5. Derek

Wyn's at it again today. Typing feverishly, sipping his water, and talking incessantly on the phone. Every third or fourth time he hangs up, he tilts his head back, looks at the ceiling, and says something under his breath.

I'm not entirely sure what he says, as my lip-reading skills are far from proficient, but "Fuck this shit" seems most likely.

He doesn't take long to recover though. He steadies himself with a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, puts his shoulders back, and then attacks the keyboard with renewed vigor.

My lip-reading skills might be basic, but I'm more than proficient at spotting signs of a PA who's had it up to here. The hushed calls to HR, the red eyes, the not-so-subtle attempts to hide a litany of job applications. Unfortunately, Wyn is showing no sign of being any closer to quitting. Quite the opposite. If the Pinterest board splashed across his new screen is anything to go by, the man's sinking his teeth into planning a wedding.

It's far from ideal, and I admit it's surprised me, but on the bright side, one way or another, Miller and Ryan seem to have landed themselves a wedding planner. Much as I'd prefer for it to be anyone else, I don't think there's a wedding planner worth their salt in the entire Northern Hemisphere insane enough to take on their case at this late stage.

Wyn must be crazy.

Either that, or he's a glutton for punishment.

Hmm, wonder what kind of punishment he likes?

No. No, no. He's my employee. I shouldn't think things like that about him. There's no need for it. There's a clear line between employer and employee, and thinking like that is crossing it.

It seems Wyn will be around for at least a few weeks, so I'll just have to accept the situation for what it is and get on with my life. Fortunately, my schedule today looks like hell with back-to-back meetings and calls. I have plenty of things to do that don't involve watching my new PA do his job.

Wyn has stopped typing. He's been on a call for over ten minutes. He was seated for the first half of the call, but around five and a half minutes in, he got up and started pacing. At first, he walked around his desk. He did that twice. First clockwise and then counterclockwise. After that, he jotted something down in his notepad. The one with the pink and purple glittery swirls on it that matches his water bottle exactly.

He's been standing stock still for the past two minutes, both legs locked at the knees as he looks out the window. He speaks quietly, his voice smooth and melodious with a slight purr at the end of certain words. As the call winds up, he gesticulates with his dominant hand. It's a subtle movement, a slight flick of his wrist that gives me a feeling he's pleased with the way the call went.

He's wearing a white shirt with a pale-blue stripe today. He was wearing a bow tie this morning, but he took it off around midday, yanking at it, tugging it away from his neck several times before caving and taking it off altogether. He's unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

Two buttons.

Twobuttons.

I know that's standard. It's completely normal attire for the workplace, regardless of gender. I have two buttons unbuttoned right now. So do most of the people in the building. There's not a thing wrong with it.

There isn't.

It's just that on Wyn, two buttons undone seems a little excessive. On him it seems like a lot of skin. Clear, pale skin. A milky white triangle pointing downward. His shirt fits him well. It's fitted. Flattering. Soft cotton molds to his shoulders and clings to his chest. His belly is slightly concave, dipping in beneath the subtle suggestion of pectoral muscle.

He sits, writes something on a Post-it, and sticks it to one of his screens. I crane my neck, but I can't see what it says.

He tucks a hand into his collar and flaps his shirt several times, letting air in. He's looking away from me, face in full profile. A ski slope of a nose. A bee-stung bottom lip. His cheeks are flushed. They're always a little flushed, a peachy pink that highlights his freckles, but this afternoon, they seem more so. Rose-pink rather than peach, a color highlighted by the soft sheen on his brow.

I reach for my handset and dial nine.

"Maintenance," comes a gruff answer that startles me despite the fact I'm the one making the call.

"It's too hot on the twenty-second floor," I say.

"Aw, ‘fraid you're out of luck, bud. No one touches the temperature gauge on the twenty-second floor. It's sixty-eight degrees up there by order of Sata…"

"This is Derek MacAvoy," I say before he embarrasses himself. There's a stunned silence. "I need the temperature up here dropped by two degrees. It's sweltering here. Wyn's…I mean, I'm hot."

Aside from when he unceremoniously bundled me off to my meeting with legal and when he handed me my lunch, Wyn still hasn't looked at me.

