1. Wyn

The second I meet Derek MacAvoy, I know two things to be true. The first thing is that he's an asshole. I know it on sight. There's no doubt about it. It's one of, if not the, most cut-and-dried cases of assholism I've ever seen. And I've seen an asshole or two in my time, believe me. It's in the air around him, in his eyes, in his slight snarl. It's heavy and dense. Dark and menacing. He leans back in his big leather chair, tilting his head just enough to give himself the perfect vantage of me. A vantage gained by intentionally looking down the line of a regal nose.

He takes me in, considers me for a moment, and finds me wanting. He makes no effort to hide it. His lips thin and he releases a clearly audible sigh. He flicks his eyes at Clarissa, head of recruitment for the MacAvoy Group, and she winces from the impact.

He returns his attention to me. His hair is so dark and glossy that it looks like black liquid with fine highlights of silver. It's swept off his face in a swoop, bringing an air of grace to arrogance. He has a strong jaw and jarringly attractive features. It's clear at a glance that whoever had a hand in his creation was loath to incur his wrath and thus took it upon themselves to spend a few extra minutes arranging his face to get it just right. His thick, perfectly arched brows are currently knitted together in displeasure. Coffee-black eyes blink and deliver a clear, unapologetic message: I am not manageable.

"So, as I was saying," trills Clarissa, "Wyn has the most remarkable resume. He's by far the most qualified applicant we've had and, and, well"—she takes a quick breath to settle herself—"he can start today."

With that, she spins on her heel and takes several short but profoundly quick steps toward the elevator, pushing the down button four times in rapid succession as she waits for the doors to open.

I'm left faced off with a less than impressed, unmanageable man.

It takes a few seconds for me to piece together what just happened.

I appear to have landed myself the position of personal assistant to Derek MacAvoy, CEO and owner of the MacAvoy Group. It's odd for several reasons, chief among them being that I didn't apply for the job.

I've been doing temporary admin work for a couple of months while looking for the next right thing. For the right person, really. There's something very personal about assisting someone at the level I do. You get to know things about each other that most people will never know—the good, the bad, the ugly. You see it all when the pressure is on.

And at the top, the pressure is always on.

A good rapport, an understanding, and an appreciation for how the other person works is essential. You need to be in tune with each other. It's chemistry, I guess. You have it, or you don't. If you don't, sure, there are ways around it. You can make it work, but you can't make it sing, if you know what I mean. Work will feel like work, and I don't want that. I love what I do and was spoiled by Sasha, my ex-boss. I worked for her for almost four years and we had an incredible relationship. I probably know more about her than her husband does, and I still completely adore her. The way she functioned and what she achieved in a day often left me in awe. It was a privilege to work for her, to make her life run smoothly, to pick up the clutter so she could go in for the kill. I loved it.

Working for Sasha didn't feel remotely like work. We were a well-oiled machine, the two of us. It wasn't laborious or hard. It was like being on a team. And not just any team either, a winning team. The A-team. If my mom hadn't threatened to have a heart attack at the mere mention of it, I would have moved to Tokyo with her in a heartbeat when she was promoted to head up the office there.

Truth be told, Mom's heart attack notwithstanding, I'm kind of sorry I didn't. It's been a lot harder to find the right person than I thought it would be, but by God, have I inadvertently stumbled upon the wrong one.

The wrong one's top lip rises and twists slightly to the left, giving me a hint of an incisor. If it's an attempt at a smile, it's a poor one.

"I look forward to working with you, Mr. MacAvoy," I lie.

His stony silence makes it clear I'm alone in the sentiment.

He waves dismissively at my desk and says, "Get yourself up to speed. The stakeholder meeting starts at two."

With that, he leaves me to sit, adjust the height of my seat, and stare vacantly at my screen.

What the hell just happened?

