Page 10 of Work: Strictly Professional

And I know where I know him from.

My darkest nights.

My deepest secrets.

My hollow dreams.

My nightmare. That’s what he is. That’s who he is. Wyn Foster is my nightmare come to life. He’s the man I’ve spent my whole life avoiding. He’s the thing I’ve been running from for as long as I can remember, and he’s in my building, on my floor, cavalier as you please, wrapped in a plucky smile and a pink-and-blue checkered bow tie.

He breaks eye contact, leaving me needing two breaths in a time that usually requires one, and raises his handset to his ear, tucking it onto his shoulder as he taps at his keyboard with near maniacal zeal, attempting to put out the dumpster fire I just lit by postponing the meeting.

“Dad, are you there?”

I spin my chair around, turning to face anything that isn’t Wyn, and collect myself. “I’m here, Mills. What do you need?”

“W-yin!” He abandons his post and jogs over, arriving at my desk with a turquoise moleskin notepad and matching pen, poised and ready for action. “I need your help.”

A kaleidoscope turns. Blue fragments and resettles. Hope flickers, or is that the desire to please?

Maybe it’s both.

I ignore the flicker of annoyance that rises in me at the sight and don’t waste any time explaining the situation to him. As I speak, I’m buoyed. There’s a little lift in my mood when I realize that what I’m about to do might well be the best possible thing to do in the situation I find myself in. It’s so completely unreasonable, it's likely to push Wyn over the edge. It’s likely to incense him so much that he’ll pack his collection of coordinated stationery into the cardboard box it arrived in and walk out of the building.

Fingers crossed.

“Ryan and Miller’s wedding has gone up in flames,” I say. That’s putting it mildly. Neither Miller nor Ryan is what I’d call a dream client on a good day, and they’ve been especially difficult lately. Their wedding planner has called me three times—in an increasing temper each time—to complain about their inability to make decisions. After months of not deciding on much, itappears that taking it upon themselves to request a change of venue three weeks before the wedding date has pushed her well and truly past her limit. “The venue has been canceled and their wedding planner has quit.”

“What?Why?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that Miller wants to get married in Hawaii, not the Seychelles, as originally planned.” If you ask me, the venue should have been one of the first things they nailed down, but evidently, Ryan has only started feeling concerned about how his three-year-old nephew, Jamie, would fare on a long-haul flight recently. It’s twenty-five hours from LA to Mahé, and apparently, young Jamie isn’t the best traveler. Gets an icky tummy, according to Miller. Naturally, at the first sign of Ryan’s perturbation, Miller jumped in and took a flamethrower to the entire wedding plan. A plan that’s been underway for over six months. A plan that’s cost me an arm and a leg, but who cares about that. Money’s only paper, as my old man used to say. Miller’s my son, my only child. He’ll be getting married in Vegas—his suggestion to combat the problem he now finds himself in—over my cold, dead body. “There isn’t time to explain, all you need to know is that planning this wedding just became your top priority. Hawaii, five-star, obviously, small and intimate venue required. Totally private. Hook up with Miller and Ryan to find out what else they want. And, W-yin, you might want to call Miller’s mother, Barbara Anne. She won’t be pleased if she’s the last to know about this.”

“Wait. Sorry. Planning the what? I seem to have missed something. I thought you said you wanted me to plan an entire destination wedding in three weeks, but that would be madness.” He laughs nervously. “Obviously, that can’t be what you meant. Obviously not. Because obviously, that can’t be done.”

Bingo.

“Why not?” I ask, purposefully obtuse. Before he can answer, I double down. “Of course it can be done. Why can’t it be done? It can’t be that hard. It’s your job to organize things, isn’t it? Isn’t that the sole purpose of you being here?”

“I, um…”

“Exactly. So,organizethis!”

There. That should do it. That should send him running. I want to look at him to assess the damage, but I can’t seem to hold his gaze. His is water, mine’s oil, so I focus on a tiny freckle above his left eyebrow instead as I wait calmly for his resignation. Even the anticipation of it is sweet. Hot, runny relief at the mere thought of being free of the questions his eyes ask of me. Freedom from pale-blue and puffy pink lips.

And the goddamn bow tie.

And those freckles.

Fuck. The freckles.

Yeah, Jesus. I can’t do this. He has to go.

I start to smile but quickly remember what I’m trying to achieve and draw my mouth into a snarl instead. Pure, unfiltered annoyance flashes across his features. Soft lips press together firmly, his chest rises and falls once.

This shouldn’t take long. I might be able to catch the end of the meeting after all.

I wait.

And I wait.

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