t eat my food, I’m going to be in big trouble.

Me. In trouble.

Me, Derek MacAvoy. In trouble with my pint-sized PA. A man whose salary I pay. A man who only has access to the building because I permit it. It’s so ridiculous that I feel an overwhelming, all-consuming urge to laugh. It almost doubles me over. My chest swells and my nostrils flare in an effort to keep it at bay.

I spear a piece of chicken and three pieces of fusilli, moving my hand slowly to my mouth.

Wyn watches, lips relaxing ever so slightly and scooting to one side when I chew and swallow.

He doesn’t move until I’ve had three more bites, and even then, he doesn’t go far. He leaves my office with a determined sway of his hips and returns a minute later with a glass and a large bottle of spring water. It’s a brand I haven’t seen before. The bottle looks like it’s made of cut crystal.

“What’s that?” I ask dumbly.

“Oh, this,” he says. “This is only the purest spring water money can buy. It’s the number one brand of water recommended by water sommeliers worldwide, and before you ask, yes, water sommeliers are a real thing.”

He prattles on about pH levels and the dangers of contamination. At a certain point, my focus slips. I watch his lips move. The gentle swell of his bottom lip nestles into his top lip and then parts when he speaks. His voice is soft and smooth, but there’s an edge to it I didn’t hear at first. A strength. A clear, cutting potency that makes me lightheaded.

By the time I’ve eaten and Wyn’s wiped down my desk and repositioned my keyboard where he found it, I feel strangely relaxed. My eyelids are a little heavy and the tension I usually carry in my shoulders has left me. My hands, which have beentightly clenched since I turned fifteen, are open, laying flat on my desk.

It takes me ages to recover. News of a serious delay in the delivery of steel beams ordered months ago does nothing to dent my mood. Nor does a message from Barbara Anne, reminding me—again—that I need to let Ryan and Miller know who my plus one is for the wedding. In fact, by four o’clock, I’ve done everything that needs to be done today.

I use the time I’ve freed up to watch Wyn work.

The deep feeling of well-being leaves me, replaced by something uncomfortable that roils around and grows urgent. Wyn’s removed his bow tie again today. He left it on until well after lunch but then yanked it off and dropped it onto his desk an hour or two ago. He has two buttons of his shirt undone again.

Two buttons.

Two fucking buttons.

I watch him and watch him. I beg myself not to, but the second he hangs up the call he’s on, I lift my handset to my ear and dial his extension. I could try telling myself I have a good reason to talk to him. I could probably put it down to schedules or meetings or dry cleaning or something like that.

I could, but I won’t.

I have no reason to call him. None at all.

Not if you don’t count wanting to hear the sound of his voice.

He answers the phone and spins his chair around slowly, tilting his head back to take me in.

“Where are we with the wedding? I need an update.”

“Ah, excellent news, Mr. MacAvoy. I just got off a call with Ryan, and he’s signed off on a venue. The Orchid Lani on Lana’i. It’s an incredible find. Completely exclusive, only twenty-four bungalows, and very private. I’ve booked the whole place, and Ryan is thrilled.”

“Really? Ryan? Thrilled? How the hell did you manage that?”

“Oh, I happened to mention that the Orchid Lani is by far the most kid-friendly resort on the island.”

“Is it?”

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