I'm supposed to be on the fifth floor, doing general admin, working with a very nice group of people in a low-stress position. I only started this morning, but my initial impression was great. There was a morning meeting with gossip and doughnuts and everything. I was only supposed to be here for three weeks while someone named Samantha recovers from shoulder surgery. I was about to start on some filing when there was a kerfuffle in the HR section that culminated with an irate woman yelling, "I can't take it anymore. I can't. I won't. I quit!"

Less than an hour later, I'd completed the filing and was about to work on some travel bookings when Clarissa came sidling up to my desk and asked me to take a walk with her. Turns out, that walk was less a walk and more an elevator trip to the twenty-second floor.

"Welcome to the CEO suite," she said looking as pleased as one would if they'd built it themselves.

It's a magnificent space, so I can understand why she looked so happy. Vast expanses of floor-to-ceiling glass provide an uninterrupted view of the Los Angeles skyline, and everything that isn't glass or steel has been liberally draped in Carrara marble. The floor, the wall behind the reception area, and even the reception desk itself are all marble. The desk is a large, semi-circular affair cleverly lit from below to create the illusion that it's floating. The starkness of the glass and stone is broken by not one but six mature olive trees forming an indoor forest behind an enormous curved white bouclé sofa, which I presumed serves visitors to the floor.

I'd eyed the sofa, wrongly presuming I was a visitor, but then noticed that Clarissa had pulled out the chair behind the reception desk for me.

"But, I…"

"Okay." Her Colgate smile faded and was replaced by something distinctly more businesslike. "I'm going to level with you, Wyn. We're in deep shit here. Pam just walked out, and it's month's end. There's a very important meeting happening this afternoon, and we have to have someone here. We just can't…not. We need someone. Anyone. You don't even really have to do anything. Just, you know, answer the phone, and if Mr. MacAvoy asks for anything, give it to him. That's all." A high, tinny laugh echoed off the marble and glass. "It'll be fine. You'll be fine."

Now, I'm good at what I do. I'm a hit-the-ground-running kind of a guy. I pride myself on it, and history has shown I'm a person who actually does have what it takes to thrive in a fast-paced environment. I've been a PA for eight years, so while this is not what I expected when I got out of bed this morning, it isn't uncommon. I'm trained to expect the unexpected. It happens. I've had days like this before. A lot of them. It's part of the job. It's called being flexible. It keeps things interesting and fresh. It challenges me to stay on my toes.

Plus, how bad can it really be?

That's what I thought. That's what I actually thought. I remember the words and the concept and the feeling behind them clearly, but that was two hours ago. That was Past Me, and Present Me is a very, very different person.

Present Me has had several interactions with Derek MacAvoy, for one thing. And none of them have been good.

I flick through the main drive and study Derek's schedule in detail, but without being assigned anything to do, I start feeling a bit like a pimple on a smooth marble chin, unwanted and perched on display, while Derek broods in his office. I know for a fact he's brooding because even though his door has been firmly shut since Clarissa introduced us, the huge pane of glass separating his office from the reception area gives me a clear view of Derek at work. He paces, limbs snaking in long, feline movements as he moves around his desk. He's on the phone, hands gesticulating in a way that gives me the impression he's displeased. I can't hear what he's saying, courtesy of the thick pane of glass between us, but I have a feeling that if I could, his voice would be loud and his words would have the potential to leave knees knocking in their wake.

I've only just managed to find the perfect height for my chair when the landline on my desk rings. That in itself is a surprise. I haven't used a handset in years. I eye it suspiciously for a few seconds, willing it to stop ringing, but when I feel Derek's eyes boring into me a few seconds later, I snatch it up and hold it to my ear.

"MacAvoy Group, Derek MacAvoy's office, how may I…?"

A deep, husky voice barrels down the line. "Is the letter ready to go?"

I twist my body, pinning the handset between my shoulder and ear as I frantically search for a notepad and pen, "What letter is that, Mr. MacAvoy?"

"The letter about the Miller situation." I don't need to look at him to be able to tell he's talking through his teeth. "Surely, surely to God, Pam caught you up on the Miller situation?"

