Page 27 of Work: Strictly Professional

I pat my hair down at my crown and tug at the pieces in front to straighten them. They shoot straight back to where they were before.

I’ve always known I’m gay. There was never any doubt. I came out to my parents in middle school, and they couldn’t possibly have taken it better. My dad rushed out that very afternoon to buy pride stickers to stick on both their vehicles and hand a few out to our neighbors and family members.

I was lucky. I know that. I wasn’t nervous to tell them. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they’d be fine with it. I have friends who haven’t had the same experiences, and I’ve always planned that if someone came out to me, I’d make sure they were met with the same kind of support my parents gave me.

It’s just that nothing in my life has prepared me for this kind of coming out.

Still, it’s a matter of principle. It’s a matter of who I am at my core.

“Well”—I sound a little stiff, but under the circumstances, I don’t think that can be helped—“I’m…I’m”—ooh, it’s harder than I thought it would be—“very…p-proud of you.”

He acknowledges that with a curt nod and then sits back in his chair, lifting his hands in the air, indicating he’s ready for me to clear his plate away, though he hasn’t finished his meal.

The aneurysm from before is still threatening, sending torrid bolts through me that make me grit my teeth and blink harder than normal.

“Mmm,” I say, digging my fingernails into my thumbs as hard as I can. “So, pride and acceptance and”—shit fuckfuck, I’m struggling to come up with anything that isn’t a vicious string of expletives—“and, um, more pride aside, I do have a few questions.”

Something about my demeanor must alert Derek to the fact trouble is afoot because he takes it upon himself to shut that shit down. His eyes darken and he blasts me with a hard stare that makes me feel like my entire being has been shrunk to miniaturesize and sucked into the harsh black-and-white vortex that is his mind.

It’s strange and uncomfortable to find myself in someone else’s mind. Especially Derek’s. Especially in the workplace. It’s the last thing I need, and it’s very confusing because now I’m furious, confused, and for some reason I can’t quite explain, horrifically horny.

“It’s not complicated, Wyn. You’ll be my date for the wedding. As far as my friends and family know, you’re my boyfriend. It’s unorthodox, I admit that, but it’s no big deal.” He waves me off with a mammoth paw. When it becomes clear that I remain incredibly baffled, he tacks on, “It’s calledwinning a divorce.”

“Yes, but”—this time, I have to pinch my lips together until they burn to stop myself from screaming at the man who signs my paychecks—“that’s not a thing. Winning a divorce. That’s not a real thi—”

“Of course it’s a real thing!” he booms.

With that, he’s up and off, on his way to a meeting I’m supposed to take minutes for. I leave his plate on his desk and dash after him, lengthening my strides to keep up. It’s not a walk, but it’s not quite a jog. It’s not dignified either. I puff and pant at his side as we ride the elevator together. He takes up an inordinate amount of space, crowding me and making the elevator feel unbearably small. He’s so close to me that the fabric of my shirt brushes against his. Cotton against cotton. Crisp white fabric disturbing the air near my skin.

Is it me or is it hot in here?

I loosen my bow tie and stuff it into my pocket, undoing a couple of buttons to give myself some air. I try to start talking several times but nothing sensible comes out. I’m flustered as fuck not least because while every sensible part of me is faint with fury, when Derek announced his insane plan, all my dickheard was that a devastatingly sexy, massive, unmanageable man wants me to be his boyfriend.

And I tell you, my dick iswayinto it.

“Wyn.” Though it pains me, I must admit he’s made progress with my name. The soft exhale needs work, but he has theYright. I look up at him, and when our eyes meet, I feel like I did earlier. Like I’ve been sucked into his mind. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

My heart beats like it’s about to be told a secret. A big, life-changing secret. A steadydoo doofthat’s harder and faster every time a chamber relaxes or contracts. My insides tremble with hope and rage. Fury and excitement. During the meeting, I try to right things with reason, but every time I do, I look up and see Derek. One arm rests on the table, the other elbow planted on the shiny timber surface. Hand clenched into a fist. Now and again, he pauses, looking down, and leans his chin on his knuckle.

The meeting is a mess.

No, no, that’s me. I’m the mess.

Derek seems to grow larger and larger the longer I watch him, owning the space around him. Owning the air we all breathe. People sitting at the table grow smaller and paler. He seems to darken. His skin. His eyes. Even his hair. When I look at him, I’m flooded with heat. My blood boils in my veins, making the palms of my hands sweat so much that my fingers slip and slide over the keyboard.

The meeting is long. It goes on for hours. Hours and hours. I can’t keep my head down for the entire time. I can’t. So I look up, and when I look up, I burn. I burn every time I look at Derek.

When I look away, it’s worse, an icy chill that makes me feel like I’ve accidentally left the house naked on a cold winter day.

The minutes I take are more of a mess than I am, and that’s saying something. I’m absolutely positive that before the close ofplay on Monday, I’ll be called into Derek’s office and scolded. I know it. A big thick dick finger will point at the spot on the floor beside his chair, and I’ll have a strip torn off me. I’ll feel stupid and naked and told off in all the worst ways.

The problem is that a big part of me is looking forward to it.

Okay, fine, not a big part, exactly. A slightly below-average-sized part that’s completely in proportion with the rest of my body, okay?

By the time the meeting is finally over, and everyone but Derek and I have milled out of the room, I feel anemic and my heart is beating so loudly I can hear blood whooshing around when I move my head.

A dark-chocolate gaze pours over me. My entire body bursts into flame, singeing my clothes and making them so goddamn uncomfortable that, for a mad second, ripping them off seems like the only solution. The moment drags out far longer than seems possible.

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