6. Wyn

"Organize a wedding in three weeks?" I wail, and not for the first time, more like the tenth. " It can't be done! I repeat, it cannot be done."

Bridget has taken to baking brownies, and that's something she only does in times of severe stress. Or when she has PMS. Or when something is irritating the unholy hell out of her.

I know I'm on borrowed time on this issue as I've been talking about it ceaselessly for four days, but I can't stop. I'm so wound up I could scream. I have to get the words out, or they'll eat me alive.

The nerve of the man. The unreasonableness. The assholism. It's staggering. I'm almost unable to describe how I feel about it. Almost. Not quite.

"And you know this isn't some laidback family affair, don't you? It's not a chilled beach wedding where people go barefoot and are happy about it." Bridget doesn't reply, but the line where her mouth usually is makes me think I've touched on this before. "These people are difficult, Bridge. Don't even get me started on the ex-wife, Barbara Anne. You don't even want to know what she's like. And as for the grooms? God. Neither of them has a clue what the fuck they want for their own goddamn wedding. I could literally question them under torture, and they'd still come up with nothing. All they have is a long list of things they don't want. I mean, who doesn't like cake? And I don't mean chocolate cake or red velvet specifically. I mean, who the hell doesn't like all kinds of cake? How is that even possible? Have they tried them all? That's what I want to know. And do they know that you can't have a respectable wedding without cake? You just can't. It's expected. Guests travel for these types of things, sure, they're happy to do it, but there's an un…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," says a supremely bored-sounding voice. "An unwritten contract. You mentioned yesterday. And the day before that."

I know I should stop. I can tell she's had enough. She needs a break from this topic. She needs to talk about something else for a few hours, and then we can circle back to this shit show of a wedding and the madman who's making me plan it. I'm going to stop talking about it.

I just have one more thing to say.

"What I want to know is, who in their right mind thinks you can cancel a venue three weeks out from the day of the wedding without having anything else lined up. And more than that, I want to know what kind of an idiot thinks it's a PA's job to organize a fucking wedding. There are people out there called wedding planners." I overpronounce the words wedding and planners for extra effect as I can see I've lost my audience and know I need to claw it back. "Organizing weddings is literally their job."

"Mm," she says after a rather long pause. "You know what I want to know?" I nod supportively. I've been talking for a while, so I think it's important to give her a turn. "I want to know why you haven't quit this ridiculous job yet. That's what I want to know. Your boss is an ass, you don't like the work, and the job is bad for you. It's beneath you."

Now, Bridget and I almost never fight. We spend almost every minute we aren't at work together, and she hardly ever irritates me. I can't say exactly the same for her, but on balance, if you take out the times I irritate her when she has PMS, I don't irritate her all that often. The way she just spoke to me has got my back up though. It's got it right up. Her tone was dismissive as fuck. I don't like it at all. She knows me better than anyone. She knows I can't handle failure. She knows I can't quit something until I've succeeded. She knows that. The rush of anger I feel toward her makes my face hot.

"Oh, that's what you want to know," I say, flapping my hands in her direction for extra effect. "Why someone might find it hard to quit things that are bad for them? I thought you were the expert on that."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you know what I mean." A low buzz at the base of my neck taps gently against my spinal column, letting me know it's becoming urgent that I stop talking. I can't seem to though. The stress of the past week has obviously gotten to me. My mouth is moving faster than my brain. "I'm talking about a little something called Josh. You know, the boyfriend you've clung to for years despite the fact he's bad for you. That he's beneath you. You know, the dickhead who treats you like crap and promises you things he's never, ever going to give you? You really should know this, Bridge. The guy's been making a mockery of you for over six years."

As soon as my words settle, I feel the cold dread of regret. Bridget's face is frozen. A mask of shock and horror. I expect a reply that blows my hair back and takes us both days to apologize for. That's not what I get. Instead, she stands where she is as I attempt to put together a sentence that miraculously manages to take back everything I just said. Before I'm able to deliver my line, she flops down on the sofa and stares off into the distance.

