Page 33 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Sure you aren’t.” I flip the page and keep reading. “How did we get together? Easy. You flirted across the boardroom table until you wore me down.”

“I did not! You started flirting. You’re my boss. I would never start flirting.”

“You’re my employee. I’dneverflirt first. Risk a lawsuit? No. No one who knows me would ever believe that.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. “I flirted first. We had drinks together after work one night, and one thing led to another. It just happened. Neither of us was expecting it. It was awkward at first, but we got to know each other, and you came to realize that I’m completely not uptight and rather a delight. In fact, looking back now, you can’t believe how wrong you werebecause I’m an extremely chill guy who just happens to like it when things work out exactly how I plan for them to work out.”

“And you came to realize I’m not an ass.”

He keeps his eyes down, but the left corner of his mouth quirks up before he speaks.

“But, Mr. MacAvoy, I thought we were trying to make this believable.”

I do a quick double-take, mouth dropping slightly.There’s that goddamn audacity again. A deep, distant chuckle starts rattling in my chest, rising slowly until it bubbles through my lips despite my best effort to snuff it out.

“Derek,” I say. “Call me Derek.”

Wyn nods and jots that down.

By the time we’ve worked through another page of questions, I’ve had enough. “Think there’s time for a quick swim before they all get here?”

“Ooh, yeah, good idea. You go ahead, and I’ll stay and get ready for the day.” His words bunch up a little at the end of the sentence, and he busies himself opening and closing a lever arch file labeledWeddingwhile I change into my swimsuit.

A small, croaky squawk draws my attention as I open the door to leave the suite. I look back just in time to glimpse Wyn in the bathroom, standing in front of the vanity mirror, frantically smoothing his hair down with both hands.

“Ready?” I ask.

Wyn gulps and nods. “As I’ll ever be.”

We head down a windy, cobbled pathway flanked by orchids and sumptuous tropical vegetation. As we take the corner to the hotel reception, I open my palm in Wyn’s direction. He falters for a millisecond and then slides his hand into mine. His skin iswarm, his fingers graceful and slim. They fit between mine like a glove.

As we walk, Wyn prattles off questions from the questionnaire. Age, birthday, place of birth. We talk quietly, out the corners of our mouths, as we exchange information. Wyn speaks faster and faster as we walk, firing off questions until I stop moving and wait until he faces me. He seems a little breathless, so I place my free hand on his shoulder to settle him.

“Who are you, Wyn? Tell me everything I need to know in a single breath, and I’ll do the same.”

He blinks twice and takes a big breath. “I-I’m Wyn Foster, son, brother, and friend. I care about lots of things, but people most of all. I love the people close to me with my whole heart, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do to make them happy.”

I let his words settle, grappling around in my mind to contain them, organize them, commit them to memory. His honesty and vulnerability disarm me. There’s something incredibly sweet about the simplicity of his description of himself. I was expecting something more biographical, less personal. It throws me more than I care to admit.

“I’m Derek MacAvoy,” I start without a specific plan of where I’m headed. “Businessman and divorced father of one. I love my son, but I have a hard time showing it. I’m constantly surrounded by people.” I exhale, unable to say everything I need to with a single breath after all. I could stop there, but for some reason, I want to hear myself say it. I want to hear myself say it to Wyn. “And I’ve felt alone since I was fifteen.”

Pale eyes stretch wide and flicker. A wave surges, crests, and crashes into the shore. Sun glints off saltwater as storm clouds gather on the horizon.

“Derek!” It’s a command more than a greeting and a voice I’d know anywhere. It brings me back to the madness at hand and raises my hackles. “You simplyhaveto meet Sage.”

Barbara Anne has a lei of pink and white blooms draped around her neck. She’s wearing an emerald-green dress that hugs her curves and makes her look as though she hasn’t quite decided whether she’s here to pose for the cover ofSports Illustratedor to run for governor of the state of Hawaii. Either way, I have no doubt it would take a bus or a sledgehammer to stop her.

Sage stands dutifully by her side, long silky brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He’s wearing a pair of those baggy pants with a drop-crotch that always makes me think of an adult wearing a cloth diaper. His shirt, if I can call it that, is a cream-colored crocheted affair that puts both nipples on display.

Barbara Anne wraps a hand around his upper arm and nudges him toward me. “Sage, dahling”—that’s a heavy H, in case you were wondering—“meet Derek.”

Sage stretches a hand in my direction, his wrist and all five fingers awash in corded leather bracelets and silver rings. Each one is symbolic of something highly significant, I’m sure. Wyn lets go of my hand, and it’s the loss of his touch that irks me more than the long hair, diaper pants, symbolic jewelry, or even the nipples.

“Nice to meet you, Sage,” I say, crushing his hand a little harder than strictly required.

“Likewise,” he squeaks.

I retract my hand from his grasp and run the backs of my fingers down the knobs of Wyn’s spine. I do it once, then twice, floundering briefly before introducing him. What do I call him? Boyfriend seems a bit silly at my age and partner sounds forced.

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