Page 6 of Work: Strictly Professional

There isn’t enough money in the world.

I’m not even going to be attracted to him for long. The initial shock of his looks will wear off, his dreadful personality will shine through, and in a few days, I’ll hardly remember being attracted to him in the first place.

You’ll see.

I bet we’ll all have a good laugh about it in a few weeks.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt truly out of my depth at work, but there’s no other way of putting it—I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle right now. The stakeholder meeting is an absolute shit show despite Ellie’s incredible snacks. The one glimmer of light throughout the entire ordeal is the Peruvian hot chocolate. Everyone loves it, and most people ask for seconds. Even Derek sips his without complaint, and if that’s not a ringing endorsement, I don’t know what is.

As good as it is, it doesn’t negate the fact that I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I know nothing about property development or construction, and it shows. The meeting is a shamble. There’s jargon galore, massive numbers flung around like confetti, plus constant interruptions from the Dark Lord himself. Not to mention a general atmosphere of walking on eggshells that resonates off every person in the room—with the notable exception of the aforementioned Dark Lord, whois the clear cause of the phenomenon yet appears completely oblivious.

By the time it’s over, I’ve taken fifteen pages of notes, all of which require extensive reworking. I’m at my desk attempting the near-impossible task of making sense of complete and total crap when a shadow passes across my field of vision.

“Did you get them?”

I whip my body to attention, widening my eyes and fixing what I hope is a thoroughly helpful expression on my face. “Get what, Mr. MacAvoy?”

“The files on how to handle me.” He holds this thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. “The thick white ones with all the Post-it notes sticking out.”

We both smile. Him because he knows all too well that handling him is about as unlikely as managing him and me because, even though I realize the joke is on me, I’m a goddamn professional.

“Ah, yes. The day-to-day files. Clarissa dropped them off earlier.”

He looks neither impressed nor disappointed. “Make sure you read them.”

“Oh yes, Mr. MacAvoy, I will. I’ll certainly do that.” I’m coming across as more of an ass-kisser than I consider ideal. I hear it, I don’t like it, but I seem to be powerless to stop it. “I’ll read them from cover to cover this evening.”

His eyelids flutter from how much it costs him not to roll his eyes at me. “And get on top of the Miller situation. It needs to be treated as a matter of the highest priority.” He drops a large manilla envelope addressed to a Miller MacAvoy on my desk.Wait. MacAvoy? MillerMacAvoy? I heard murmurs of a cease and desist at the meeting this morning, but…? No. Surely not. He can’t seriously be sending something like that to his son?

“I-isn’t Miller your son?”

“Yes,” he says as if I’m hard of hearing.

“A-and are we sending him a cease and desist?”

“No. Just a strongly worded letter from legal. And, Winston, make sure you drop it off in person. I wanted him to have it before the end of play today.” He checks his watch, sighs as if I’ve inconvenienced him greatly, and adds, “I suppose you’ll have to get to it tomorrow now.”

I ignore the fact he seems under the impression that I’m going to be hand-delivering a letter about what I can only presume is a family matter to an upstate New York address because he’s unwittingly managed to stumble upon one of my big bugbears.

“It’s Wyn, Mr. MacAvoy.” I’m polite but firm.

“Fine. Get on top of the Miller situation,Wyn.” He drags my name out, pronouncing it unnecessarily clearly.

That makes it worse.

Just ask anyone with an unusual name, and they’ll tell you there’s nothing worse than having your name constantly mispronounced. It’s Wyn with a softY, said on a slight exhale, low and breathy, not a high-pitched, cloyingIsound.

It’s a subtle difference, but still. I can’t let it stand. I can’t. One has to correct people on matters like this, or they’ll never know they’re doing it wrong. It’ll only embarrass them in the long run.

“Actually, it’s Wyn with aY, not anI,” I clarify.

Derek’s jaw drops a quarter of an inch. He’s stupefied. He clearly hasn’t met anyone with this level of cheek in a good long while. A decade at least, if I had to hazard a guess. Maybe more. Storm clouds gather in his eyes, constricting his pupils and drawing his chin toward his chest. “I didn’t spell it. Isaidit.”

“I know.” I admit that part of me is beginning to regret entering into this discussion. It no longer feels of vital importance or like the kind of thing that would be of embarrassment to this particular man now or at any point in thefuture. Still, I’ve committed. “But I can tell when people say it with anI, and I don’t like it.”

He looks outraged and bored at the same time. It’s a strange combination, and I have a feeling it isn’t a good one, so I hurriedly get onto renting a car and booking a flight from LA to Buffalo.

Derek is still at his desk by the time I’m done. Head down, engrossed in a report I saw on his desk earlier. Now and again, he scribbles furious notes across the page with a red rollerball pen. Despite my mood being in tatters, I make a mental note to print off and email his reports to him in future.

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