"I knew you didn't like him in the beginning," she says eventually. "But I thought you got over that. You always seem to get along when you see him. And you had fun together at Gould and Stuart's wedding, didn't you? You laughed every time he threatened to drink a beer out of his shoe."

We were all blind drunk at Gould and Stuart's wedding. I can't remember laughing at that, but if I did, I'm sure it was more an attack of nerves than anything else. Gould might have, but I can't imagine Stuart would have found that kind of behavior remotely amusing.

The problem with Josh is that he's okay in small doses. He's pretty good in a crowd. He's lovely at large. One-on-one with the person he's supposed to love is where he falls apart, and when you think about it, one-on-one with the person you love is what really matters.

"I don't mind the way he treats me, Bridge. I mind the way he treats you."

She doesn't talk for a while, nodding her head intermittently at her own thoughts. I'm worried. This isn't normal for her. She's usually more of a fly-off-the-handle fighter and not one to mince words.

I go back to making a feeble attempt at an apology. She ignores it, cutting me off as I speak.

"So you don't think he's ever going to commit?"

This is a man who took three years to give her a key to his place and then asked for it back two weeks later because he said, and I quote, "I feel funny knowing you have it."

I know now's the time for me to start lying my ass off and walk this whole thing back. I know it, but I can't do it. I've held it in for too long, and at the very least, Bridget deserves to know how I feel.

"No, babe. I really, really don't."

The shadows in her eyes start to ripple and she presses her knuckles to her lips. I can't get a clear read on whether she's upset with me or by what I've said, and I don't have time to. She's up before I can say another word, grabbing her phone and keys and heading out the door without changing out of her slippers. As soon as the door closes, I start panicking and replaying the scene.

Fucking fuck!

What the fuck did I just do?

Bridget is obviously right. Obviously, I should quit this job. I didn't even fucking well apply for the damn thing. Why the hell am I having a huge fight with my best friend for suggesting I quit it?

My phone rings, and I rush to answer, hoping it's Bridget.

"Wynston!" says a loud jock voice. "Hey, bud, it's Miller here. I've got Ryan on speaker."

Double fuck!

I forgot I'd scheduled a call with them. I've been trying to get a hold of them all week, and neither has been easy to pin down, claiming slammed work schedules. I thought booking something on Sunday morning would be foolproof.

"It's just Wyn," I say with a big smile. I've read that smiling when you talk makes for much less violent communication, and I think I could use that right now. I've had just about all the violent communication I can handle for one day.

It turns out that whether you smile or don't doesn't make a scrap of difference when both grooms have their heads up their asses.

"To recap," I say brightly, after going around and around in circles until my head feels set to explode. "You're not really ‘feeling it' about either of the venues I've found that are able to move things around to accommodate you at this very late stage?" There's a murmur of agreement from Miller, so I continue, "Neither of you wants to serve steak because you eat it a lot at home, and you don't think anyone makes it better than Ryan?" There's another murmur from Miller. "You're both wary of serving chicken even though you aren't sure why, but you do want chicken nuggets and ketchup for Jamie, as that's his favorite food and Ryan promised him he could have them at your wedding if he's good on the plane." I flick through my notes. "Barbara Anne loves seafood, but she doesn't eat fish that's been grilled whole as she doesn't like her food looking at her. Miller's friend Trip loves Cheetos, but you don't want those served at the wedding no matter what, and cabbage gives Ryan's grandpa gas, so you also don't want that either. And Emily, Ryan's best man, is vegan, so you want a vegan option for her and her partner, Kat, who isn't vegan but likes eating vegan when they're out so Emily doesn't feel left out. But Kat hates legumes, so the vegan option shouldn't include legumes of any sort. Have I got that right?" My voice lilts up at the end of the sentence, so I take care to bring it down an octave before I continue.

If you're struggling to keep up, allow me to summarize—the wedding is in less than three weeks, the venue is TBD, and the menu is fucked.

"Shall we move on to music?" I suggest.