"I, I'm afraid not, Mr. MacAvoy. I didn't get to meet Pam before she left, but if you let me know who has the letter, I'll run it dow—"

"I'll do it myself." I hear the start of a rough sigh and then the dull bleep of a dial tone.

He's gone, and I find myself not just a pimple on a marble chin but a shocked, unhappy one. I feel distinctly scolded. I'm very taken aback. I've always been a star employee. Just check my performance reviews. It's all there in black and white. My bosses love me. They always do. Even the hard nuts crack pretty easily. I can't even remember the last time I was scolded for a good reason, never mind for something completely out of my control.

I can't say I care for it.

I take a few minutes to rally, but when I see the time, I realize it's past midday, and I don't need to know much about Derek MacAvoy to deduce that this man hangry is the last thing I need in my life.

I tap on his door and enter when he grunts. "Lunch, Mr. MacAvoy?"

"Avocado salad from Joey's," he replies without looking up. A subtle heat rises up my chest and makes its way to my clavicles before I'm able to push it back down.

"Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?"

This time, he does look up. He glares at me as though I'm completely neurotic and says, "Avocado. Salad. From. Joey's."

I decide to leave it at that. The man is clearly in the throes of a sugar crash or something more sinister. If it were up to me, I'd be getting him something much stronger than an avocado salad. He looks like a man in dire need of red meat, but far be it for me to tell him what he should eat. I'll get him exactly what he wants, and I'm sure his mood will improve.

Wrong.

I hand him his salad after a brisk walk to Joey's, only to be met with blank, dark eyes.

"This has red onions in it."

He says red onions the way people foiling an attempted murder say cyanide and wastes no time dumping the entire contents of the container into the trash can next to his desk.

He storms off after the salad debacle, leaving a grim mood behind him, muttering something that sounds like "…can't get the help" as the elevator doors close.

I reel, mentally composing a long list of things I'd like to say to him as I man the reception desk feeling more and more like a lost fart. I have absolutely no clue where he's gone or when he'll be back. I have no idea of his whereabouts, and that's something that would never, ever have happened with Sasha. In four years, I can't think of a single time I didn't know where she was during work hours. And don't think I didn't know exactly where she was out of work hours either because I sure as hell did.

She never stormed out of anything, and she certainly didn't change her plans without letting me know. Not once. She wouldn't do that. It's called common courtesy. It's called being professional. Both things someone around here seems to be sorely lacking.

I've checked his schedule. He has a fifteen-minute gap in his day that started three minutes ago. I can only hope he's taken it upon himself to go to Joey's and buy a goddamn avocado salad sans red onion for his own goddamn self.

The elevator pings, and I sit up straighter, but it's a false alarm. It's not Derek. It's Clarissa. She's back, and this time, she's wielding several files in the crook of one arm and something that looks worryingly like an employment contract in the other.

"So," she says brightly, dropping the files onto the desk and presenting me with the contract as though it's some kind of award. "I thought we'd start with six months with the possibility of going permanent." Permanent? Like hell, lady. She flips through the pages and underlines the salary with a neatly manicured, bubblegum pink fingernail. "I'm sure you'll find our remuneration package very generous." Her eyes sparkle. "And don't forget about the bonus."

I follow her finger as she traces another line under the salary.

"Fifty percent bonus?" I exclaim.

"Yes, and that's only for the first six months. If you stay for a year, you'll have the potential to earn a seventy-five percent bonus for the second half of the year. You play your cards right, and you'll earn more than half your salary in bonuses." She looks exceedingly proud. "Here at MacAvoy Group, we recognize talent and take staff retention seriously."

I'm unaffected by the sales pitch, but I'll admit I'm wowed by the numbers. The base salary is ten thousand dollars more than I earned working for Sasha, and the bonus there was only twenty-five percent.

Simply put, it's an astonishing offer.

Too good to be true, some would say.

"I don't suppose this has anything to do with that?" I ask, tipping my head toward Derek's office.

