2. Wyn

I can't believe it, but it does seem to be the case. I appear to be having a physical reaction to this horrible man. I honestly don't know what to make of it, but whenever I'm around him, my entire body is flooded with heat. It starts in my face and washes down my neck, spilling into my chest and trickling to my pants, wreaking complete havoc.

I'm astounded. I wrack my brain for a way to explain it. I come up empty, so I dive back in, reaching into the darkest recess of my mind, and arrive at a very concerning suspicion.

You know the things you think about when you're alone? You know, the really filthy shit that pops up when you let your guard down? The shit you'd never, ever tell a living soul you fantasize about and would sure as hell never act on?

And you know the man you imagine doing all that really nasty shit to you? He's faceless, isn't he? Just a killer body, a fuck-ton of presence, and a blurred-out face, right?

Well, he's faceless for me. He always has been. For as long as I can remember, and for as long as it's been decent—I'm using the term decent loosely, you understand—for me to have these kinds of fantasies, he's been with me. My constant companion. My confidant in the night. Tall and dark. Big enough to toss me around without breaking a sweat. Rough enough to need taming but too wild to tolerate it. He's the type that moves like a panther—feline and dangerous. He doesn't walk. He stalks. And he doesn't talk. He growls.

For years, he's lived in my head. Safely caged by the confines of my imagination.

I'm not one hundred percent sure about it. I mean, I'd super love to be wrong about it, but I think, I think, Derek MacAvoy might bear a teeny, tiny resemblance to The Faceless Man.

It's not good. I freely admit it. It's the exact opposite of good, but not to worry, I wouldn't dream of acting on it.

I would never.

Please. As if.

I'm not like that at all. The things I fantasize about and what I do in real life couldn't be more different. I'm a sensible person. Always have been. Mature for my age and full to the brim of common sense. In fact, I'm known for it. Just ask any of my friends. Ask Bridget. She'll tell you. Or ask my college roommate, Gould. He knows me better than almost anyone. I practically managed his whole life until he met his husband, Stuart. Even my most out-there friend, burlesque dancer Trouble, and both of his boyfriends will tell you. I'm the height of sensible. The very height of it. In fact, they laugh at me for it when they think I'm out of earshot.

On top of all that, Derek MacAvoy is straight. He's been married to a woman for decades and is currently going through a highly publicized divorce. Believe me, he's straight. And even if he wasn't straight—or an asshole—I'm currently deeply embroiled in a self-imposed sex sabbatical.

I've taken myself off the market—the meat market, that is. I've been staying home or catching up with friends, avoiding Grindr and clubs for almost six months. It was hard at first, but honestly, I'm so much happier without all that in my life. Hookup culture is fun and games for a while, and I recommend it to everyone at some point in their lives, but it was starting to get me down. I'm almost thirty. I want a relationship, not just a nut. I want to be wooed, not thrown out of a skanky apartment at two in the morning.

I know it might sound old-fashioned, but I want the whole package. I want romance and love and butterflies and a future with a man who looks at me as if I'm the first bite of his favorite pizza. I want heart palpitations and grand gestures. I don't want a white picket fence per se. I think I can do better aesthetically. But I want a house we make into a home, and I want tiny people who look like him or me running around it. I want chaos and Cheerios and chicken nuggets with ketchup. I want first steps and wiggly teeth and eye-rolling teens.

I want it all.

But most of all, I want quiet moments where we're home together and the world goes away. Where nothing matters except that we belong to each other. I want to see it in his eyes before bed and hear it in his voice in the morning. I want to know in my bones that it's forever. That who and what we are to each other is written into the fabric of our souls.

It's what I want.

It isn't new either. It's not merely a strong reaction to turning thirty later this year or anything like that. I've wanted this forever. It's who I am. Don't tell anyone, as it's a little cringy, but I started a secret wedding board on Pinterest as soon as I joined.

I was eleven.

I still work on it now and again.

I know it's a lot. It's a lot to want, and maybe it's unreasonable to be so rigid about it, but I am. This is what I want for my life, and I'm not prepared to make any compromises because I know true love exists. My mom and dad are proof of it. I know it's out there for me. I just have to find it.

So no. I'd never do anything as stupid as tangling with a man like Derek MacAvoy.

Never.

Not in a million years.

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, who is 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? Miller MacAvoy? 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 soft Y, said on a slight exhale, low and breathy, not a high-pitched, cloying I sound.

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 a Y, not an I," 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. I said it."

"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 the future. Still, I've committed. "But I can tell when people say it with an I, 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.

I can't believe it.

A round trip to fucking upstate New fucking York to deliver a threatening letter to Derek's son. No, thank you. I want no part in it. I could think of a hundred more productive ways to spend my time—and looking for a better job is at the top of that list.