And I still don't mind that he hasn't.

It's been a hell of a long day, and I haven't gotten much done. I canceled my afternoon meeting and ended the call I'm supposed to be on now thirty minutes early. I wasn't feeling it, so I cut it short—that's one of the big perks of being the boss.

Still, as a result, I don't feel like I've checked anything major off my list today. I hate days like this. Days that leave me feeling like I haven't achieved something. I'm antsy, and that's why. I like achieving things. Always have.

It's certainly not because I'm feeling ignored.

No, it's definitely not because I'm feeling ignored. It's literally my dream for the people who work for me to get on with their work and leave me alone.

"W-yin," I yell as soon as he replaces his handset into its cradle.

He drops his headset onto his desk and comes over, pausing at the door to fluff up the hair that's been flattened. He stands in the middle of the room, a few errant curls now standing up on his crown. He's a few yards away from my desk, hands balled into fists at his side. His lips are pressed tightly together, eyes closed. It looks like he might be offering up a silent prayer.

Funny, he doesn't strike me as the religious type.

He opens his eyes and fixes me with a look that hits me straight in the back of my throat. His lips press together and then part slowly. I can tell he has something of importance to say. He looks like a man biding his time and choosing his words with care.

My dick raises its head in interest.

What? It's a suspenseful moment, okay?

His words have been chosen. His jaw drops and his lips start to move.

"It's Wyn." The sound floats through the air on the back of a soft breath. When it lands, it hums through me until I can't determine where the word starts and where it ends.

"‘M-kay, soft Y, not I," I garble. "Got it."

Good. I'm glad we cleared that up. It's exactly the sort of thing that needs to be straightened up early on before it causes embarrassment.

I wait for him to head back to his desk in silence.

He clears his throat. "Did you want anything, Mr. MacAvoy?"

Oh God, yes, that's right. I called him in here for something.

I scratch the back of my neck roughly. "The, the Gluckman report. Where is it? I needed it this morning."

Wyn's jaw works, but he keeps his lips pressed together. He takes the five or six steps needed to close the space between us, arms stiff at his sides again. When he's within reach of my desk, he picks up a stack of papers, holding them in both hands and tapping them hard on my desk to line the pages up precisely. He spins my stapler to face him, stuffs the paper into it, and drops the heel of his hand with a thud that startles me.

I flounder.

My body reacts.

Arteries relax, veins contract. Blood becomes trapped. A slow heat works its way through me, leaving me feeling a nonnegotiable need to tuck my chair deeper under my desk.

All hope and desire to please have left him. They've left him completely. As bad as they were, what lies in their wake is worse. Electric blue sparks and flashes, an almost sweet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, carving a deep punctuation mark on either side of his lips. The smile isn't sweet. Far from it, and nor is the look in his eye.

Okay, okay.

I'm just going to come out and say it.

Wyn is a pretty boy. He is. There's no getting around it. He's pretty and hard and soft, and no, I'm not totally immune to pretty boys. I never have been, but I have my ways of managing it. Things I do and things I don't. I've always done it and it's always worked in the past.

It's fine.

"Do you mean this Gluckman report, Mr. MacAvoy?" A less-than-innocent tone chinks off glass.

I do mean that report.

Look, I'm a busy man. I have a high-pressure job. I can't be expected to keep track of every single thing on my desk. Jesus.

"There it is," I say loudly. Then, considerably quieter, "Thank you."

He turns to leave, nose leading the way.

All the problems I've run into since Wyn started working here flit in the air around me. They mingle with old problems. Small problems and big problems. Things I've worked through and things I've never consciously let myself envision. Wyn's a pretty boy. A soft boy. A vision of dark curls and smooth skin. Like I said, I'm not immune, but I have my ways of dealing with soft, pretty boys.

Too bad that's not all Wyn is.

He's not just pretty. And he's definitely not just soft. True, he's a pink-and-blue dream, all lips and eyes and good things, but if the furious way he just looked at me is anything to go by, he's a hell of a lot more than that.

He might be soft and sweet on the outside. But inside?

Inside, he's fire.