11. Wyn

I don't care what my mom says. I'm definitely having an aneurysm. Either that or a stroke. I know it. My brain is about to explode out of my ears, and if that's not a medical emergency, I don't know what is.

Derek ends the call and moves his hand toward his mouse as if he intends to start working. My vision fades around the periphery and my hands clench tightly.

"Quick question," I attempt to steady myself and fail. "What the actual fu…?" I shake it off, adjusting my tone and taking a deep breath before trying again. "I mean, excuse me, Mr. MacAvoy, but what just happened?"

Derek raises a careless shoulder and shows me an incisor. The look doesn't last. Old pain breaks loose and swirls in his eyes, causing ripples so deep I feel them in my spine.

"I just came out," he says eventually, "to someone I care about deeply. Someone who had a right to know."

I pat my hair down at my crown and tug at the pieces in front to straighten them. They shoot straight back to where they were before.

I've always known I'm gay. There was never any doubt. I came out to my parents in middle school, and they couldn't possibly have taken it better. My dad rushed out that very afternoon to buy pride stickers to stick on both their vehicles and hand a few out to our neighbors and family members.

I was lucky. I know that. I wasn't nervous to tell them. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they'd be fine with it. I have friends who haven't had the same experiences, and I've always planned that if someone came out to me, I'd make sure they were met with the same kind of support my parents gave me.

It's just that nothing in my life has prepared me for this kind of coming out.

Still, it's a matter of principle. It's a matter of who I am at my core.

"Well"—I sound a little stiff, but under the circumstances, I don't think that can be helped—"I'm…I'm"—ooh, it's harder than I thought it would be—"very…p-proud of you."

He acknowledges that with a curt nod and then sits back in his chair, lifting his hands in the air, indicating he's ready for me to clear his plate away, though he hasn't finished his meal.

The aneurysm from before is still threatening, sending torrid bolts through me that make me grit my teeth and blink harder than normal.

"Mmm," I say, digging my fingernails into my thumbs as hard as I can. "So, pride and acceptance and"—shit fuckfuck, I'm struggling to come up with anything that isn't a vicious string of expletives—"and, um, more pride aside, I do have a few questions."

Something about my demeanor must alert Derek to the fact trouble is afoot because he takes it upon himself to shut that shit down. His eyes darken and he blasts me with a hard stare that makes me feel like my entire being has been shrunk to miniature size and sucked into the harsh black-and-white vortex that is his mind.

It's strange and uncomfortable to find myself in someone else's mind. Especially Derek's. Especially in the workplace. It's the last thing I need, and it's very confusing because now I'm furious, confused, and for some reason I can't quite explain, horrifically horny.

"It's not complicated, Wyn. You'll be my date for the wedding. As far as my friends and family know, you're my boyfriend. It's unorthodox, I admit that, but it's no big deal." He waves me off with a mammoth paw. When it becomes clear that I remain incredibly baffled, he tacks on, "It's called winning a divorce."

"Yes, but"—this time, I have to pinch my lips together until they burn to stop myself from screaming at the man who signs my paychecks—"that's not a thing. Winning a divorce. That's not a real thi—"

"Of course it's a real thing!" he booms.

With that, he's up and off, on his way to a meeting I'm supposed to take minutes for. I leave his plate on his desk and dash after him, lengthening my strides to keep up. It's not a walk, but it's not quite a jog. It's not dignified either. I puff and pant at his side as we ride the elevator together. He takes up an inordinate amount of space, crowding me and making the elevator feel unbearably small. He's so close to me that the fabric of my shirt brushes against his. Cotton against cotton. Crisp white fabric disturbing the air near my skin.

Is it me or is it hot in here?

I loosen my bow tie and stuff it into my pocket, undoing a couple of buttons to give myself some air. I try to start talking several times but nothing sensible comes out. I'm flustered as fuck not least because while every sensible part of me is faint with fury, when Derek announced his insane plan, all my dick heard was that a devastatingly sexy, massive, unmanageable man wants me to be his boyfriend.

And I tell you, my dick is way into it.

"Wyn." Though it pains me, I must admit he's made progress with my name. The soft exhale needs work, but he has the Y right. I look up at him, and when our eyes meet, I feel like I did earlier. Like I've been sucked into his mind. "We'll talk about it later, okay?"

