Page 9 of Handle with Care
“Don’t even joke, you have no idea.” I shudder at the thought of Mr. McLaren. It’s hard to say if he’s more prat or cad. He’s left an impression, alright, but not a good one or one that I want to recall. Especially not now. “Quick, let’s go dance. I bet you can’t do that with your dead philosophers.”
“They’re all right feet, I assure you. Or is it left feet? And bones. No rhythm or grace. Or coordination.” Raj finishes his drink and takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor, my true home.
Beneath the green and yellow and purple lights, Raj proves to be an excellent dancer and distraction, all smooth moves. Oslo will be lucky to have him. At least tonight, we can have some strings-free fun and leave Nietzsche and all kinds of cads behind. Raj is pure rhythm under the mirror ball. I’m all too happy to be swept up with him on the dance floor.
And tomorrow, it’s work again for me and again facing the problem of Mr. McLaren in earnest on our first full workday together.
Chapter Five
Tuesday morning ought to be cancelled.
The first reason is because I stayed out late at the bar, then went dancing till close, and one thing led to another, and I ended up with about two hours’ sleep. No regrets, though. Raj was as fun off the dance floor as he was on it. The second reason is because when I show up at work, impressively only five minutes late, given my late night, my desk and chair in my corner of the Curatorial team section are occupied. By Mr. McLaren. Because of course they are.
I groan.
It can’t be helped. I’m too tired to pretend to be fine with it, especially with that aura of breezy nonchalance Mr. McLaren always has, like worries are for lesser people. There aren’t any other free seats at our bank of desks, because we were at a—happily—full set of Curatorial staff on my team. Now, we have the plus-one that nobody—at least me—didn’t want.
Especially not in my chair.
Dee lifts her head from her laptop, headphones in. She smiles as her gaze flickers over to Mr. McLaren and back again, with an apologetic half shrug. Meanwhile, he’s made himself all too comfortable in my chair, leaning back, long legs stretchedout, tea in hand and a plate of biscuits already leaving crumbs all over my desk. He’s probably left greasy fingerprints on my keyboard. He elegantly pops the last of the biscuits into his mouth and dabs at his lips with a cloth napkin that came from who knows where, the muscles of his jaw working as he chews.
Naturally, he has an enviable jawline. I do my best not to stare. Or curse.
Before I have time to properly pout or get upset or figure out where to put my things, Lily sweeps in. “There you are, Dylan. Perfect timing.”
“Is it?” I ask, already feeling the five minutes and some distance behind whatever’s going on this morning. I should have gone straight to the tearoom myself. Caffeine would help. It must.
“Good morning.” Mr. McLaren acknowledges my existence at last, now that Lily’s here. He gives me an easy smile, which is annoying, and more so because he’s even more attractive when he does, and he’s smug because he obviously knows he is.
Asshole.The thought’s becoming imprinted every time I look at him.
He sips his tea.
It’s everything I can do to keep from ripping the mug from his hands and downing it myself to ward off exhaustion. Except no amount of caffeine’s going to turn this right. First, he takes the parking stall next to the director. Now my desk. What’s next?
“Never mind desks, we’ll sort that out,” Lily assures me, already tracking my too-transparent thoughts. I flush. “At any rate, we have somewhere else to be this morning. Let’s go into the meeting room with Will, shall we?”
This time, I barely keep myself from scowling. Mr. McLaren is positively triumphant, all proverbially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and probably with a very sensible eight hours of sleep under his belt after a demure night in. Probably spent doingsomething respectable, like reading a book. Or working out in some fancy gym. Or interviewing for a lifestyle magazine, or maybe by a social media influencer—if he isn’t one himself—because he has aspirational written all over him.
And so it is in short order, with a detour via the tearoom for me to put the kettle on, it’s the three of us in the meeting room. I’m bracing myself to find out that Will’s replaced me for good. That I’m now shuffled over with the Development team. Like I know the first thing about raising money, other than I’m nearly always broke, especially coming to London, where everything seems to cost double what it did back home in Canada. And Canada’s not exactly a cheap country. My flatmate told me to stop doing currency conversions in my head.
“Get your tea, Dylan. We’ll wait.” Lily pauses in the entry to the tearoom.
“Do you want some?” I ask. “I can make a pot.”
She raises her mug in salute, already several steps ahead of me, smiling. “See you in a few minutes.”
Fuck.
What a morning. Can I go back to bed? How can the day already be a disaster when it hasn’t even begun?
My therapist back home would say I’m catastrophizing and immediately going to the worst and most dramatic possibility. Other than Mr. McLaren’s now on our team and literally in my seat. That’s a real enough catastrophe.
With a sigh, I make a sturdy cup of tea and join Lily and the others in the meeting room. Lily and Mr. McLaren are talking and laughing like they’re old friends. I come in like a man arriving at his funeral, dragging.
I’m supposed to be the boisterous one.
I sit, sip my tea, and promptly burn my tongue with a wince. “Ow.”