"Yeah," says Miller. Even though I've never met the man and can't see his face as the video keeps dropping off, I have a feeling I'm losing his attention. "We like weird stuff. Leonard Cohen and folksy or bluesy stuff, nothing too mainstream, so we'll have to get back to you with a song list."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

With all due respect to Mr. Cohen, whom I agree was a phenomenal artist, music that sounds like the lead singer is suffering from a bad bout of depression is the last thing we need. It's a wedding! We want happy. We want uplifting. We want get off your chair and onto the dancefloor. We want let's celebrate this special day until the sun comes up in the morning.

Not only that, if I had the money, I'd put a million dollars on Ryan and Miller not getting that list to me until well after the honeymoon.

"Okay," I say, "we'll have to come back to that too. Let's move on to flowers. What are your thoughts?" I'm met with silence so stony that, for a second, I think the line has gone dead. "I'm not looking for much," I trill. "Just a couple of suggestions. Even just colors or textures that you like would be great."

More silence.

God. I'm going to have to resign, aren't I?

I'm going to have to accept defeat and resounding failure. I don't have a choice.

Even if you could plan a wedding in three weeks—scratch that—two and a half weeks. You certainly can't do it for a pair of grooms who don't know their asses from their elbows.

"Anything at all?" I try one last time. "Just any plant on Earth that you don't particularly hate? There must be someth—"

"Peach blossoms," says Ryan.

"Yeah." It's true what they say about smiling when you talk. It must be because I can hear Miller smiling from hundreds of miles away. "We like peach blossoms. And citrus trees."

Peach blossoms and citrus trees?

CITRUS TREES?

Fuck me dead.

This is karma, isn't it?

I'm having my ass kicked by karma because I was mean to Bridget, aren't I? That's what's happening here.

Fuck, it's terrible.

I regret everything.

By the time I hear Bridget's key in the door hours later, I'm sick with guilt about what I said to her. And I've found that legumes are one of the most commonly used ingredients in vegan dishes, neither venue serves chicken nuggets—frankly, both seemed offended at the request—and get this, peach blossoms bloom from March to April. So that's not going to work very well for a wedding booked for the middle of September, is it?

I yank the door open, ready to throw myself at her feet and grovel for her forgiveness, and not just because I'm desperate to call karma off me. I step back when I see her and try to wipe the yikes off my face. Half her hair is up and the other half down, and not because she styled it like that. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy. A fresh sheet of tears streaks down her face as soon as she sees me.

"My God," I cry, "what happened!?"

It takes a while, and I have to make two hurried trips to the bathroom to fetch tissues for her before she's able to spit it out, but eventually, she manages, "It's over. With Josh. It's done. I-I broke up with him."

The euphoria I've always thought I'd feel upon hearing the news is so badly dampened by the state of my darling friend that my eyes sting, and I'm forced to make another tissue run, this time for myself.

"Hey, Siri, play ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together' by Taylor Swift," I say when I've hugged Bridget and propped her into an upright position on the sofa. She's decided to work from home today because her job is flexible and her boss is not an asshole.

I think it's for the best. She's doing better than yesterday, but she has a bit of a red-face-slash-swollen-eye situation going on, and I think a nice day at home is just what she needs. If my boss wasn't an asshole, I'd be staying home with her. Sasha would have totally understood. If anything, she encouraged the people who worked for her to have their own lives.

Things being what they are, I drag myself into the office, heart sinking and then stupidly taking off at a canter when the elevator opens on the twenty-second floor. Derek is already at his desk. A dark, brooding presence skids across the tiled floor to greet me before he so much as looks up. When he sees me, he looks at his wrist pointedly and then back at me. A tiny, tight ball of rage starts to form in my chest.

Much as what's going on with Bridget is awful, it has been a good distraction from terrible jobs, impossible weddings, and unmanageable men with giant hands.

"Sorry, I'm late," I say, unable to drizzle anything more than a perfunctory hint of regret into my words. I set his coffee down on his desk. "There was a long line at Destresso."

He picks up the cup, raises it to his nose, sniffs hungrily twice, and then puts it down without taking a sip.

The tight ball of rage expands notably.

He grunts something that could almost pass for thank you.

I flip my notepad open and flick through the notes I took on the call with Miller and Ryan yesterday.