My heart beats like it's about to be told a secret. A big, life-changing secret. A steady doo doof that's harder and faster every time a chamber relaxes or contracts. My insides tremble with hope and rage. Fury and excitement. During the meeting, I try to right things with reason, but every time I do, I look up and see Derek. One arm rests on the table, the other elbow planted on the shiny timber surface. Hand clenched into a fist. Now and again, he pauses, looking down, and leans his chin on his knuckle.

The meeting is a mess.

No, no, that's me. I'm the mess.

Derek seems to grow larger and larger the longer I watch him, owning the space around him. Owning the air we all breathe. People sitting at the table grow smaller and paler. He seems to darken. His skin. His eyes. Even his hair. When I look at him, I'm flooded with heat. My blood boils in my veins, making the palms of my hands sweat so much that my fingers slip and slide over the keyboard.

The meeting is long. It goes on for hours. Hours and hours. I can't keep my head down for the entire time. I can't. So I look up, and when I look up, I burn. I burn every time I look at Derek.

When I look away, it's worse, an icy chill that makes me feel like I've accidentally left the house naked on a cold winter day.

The minutes I take are more of a mess than I am, and that's saying something. I'm absolutely positive that before the close of play on Monday, I'll be called into Derek's office and scolded. I know it. A big thick dick finger will point at the spot on the floor beside his chair, and I'll have a strip torn off me. I'll feel stupid and naked and told off in all the worst ways.

The problem is that a big part of me is looking forward to it.

Okay, fine, not a big part, exactly. A slightly below-average-sized part that's completely in proportion with the rest of my body, okay?

By the time the meeting is finally over, and everyone but Derek and I have milled out of the room, I feel anemic and my heart is beating so loudly I can hear blood whooshing around when I move my head.

A dark-chocolate gaze pours over me. My entire body bursts into flame, singeing my clothes and making them so goddamn uncomfortable that, for a mad second, ripping them off seems like the only solution. The moment drags out far longer than seems possible.

My heart beats for Derek's secret.

Again.

Again.

"I'll pay you," he says, devoid of any clearly identifiable emotion. "For your time. I'll pay double your usual daily rate."

He'll pay me?

He'll fucking pay me?

Holy shit, great balls of fire. I've never heard about anything this crazy happening to a real living person.

I'm in such a high temper that I can't wait to get home to talk to Bridget. I get her on Bluetooth as I crawl out of my skin along the I-405.

"You should have seen him this afternoon, Bridge." I'm talking too loudly, and there's an unpleasant grating quality to my voice that isn't usually there. "There was this big meeting, and, and, you should have seen him. He didn't let anyone else get a word in." It's not what I want to tell her. It's not even what really happened. What I want to tell Bridget is that Satan himself took a sharp turn in the direction of a little town called Insanity this morning and decided to tell his ex-wife that I'm his boyfriend. That's what I'd like to tell her.

Don't worry about it though, Bridge, no need to fret. He'll be paying me for my time. Time and a half, so dinner's on me. Dessert too.

Since there's no way I can tell her that without seriously jeopardizing her mental health, I say, "He was a complete nightmare today."

Actually, he was kind of majestic, but I also can't tell her that because then she'll start questioning my mental health. It was some meeting this afternoon. Tense and fraught. A major renegotiation of terms. The word re-baselining was used several times. Huge numbers with dollar signs in front of them were being flung around with abandon. You could have heard a pin drop when Derek was talking. He had every single person there hanging on every word he said. Admittedly, they were probably struck silent with fear. But when you think about it, inciting fear and being terribly powerful is kind of the same thing.

"Red. Flag," says Bridget.

And there's another thing I can't tell Bridget. When it comes to red flags, I'm starting to think my dick is into them. I'm starting to suspect it would like nothing more than to collect a big ole pile of red flags, cut them into smaller red flags, and have them made into seven days' worth of Superman underpants. Not only that, I think it might start refusing to wear anything else.

Mm, yeah, lovely red-flag undies cradling my balls and holding my boner snugly in place.

Ugh. Fuck. What's wrong with me?

Don't think I haven't tried to talk my dick out of this line of thinking. I tried in the shower this morning. I tried really hard. And slow. Then fast. I even snuck to the restroom after that mess of a meeting and did my damnedest to get it to see sense then too.

It didn't help.

If anything, my attempts to right things might be making them worse.

"Are you almost home?" asks Bridget.

"Yeah, do you need me to stop and pick anything up for dinner?"