Clarissa's smile slips, but she quickly recovers. "Mr. MacAvoy isn't… He's not what one could call an easy man. He isn't. I admit that. He has high expectations and exacting standards. But, but, someone like you, with your experience, shouldn't have any problem keeping him happy."

I sit back in the sumptuous white cloud I find myself on. The chair rocks back a few degrees and my head nestles into the puffy, pillowy neck support. If the situation leading to my current accommodation wasn't total madness, I'd be here for all this in a big way.

"Honey," I say, "you must think I was born yesterday."

Clarissa's smile slips for real, and this time, it doesn't recover. Her shoulders droop and she leans an elbow on the desk, cradling her head in her hand. Her eyes are red and watery when she looks up at me.

"I don't. I don't think that. That's not what this is. This is, God, I don't even know what you'd call it. Desperate, probably. At my wit's end, maybe. This is the sixth time this year we've recruited for this role. The sixth time. I…I'm just…" She scratches the top of her head, leaving her formerly silky brown hair a little disheveled. She presses her lips together and slowly parts them. She speaks softly, with no clue that the words leaving her mouth are my Achilles heel. My greatest weakness. My kryptonite. "I can't…I just can't anymore, Wyn. Please. I need you. I really, really need you, okay? I need someone to help me with this."

It's not just the words. It's the sincerity behind them. They waft through the air and ruffle my feathers. They tickle me, waking a distant part of me that's been sleeping since Sasha left. A part I like. A part that makes me feel alive and successful. A part that's been dying slowly without a crazy daily to-do list.

Against my better judgment, I hear myself say, "Fine, I'll do it. But only until you find someone else."

Clarissa's entire spine goes limp, and she collapses onto the desk for a few seconds before dragging herself into an upright position. She leans over and punches at the handset to the far right of the desk and says, "Sata…Mr. MacAvoy is one on speed dial. I'm two. Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything, Wyn. Your only job is to keep him happy. For everything else, call down, and I'll have someone do it."

Hmm, sounds kind of nice.

Sounds kind of lovely, actually. It'll be cushy as hell. Almost like having my own PA.

I flick through a few pages of the files Clarissa left on my desk and soon gather that not an easy man doesn't quite cover it. The files—there are three of them—are thick and stuffed with pages littered with Post-it notes that are annotated with things like:

Has gone off the steak salad from Pablo's

Loves the avo salad from Joey's (yogurt dressing, extra caramelized red onions)

Use the crème letterhead paper, not the white, hates the white

Drinks iced coffee only (three shots of espresso, two percent, almond milk, oat milk)

Don't use crème letterhead paper unless you're in the mood to be fired

Dry cleaning Tues and Thurs—deliver to office, Malibu home, downtown apartment (leave on coat hooks at entrance)

Hates iced coffee, no matter the milk

Do not order letterhead paper (white or crème) without talking to Rebecca in Procurement, ext 342. She's up to speed on the matter

Food containing red, white, or green onion will be thrown in trash

It's a lot.

The more I read, the more certain I feel that my initial assessment of him was correct.

Derek MacAvoy is not manageable.

When I've read enough to feel absolutely positive that I'll get no clear answers in any of the files, I shove them into my bottom drawer and scan his schedule again, this time for clues as to where he might be. My phone rings. It's first-floor reception, letting me know they're sending up the attendees for the stakeholder's meeting. Evidently, the meeting's being held in the boardroom on this floor.

I grab the phone and hastily dial two. Clarissa answers quickly and a little breathlessly.

"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 three people 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 of what-the-fuck are making themselves known. My insides are showing signs of perturbation. They're sounding an alarm. It's distant 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.

So that's one thing. That's the first thing. The main thing.

And the second thing? Well, it's minor, but it might be even worse than the first. I know, I know, it seems hard to believe, but it's true. The second thing is almost certainly worse than the first.

Want to know why?

Because if the current state of my dick is anything to go by…I'm attracted to a world-class asshole.