Page 21 of Work: Strictly Professional

See?

That’s some executive decision-making right there.

By the time the hot chocolate arrives, it’s occurred to me that the last thing I want is Derek MacAvoy experiencing caffeine withdrawals. He’s a nightmare already. There’s no sense in making him worse. It’s no problem. Easily solved. I simply crank up the coffee maker and decant three shots of espresso into his hot chocolate.

Hmm. You know what, Derek’s a big man. Easily six three or six four and a hundred and eighty pounds without shoes on. I make another shot and pour it into his cup, stirring carefully to avoid overflowing.

“Peruvian hot chocolate,” I say, setting the cup down without the pomp and circumstance it richly deserves. He can drink it or not. That’s up to him. I won’t be getting upset about that kind of thing anymore. I’ve done what I can.

Derek picks up the cup, holding it in both hands, and lifts it to his nose. Despite what I’ve just told myself, a tiny ball of rage gathers. He leans down as I watch, gingerly blowing twice, and then takes a sip.

I’m quietly thrilled.

That, Muriel, is how you get shit done.

Now, it’s just the small matter of planning an entire wedding and working out how to make peach blossoms bloom out of season.

8

Derek

Wyn arrived at worktoday with the force of a whirlwind. There’s a flurry of activity on the floor. A new bar fridge has been installed, and enough soft drinks to supply a small bodega have arrived. Several women from admin are milling around, unpacking the drinks, and helping him hang a large corkboard on the wall behind his desk. As soon as it’s up, it’s plastered with pictures of peach trees and place settings.

His headset is firmly in place, and he’s talking animatedly but not loudly enough for me to hear what he’s saying. Now and again, I see him talk under his breath. Now that I’ve known him for longer, I find it easier to read his lips. He’s saying, “Fuck this shit,” I’m almost sure of it.

He’s busy. He’s getting things done today and not letting anything stand in his way. He hasn’t so much as looked in my direction since he came in to drop off the hot chocolate.

The stuff is delicious. It’s the crack of hot beverages. For the first time in weeks, I’m not missing coffee.

As I reach out to pick up the cup to take the last sip, I notice a tiny tremor in my hand.

Hmm, that’s unusual.

I better keep an eye on it. I might mention it to Dr. Robson next time I see him. Parkinson’s doesn’t run in the family, but still, one can’t be too careful.

I drain the cup and toss it, dunking style, into the trash. It drops in with a soft swish. I jump up, powered by an unknown dynamo, and punch my fist into the air. The motion seems to keep going even after I’ve come to a stop. I’m cushioned by a wave of euphoria that’s way, way out of keeping with the level of achievement I should feel. I don’t care though. My heart rate is up and my mental alertness is sharp. My energy level knows no bounds.

It’s a great day.

It’s a beautiful world.

It’s—

“Wyn!” I roar.

His head appears in the doorway, the rest of his body hidden. His eyebrows are arched high, and he looks at me expectantly. “Do you need anyth—”

I take a deep breath and steady myself. “Did you spike my hot chocolate with coffee?”

“I did,” he replies without a hint of regret. “Four shots.” He eyes me up and down critically. “But I think I might take you down to three tomorrow.” Before I’ve decided whether to admonish or thank him, he adds, “Pesto chicken, whole wheat pasta, and greens for lunch.” He says it definitively like it’s not up for discussion. Like the decision has already been made.

Something deep inside me stirs, cranking gears and starting to rise. Unfurling slowly as if being woken from a thousand-year slumber.

Okay, fine.

It’s my dick, all right? My dick is the thing that’s stirring.

I’m not sure what to make of it, and I sure as hell don’t know how to explain it. It doesn’t make sense as it’s in direct conflict with almost every other aspect of my personality. I’m as surprised as anyone about it. Can’t make heads or tails of it, really.

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