"No thanks, I'm good. I don't need anything." She trails off but comes back. "Uh, Wynnie, it's no big deal so don't worry, but I did a thing today. Not a big thing or anything like that. Just a little thing that deserves a heads-up."

With that, she's gone, and I'm left stuck in traffic that isn't moving, all but certain that the next time I see my best friend, her entire back will be covered in a massive tattoo featuring survival song lyrics, or worse, a picture of that turd Josh's face.

Neither are great options.

"Bridge," I call, tentatively craning my neck as I scan the living room, looking for her.

"What do you think?" She spins slowly and comes to a stop directly in front of me. Her sapphire irises widen, and she smiles nervously.

"What do I think?" Ordinarily, I try to keep my screeches to a minimum because I don't think it's a good look on me, but trust me, this warrants an ear-piercing scream, and boy, does it get one. "Holy fucking fuck, what do I think? Are you kidding me, Bridget Elizabeth Norma Jean Taylor. You little bitch. That's a revenge haircut if ever I've seen one."

Bridget concedes with a faux innocent shrug. She looks amazing, and not just because she's wearing real clothes—and I mean really real clothes, not pajamas, not even loungewear. She's wearing honest-to-God black jeans—jeans people, jeans—and a skintight tank that shows a hint of her midriff. She's even rocking a smokey eye, and not one she got from crying. Her hair, the unequivocal hero of the entire look, has been cut and styled with near-surgical precision. It skims her shoulders, an ode to sleekness itself, and her face has been framed by the mother and father of all bangs.

Now, ordinarily, I'm hesitant to recommend bangs to anyone, especially so soon after a trauma, but fucking hell, they look amazing on Bridget. It's giving get out of my way and get in line at the same time. No, it's more than that. It's giving I've taken my power back. Now Imma take yours.

I am living for it.

"She's back, biatches!" I yell, grabbing her by the waist and swinging her around. "Badass Bridget is back, and she is on fire!" I set her down quickly when I realize she looks like she's going out. I'm not being funny, but if she runs into that dickwad, Josh, looking like this, it's all over for this breakup. "Where are you going, and who's going to be there?"

"The Tremor, and girls only," she says, "but obviously, you're invited."

"Obviously." It hardly needs to be said. "But ugh, I can't. I have to start packing for Hawaii."

I'd love to go, but I think given the current state of my dick, it might be best to stay home and try to reason with it a little more. The last thing I need is for a night out to derail my sex sabbatical. I didn't make the decision to go on one lightly, and yes, sure, it's been a little harder than I thought it would be, but I know what I want. And as we all know, doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome is the very definition of insanity.

I want something different for my life. Therefore, I have to do different things.

So no going out. And no being a slut.

It's fine. I like staying home.

Plus, I can't wait to pack.

I love traveling, and I've bought a ton of these cute little dividers for my luggage that separate outfits, toiletries, shoes, and all that. I can't wait to use them. I'm going to organize the crap out of my bag, and then I'm going to have a lovely time in Hawaii. I know it's a work trip, and it'll be fairly busy, what with the wedding and all, but I've booked myself a bungalow. Sadly no sea view—saved those for the guests—but I have my own plunge pool and the bathroom is to die for. Free-standing bath, outdoor shower, the whole nine. I'm not saying the gorgeous accommodation had a huge hand to play in my decision to choose the Orchid Lani as Ryan and Miller's wedding venue. It was a big decision, and there were obviously many factors to consider.

But I'm also not saying it didn't.

You better believe that after the month I've had since I started at MacAvoy Group, I fully intend to get my money's worth. Well, Derek's money, but you know what I mean. I'm going to chill so hard I'll barely be recognizable by the time I get back. The puffiness under my eyes will be a thing of the past. I'm going to work on my tan. Might hit the gym. Might make some gains. Might even take a yoga class and improve myself. I'll definitely be having nothing but tropical fruit for breakfast. Might only have salad for lunch, but we'll have to see about that. Don't want to overcommit, you know. "Hey, Siri, remind me to pack cute flamingo swim shorts for dream Hawaiian vacation."

I don't usually like saltwater because the salt makes me itchy, but you never know. This might be the trip that changes all that. By the time I get back, I might be one of those people who goes for a run on the beach, has a nice little dip in the ocean, and skips coffee altogether.

I might even enjoy it.

"Hey, Siri, remind me to pack running clothes for dream Hawaiian vacation."

Hmm. No.

"Hey, Siri, remind me to buy running clothes for dream Hawaiian vacation."