Page 7 of Work: Strictly Professional

I can’t believe it.

A round trip to fucking upstate New fucking York to deliver a threatening letter to Derek’s son. No, thank you. I want no part in it. I could think of a hundred more productive ways to spend my time—and looking for a better job is at the top of that list.

3

Wyn

“Fuck!” I wail as I drop my keys and phone on the kitchen counter. “That was a day straight from hell. Pure, unadulteratedhell.”

Bridget, my roommate, best friend, and platonic soulmate, turns slowly from her post at the stove and says evenly, “More or less hellish than yesterday?”

Bridget is one of those people who is supremely calm and rational when it comes to dealing with other people’s problems. It’s one of her greatest strengths.

“Hard to say ‘cause I spent fifteen hours in transit yesterday, what with the flight delay in Buffalo and all.” I got lost on the way to Miller’s, was forced to deal with an extremely rude man when I finally did find the house, and only got back home after one a.m. this morning. “At least I didn’t have to deal with Derek MacAvoy all day. Did you know they call him Satan? Everyone in the entire building does. That says a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” agrees Bridget, pursing her lips and waving an index finger as decisively as if she were cracking a whip. “Red flag. That’s what that is.”

Bridget loves identifying red flags in other people’s lives and ignoring them completely in her own. She’s excellent at it.

“Despite all that, I think today might have been worse. I walked five blocks to buy him a coffee from a place the day-to-day file swore he liked. I got back, hair starting to frizz from the heat, handed him the cup, and all he did was sniff at it.Sniff at it. Didn’t even have a sip, just pushed it away. The cup was still on his desk when I went home. He didn’t even taste it or bother putting it in the trash. How rude is that?”

“Red flag,” says Bridget with absolute conviction. “You should resign.”

“Oh, don’t think I won’t. I absolutely will.”

Why I haven’t resigned already is something of a mystery to me. Best I can tell, it has to do with pride. Other than all forms of sports involving a ball, I’ve never failed at anything I’ve set my mind to. I know my worth. You don’t need to worry about that. I know I don’t deserve to be treated badly or put up with other people’s bullshit, no matter how much Clarissa needs me or how good it feels to be needed. I’m going to give this job a few weeks, maybe a month, and then I’ll resign if Derek MacAvoy hasn’t succeeded in the—admittedly challenging—task of removing his head from his ass.

Bridget eyes me curiously, pausing to lift the spoon to her mouth, blow on it, and taste the risotto she’s making for our dinner. Something about the way she looks at me unnerves me. She’s very astute, my Bridget. I’m not saying she’s a mind reader. Of course not. I’m just saying that she and I have hardly any secrets between us. The only secret of substance I’ve ever kept from her is that I can’t stand her boyfriend, Josh. Absolutely cannot bear him. There was a time at the beginning of their relationship when I made murmurs about it, but it wasn’t well received, so I stopped, fully expecting the relationship would fizzle out. Six years later, here we are. Josh is still a permanentfixture in her life, albeit one who comes and goes and absolutely refuses to give her any form of commitment. He’s stringing her along. That’s what he’s doing. That asshole has been under the impression he can do better than Bridget since the very beginning. He’s a complete and utter shit who needs to be dropkicked into the ocean, in my un-humble opinion.

I digress.

My point is that Bridget and I don’t have many secrets, and while I love that about us, I badly,badlydon’t want her to know about the mild resemblance Derek has to The Faceless Man. I especially don’t want her to know that even though his behavior seems to be getting steadily worse, my attraction to him has yet to diminish.

No, no. Don’t worry. We’re still not panicking. It’s all still completely in hand. I just don’t want Bridget reading my mind right now. That’s all I’m saying.

“How long till dinner’s ready?” I ask.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

“I might have a bath in that case, soak the day off, you know? Leave all that negativity at work.”

Bridget and I bought one of those lovely timber bath caddies you lay across the bathtub when we moved into this apartment. We keep our best products and a nice little collection of candles on it. It makes us feel fancy. We love that kind of thing.

I light the candles and sprinkle some of the good salts into the water as it runs, and then I sink in, dropping my head back against the rim of the bath as the hot water and a blend of woody and floral aromas float through the air and take the desired effect.

My shoulders, which have been tense all day, start to relax.

Derek was worse today than on Monday. Much worse. He found fault with everything I did. He had me redo the agenda for a meeting tomorrow three times. Asked if I’d written agendasat my last job or if this was the first time I’d done it, if you can believe that. Then, a couple of hours later, he suggested it might be helpful to call HR and ask if someone could arrange schedule management training for me. He said it as if he was trying to be helpful.

I was livid.

At least, I would have been if he hadn’t come all the way out of his office and stood inches away from me when he said it. He leaned a mammoth hand on my desk, and though I was trying my best to follow what he was saying, it wasn’t all that easy. His hand was directly in my line of sight. Right in front of my face. Curled leisurely. Tapping impatiently on the marble with his index finger when I didn’t react as fast as he wanted me to. It was all but impossible to ignore the sumptuous gold tone of his skin and the fine tufts of dark hair on the backs of his hands.

It’s flat-out impossible to ignore the fact that the only accurate description I’ve come up with for his digits isdick fingers. Long and almost impossibly thick. Deep nailbeds and neatly trimmed nails. Seriously, his fingers are so thick that I’ve found myself wondering how the hell he manages to use the touch screen on his phone. Hell, I’m not even sure how he navigates a keyboard without issues.

Just my luck he has paws like that.

I’ve always had a bit of a preoccupation with masculine hands. Love them. Really love them. Some people are all about asses or abs, and that’s lovely for them, but me, I’m all about hands and deep voices. Hands, deep voices, and presence. Those are my blind spots. Always have been.

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