"Quick question," I say because judging by the way Derek looks at one of my eyebrows instead of making eye contact, he's not loving my presence in his office. "Miller and Ryan seem to be having some trouble nailing down what they want for the wedding. Now, obviously, these are big decisions, so I totally understand, and I'm trying my best to be cognizant of that, but given that the wedding's in nineteen days, we really don't have much time to play with."

Derek looks at me blankly. An obsidian gaze collides with mine, leaving me momentarily dazed. I quickly recover, realizing a little late that I haven't actually asked a question.

"Do you have any advice on how I should handle this?" There's a dreadful note of desperation in my voice. I'm deeply embarrassed by it. Groveling isn't really my forte.

But fuck it, I am desperate.

When I've waited the societally expected length of time for an answer, plus twenty more seconds, without receiving one, I turn to leave.

"Wyn," says the Dark Lord, gravelly and low. It's still more I than Y, but I let it go because, I swear, I thought the way he pronounced my name last week would give me an aneurysm. W-yin? What the fuck? By Friday afternoon, I had a headache that felt like a needle was being driven into my eye socket, and I'm sure that was the reason. I called my mom to check if I was in mortal danger. She said definitely not and told me to resign. Anyway, I'm at the point where I'd cheerfully rather legally change my first name than correct Derek MacAvoy on it again. "Miller has been besotted with Ryan since the second he met him."

"Oh," I say, nodding encouragingly but unsure how that relates to the situation at hand.

There's a long pause. A slight glint of oxidized metal, and then he adds, "If you want to make Miller happy, find out what Ryan wants—and give it to him."

Find out what Ryan wants? Findout what Ryan wants? How the hell am I supposed to do that? The man barely speaks. He hardly said two words on the call yesterday. Find out what he wants? What a ridiculous suggestion.

Actually.

Wait.

It's not a bad idea.

Ryan's best man is a woman named Emily. She must know things. She must. That's how women are. They know things.

I have her on the line in less than three minutes.

Talk about a single conversation turning an entire day around. Emily Parker is an absolute delight. A total joy. She's by far the best person I've spoken to since I started at MacAvoy Group. No question about it. She had a wealth of information for me about Ryan and was only too happy to share it with me.

Guess what? Ryan loves green. It's his favorite color. Emily says it's because Miller always says he loves the way Ryan's eyes look when he wears green, but Ryan says that's bullshit. He liked green long before he even met Miller. Still, the fact remains that he loves green.

I can use that.

Green. Thank you, Jesus.

Em also said Ryan looks almost happy whenever there's live music playing. She said he loves it as long as it's heavy on the strings and light on the drums. Too much bass causes his mood to plummet, and apparently, that's not something I'd like to witness.

He also likes non-scratchy clothes, cheese—all kinds except blue—supporting local small businesses, books, bookstores, and libraries, being left alone, honey on the comb, slouchy beanies, and his nephew, Jamie.

Em says the entire reason the original wedding got canceled was because Ryan mentioned in passing that he thought Jamie would struggle with the long flight, and as a result, Miller canceled the whole thing.

I'm not sure all of this information will be helpful, but it's still really good to know. It gives me a great idea of the kind of person I'm dealing with.

I'm so happy right now.

I can't believe how much my mood has improved.

"Wyn!"

Ugh, correction. I was so happy.

I look up, trying to remember how to smile or look helpful. I think it has something to do with pulling your lips back and showing some teeth, so I go for that, but I don't think it's my best work.

"What can I do for you, Mr. MacAvoy?"

"Did the file say anything about my dry cleaning? I'm running out of shirts."

Oh shit!

I totally forgot about that.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. MacAvoy! I'll get someone on that at once."

"No."

No?

No, what? I didn't ask a question.

I must look confused because he clarifies, "I don't want someone I don't know in my home."

"No problem, I'll pick it up and drop it off myself."

Actually, it's a big fucking problem. I have at least a hundred calls to make today and traipsing around town picking up dry cleaning and dropping it off will take a huge chunk of time out of my day.

