Page 4 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Can you check if someone’s ordered refreshments for the stakeholder’s meeting?” I ask.

I hear some scrabbling and make out a muffled “Fucking Pam,” and then Clarissa is back on the line, completely breathless and showing early signs of hyperventilation.

I feel the warm trickle of a heady, familiar calm wash over me. Things slow around me, and my fingers fly over the keyboard as I speak.

“I’m going to need you to call Ellie from Baguette on Melrose. Use my name. Tell her I need an emergency refreshment package for twelve. Actually, you know what, make it fourteen because her Peruvian hot chocolate is that good. Tell her she has twenty minutes to get it sorted and don’t take no for an answer. I know she can do it. She’s done it before. I’ve ordered a town car as we don’t have time to mess around with Uber. Send threepeople as there will be a lot to carry. Tell them the car will be at the main entrance in T-minus four minutes.”

“Oh God,” pants Clarissa. “Thank you.”

“And check your email. I’ve sent you Ellie’s contact and bank account details. You’ll have to give Baguette preferred supplier status for at least a year to get her to do this for us, but it will be worth it, believe me.”

I hang up the phone, and by the time the elevator doors open, I’m standing in front of them, shoulders back, head up, with a welcoming smile on my face.

You may not be aware, but PAs can set the tone for an entire floor, if not an entire company. Relaxed and happy are at the core of my brand. No matter where I work, I want everyone I interact with in the workplace to feel it without knowing why.

It’s more than a personal goal. I insist upon it.

When the visitor area begins to fill up, I show the stakeholders to the boardroom. I haven’t assigned seating because, for one thing, I didn’t have time to make name cards, and for another, until you know who’s who in the zoo, you don’t want to touch that kind of minefield with a ten-foot pole.

Fragile egos and all that.

I settle everyone in and offer them still or sparkling water. We only have one brand on offer, and while it’s not a disaster, sadly, I do consider this particular brand to be the basic bitch of spring water. It won’t do. I prefer to have at least four choices on offer, plus a selection of soft drinks.

“Hey, Siri, remind me to sort out the water fiasco first thing tomorrow,” I say to my phone.

Outwardly, I’m the living embodiment of having my shit together as people mill around the boardroom and begin seeing themselves to their seats, but internally, the first flutters ofwhat-the-fuckare making themselves known. My insides are showing signs of perturbation. They’re sounding an alarm. It’sdistant at the moment, but it’s a clear warning. Much as I’m a goddamn delight and highly skilled at setting tones and other things, these people are here for a meeting with Derek MacAvoy, asshole and CEO of the company.

One thing I can’t do is be him.

Without discussion, lively conversation fizzles and dies a sudden death, seats are quickly taken, and fine lines appear around mouths that have settled into slightly strained smiles. I glance at my wrist and see the minute hand move to the hour. A dark, menacing presence invades the room, spilling out from the elevator, slithering across marble floor tile, and invading the boardroom, effectively shitting all over my carefully cultivated brand.

Derek MacAvoy’s tall frame fills the doorway, dwarfing it so badly that I’m almost embarrassed for it. Imagine being a doorway, an inanimate thing—not even a thing, really, more of a space. Imagine being an inanimate space and happily going about your business, letting people in and out of you willy-nilly, and then one day finding yourself rendered a complete and utter little bitch by nothing more than an exceedingly broad pair of shoulders.

Awful.

Just awful.

Poor thing.

Derek’s navy-blue suit jacket is unbuttoned and hangs open, exposing a stark white hand-tailored Oxford shirt that fits so well it makes me feel like I need to tighten my core for no discernible reason. I’m not alone in the feeling. Spines lengthen as he enters the room. My heart skips a beat and then beats three or four times in rapid succession.

A mix of shock, dread, and disbelief pools in my belly.

Remember how I said there were two things? You know, two things I knew the second I met Derek MacAvoy?

Oh, you do, do you? Go you! You have great attention to detail. I love that for you. Seriously, love it. Kind of have a thing for it.

Hmm, what was I saying again? Goodness, I seem to have lost my train of thought. That’s not like me at all.

Dark eyes find me and hone in. His top lip twists again, but this time, there’s no possible way to mistake it for a smile.

“Are you going to stand there chasing your tail, or are you going to take minutes?” Derek asks, scarcely able to hide his annoyance.

Ah yes.

Two things about Derek MacAvoy.

The first is that he’s an asshole. That’s been established. He’s rude and inconsiderate. Difficult in the extreme. He’s brash and intimidating, and it’s no accident. I’d go so far as to say he tries to be intimidating. Probably gets a rush from seeing others quiver in fear at the sight of him. Probably goes home in the evening and has a nice little snicker about all the asses he had sweating as he bulldozed his way through his day.

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