Page 11 of Work: Strictly Professional

And nothing. Wyn simply turns and exits, arms stiff at his sides and nose pointed a little higher in the air than usual.

He has the phone to his ear before he takes his seat. Okay, good. Good. That’s what I want. He must be calling HR to hand in his notice. Probably didn’t feel comfortable broaching the subject with me.

See? This is exactly why I don’t want to be approachable. Who needs this kind of shit in their lives?

I watch with interest that gradually turns to dismay as the situation unfolds. He finishes his call and remains seated. Less than four minutes later, Clarissa appears with an IT technician in tow. Two additional screens are plugged into his PC and Wyn is magnanimously issued a brand-new headset. Clarissa and the technician retreat to the elevator, glancing back furtively in my direction as Wyn carefully removes the headset from its packaging and positions it on his head with the resolve typically reserved for astronauts about to embark on a spacewalk.

Well, fuck. That’s not what I was expecting.

Slender fingers dance across the keyboard. Therat-a-tat-tatof short nails on plastic becomes the soundtrack for my day, broken only when Wyn stops to drink from the oversized, pearlescent water bottle on his desk. He snatches it and lifts it to his lips without dragging his eyes from his screens. A wet, pink tongue peeks out between his lips, searching for the straw and drawing it into his mouth when he finds it. His Adam’s apple rides slowly up and down the column of his throat. Once, twice, three times before he sets the tumbler down.

Mine does the same.

5

Derek

Wyn’s at it againtoday. Typing feverishly, sipping his water, and talking incessantly on the phone. Every third or fourth time he hangs up, he tilts his head back, looks at the ceiling, and says something under his breath.

I’m not entirely sure what he says, as my lip-reading skills are far from proficient, but “Fuck this shit” seems most likely.

He doesn’t take long to recover though. He steadies himself with a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, puts his shoulders back, and then attacks the keyboard with renewed vigor.

My lip-reading skills might be basic, but I’m more than proficient at spotting signs of a PA who’s had it up to here. The hushed calls to HR, the red eyes, the not-so-subtle attempts to hide a litany of job applications. Unfortunately, Wyn is showing no sign of being any closer to quitting. Quite the opposite. If the Pinterest board splashed across his new screen is anything to go by, the man’s sinking his teeth into planning a wedding.

It’s far from ideal, and I admit it’s surprised me, but on the bright side, one way or another, Miller and Ryan seem to havelanded themselves a wedding planner. Much as I’d prefer for it to be anyone else, I don’t think there’s a wedding planner worth their salt in the entire Northern Hemisphere insane enough to take on their case at this late stage.

Wyn must be crazy.

Either that, or he’s a glutton for punishment.

Hmm, wonder what kind of punishment he likes?

No. No, no. He’s my employee. I shouldn’t think things like that about him. There’s no need for it. There’s a clear line between employer and employee, and thinking like that is crossing it.

It seems Wyn will be around for at least a few weeks, so I’ll just have to accept the situation for what it is and get on with my life. Fortunately, my schedule today looks like hell with back-to-back meetings and calls. I have plenty of things to do that don’t involve watching my new PA do his job.

Wyn has stopped typing. He’s been on a call for over ten minutes. He was seated for the first half of the call, but around five and a half minutes in, he got up and started pacing. At first, he walked around his desk. He did that twice. First clockwise and then counterclockwise. After that, he jotted something down in his notepad. The one with the pink and purple glittery swirls on it that matches his water bottle exactly.

He’s been standing stock still for the past two minutes, both legs locked at the knees as he looks out the window. He speaks quietly, his voice smooth and melodious with a slight purr at the end of certain words. As the call winds up, he gesticulates with his dominant hand. It’s a subtle movement, a slight flick of his wrist that gives me a feeling he’s pleased with the way the call went.

He’s wearing a white shirt with a pale-blue stripe today. He was wearing a bow tie this morning, but he took it off around midday, yanking at it, tugging it away from his neck several times before caving and taking it off altogether. He’s unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

Two buttons.

Twobuttons.

I know that’s standard. It’s completely normal attire for the workplace, regardless of gender. I have two buttons unbuttoned right now. So do most of the people in the building. There’s not a thing wrong with it.

There isn’t.

It’s just that on Wyn, two buttons undone seems a little excessive. On him it seems like a lot of skin. Clear, pale skin. A milky white triangle pointing downward. His shirt fits him well. It’s fitted. Flattering. Soft cotton molds to his shoulders and clings to his chest. His belly is slightly concave, dipping in beneath the subtle suggestion of pectoral muscle.

He sits, writes something on a Post-it, and sticks it to one of his screens. I crane my neck, but I can’t see what it says.

He tucks a hand into his collar and flaps his shirt several times, letting air in. He’s looking away from me, face in full profile. A ski slope of a nose. A bee-stung bottom lip. His cheeks are flushed. They’re always a little flushed, a peachy pink that highlights his freckles, but this afternoon, they seem more so. Rose-pink rather than peach, a color highlighted by the soft sheen on his brow.

I reach for my handset and dial nine.

---