Page 30 of Work: Strictly Professional

Did I really say that? Did I really propose that a man I employ, one who clearly can’t stand me, attend my son’s wedding as my fake date?

Fake date?What the fuck? What am I, ten?

No, no, I’m not. I’m forty-eight. The time for this level of stupidity was over decades ago. Decades.

I pace up and down. Living room, then the kitchen, then the dining room. The space around me shrinks and becomes unbearable. Unsurvivable. I charge the walls at speed and grind to a halt, spinning around and flying in the opposite direction just before I crash into the solid surface. I throw the doors open as I move, not caring that they aren’t latched. Not caring that I usually care a great deal about things like that. My mind races the entire time, unable to land on a thought and stick with it. I brush the surface of many things. Everything. Things I want. Things I don’t want. Things I’ve forbidden myself ever to say or think all the way through. I oscillate wildly. This thing and that. Yes and no. At a certain point, I can’t tell if I’m flying or dying. A caged beast, or something that’s finally free.

I’m about to turn and do another lap when something catches my eye. The late afternoon sun glints off glass. It stops me. I stand still, and while trying to work out what I’m looking at, I forget that I can’t breathe. One massive gulp of air fills my lungs after another. I’m weakened, almost limping, as I make my way to the lounger on the west side of the garden. I sit down heavily and eye the glass on the side table. It’s almost empty. Just a sip or two of water left in it. There’s a sprig of rosemary and a small bunch of wilted mint at the bottom.

I hold the glass in both hands for ages, turning it slowly, lifting it so the last rays of sun catch it.

At last, I see it. A subtle imprint. Tiny opaque lines that fan out in the shape of a half-moon.

Someone drank from this glass. Someone let themselves into my space and sat here today. Someone with access to my home. Someone with an excess of audacity.

I trace my thumb just under the imprint, close but not touching. I do it again. And again. Closer each time. Then, I lift the glass to my lips and drag my tongue along the cool rim.

By the time the sun dips behind the horizon, I’m breathing easy, and I don’t hate my madness quite as much as I did.

13

Wyn

I’m harassed in theextreme, and my hair has been hit hard by the humidity. I don’t need a mirror to know I’ve got a frizz situation of epic proportions on my hands. But the good news is we’ve made it to the Orchid Lani in something resembling one piece, and that’s all that really matters. Some of the guests have already arrived, which is lovely, but unfortunately, most of them seem to think that in addition to being a chief personal executive wedding planning assistant, I’m also a tour guide. To say I’ve fielded a lot of questions I don’t know the answers to in the last hour and a half doesn’t quite cover it. It doesn’t bode well for me, especially considering that the most—hmm, let’s not call them difficult—VIP guests arrive tomorrow around noon.

Right now, all I have to do is help get Ryan’s grandparents checked in, and then it’ll just be me, a piña colada, and no one saying my name or asking any questions for the rest of the day. I’m going to order room service, go over the seating arrangements, and not move my ass off a goddamn lounger until it gets dark.

It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ve got this. I just need to hold on for fifteen more minutes, and then I can have a short scream into my pillow.

“Are you ready?” asks Derek, appearing behind me from nowhere. I jump slightly as a big hand is placed on the small of my back, but I quickly recover.

“I have to get Bob and Mavis checked in,” I say, “but you go ahead, um, dear.”

Dear? Fucking dear?

Oh God. Send help.

“Don’t be silly, dear.” Mydearwas flighty and unsure. His is a warning. “This is our first vacation together. I’ll wait for you so we can get the tour of our bungalow together.”

Our bungalow?

Ourbungalow?

I spin around, eyes large and rabid, and shoot him a look I can only hope he correctly interprets aswhat the fuck?

He shoots me one straight back, tempered and even, a solid blackget your shit together right nowif ever I’ve seen one.

“Um…” I press myself onto my toes and whisper, “Isn’t it a bit soon for us to be sharing a room? You told Barbara Anne it was new. Y-you said that. I heard you.”

The hand on my back curls around my side and finds its way to my belly, flattening and trapping me tightly against a rock-solid chest. My entire body reacts. My cheeks flush, my breath shortens, my dick stiffens.

A sultry baritone voice whispers, “We’re here to win a divorce, Wyn, andthat’snot how it’s done.”

Like that, it’s clear to me I’ve never understood the phrasemy stomach dropped. Not really. Not like this. My organs—not just my stomach, mind you, my kidneys, liver, and a bunch of other things I can’t identify right now—drop several inches. My lungsand heart are untethered, beating and breathing like they belong to someone or something outside of myself.

Oh fucking fuck.

I don’t have this. I don’t have shit. I can’t share a room with Derek MacAvoy. Have you seen him? I’m a gay man on a sex sabbatical. There’s no fucking way I can be in his space, in his face, in his bed, and come across as anything remotely resembling normal.

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