I'm absolutely fuming by the time I get to his place. Pam didn't file the dry-cleaning receipt when she left, so I had to get shirty—excuse the pun—with the manager before he'd hand over Derek's laundry. Plus, there's roadwork on Olvera, and traffic was gridlocked for five blocks. It's already taken me over an hour, and I still have to get all the way back to the office.

Thankfully Derek's doorman is friendly and takes mercy on me when I don't have the code for the elevator. Evidently, and unsurprisingly, Derek lives in the penthouse. I punch in the code and ride to the top floor of the building. The elevator opens straight into his entrance hall.

It's an impressive space, I have to admit. Say what you will about Derek MacAvoy, but the man knows how to make expanses of glass and light work. The view is spectacular, a blue-and-green dream that wraps around the apartment. But the real hero is the terrace garden. Large folding stack doors in the kitchen, dining, and living room open to reveal a courtyard so lush and leafy it looks like a floating oasis.

The space confuses my senses. It's beautiful. A symphony of bold choices and thoughtful accents. Light touches and one-of-a-kind pieces of art. At first I think it must be the work of an A-list designer, but the more I look around, the more I see Derek. He's everywhere. He's in the hard lashings of black that slice through vast stretches of white. He's in the complete absence of shades of gray. He's in the precision of every pane of glass and in the unforgiving way it meets solid concrete. He's in the smell of leather that wafts up from the oversized Chesterfield sofa and the bolts of crisp white billowing cotton.

I'm tentative at first, walking slowly and cautiously as if I expect to be caught and put in detention at any moment. The day-to-day file said to hang the shirts on the hooks at the entrance, but there aren't any hooks at the entrance. Just a solid slab of white wall, a sleek glass console table, and a huge, ornate mirror above it. The only thing out of place is a crumpled cloth bag on the floor beside the table with the words Dry Cleaning embroidered on it.

Must be nice, I think. Living how the other half live. Just dumping your laundry at your front door and knowing that some poor sod will deal with it for you. Must be really, really nice.

I pad through the kitchen and dining area, running a fingertip over the table to check for dust. I come up empty. I wander through the living room, stopping to look back to make sure I haven't dragged any evidence of my presence in on my shoes. For good measure, I toe off my shoes and make the rest of my journey on sock-covered tip-toes.

My pulse quickens as I walk.

The door to Derek's bedroom is ajar. I stand in front of it and peer in, leaving the rest of my body safely out of view. His bed has been meticulously made up. Smoothed and tucked in, starched linen leaving no trace that a mortal has slept here. I step into the room, feet briefly leaving the ground when the plastic bag from the dry cleaner rustles.

There's a dark timber bedside table on either side of the bed. They're both polished well beyond the point commonly required to categorize a surface as gleaming. Both hold a lamp that looks more like art than lighting. There's a bone inlay box on the bedside table on the left.

Derek's side of the bed.

It's a small box. Mother of pearl and teak. It's about half the size of a shoebox. A personal item. The only thing in the room that looks like it belongs to a living person. I look around, heart in my throat, and take two steps toward it.

I stop in my tracks.

What the hell am I doing?

I don't do this. I don't snoop. I went to Sasha's house at least once per week for almost four years and never once did I take it upon myself to go into her bedroom. Never once. There's no need for it.

I race from the room, shirts sailing through the air alongside me as I move at speed back to where I should be, pausing only to shuck my shoes on as I walk.

Jesus Christ!

This is the problem with overly beautiful design. It's so fucking thoughtfully done that there isn't a single hook or handle in sight. What the hell am I supposed to hang these shirts on?

I drape them over the sofa, but they immediately slide off it. I consider hanging them off the back of a dining chair, but to me, that feels like damning proof I've ventured a little deeper into his home than I think he'd be comfortable with. After intense deliberation, I settle for the gargantuan kitchen island. I lay the shirts flat, which isn't ideal, so I pat them down to avoid creasing. Then I hot-foot it out of there.

It's not until I'm five minutes from the office that I realize I forgot to take Derek's laundry bag with me when I left.

I give myself a long lecture as I ride the elevator up to my own personal hell. This is unacceptable. This isn't me. Snooping is out of the question. Being distracted at work is out of the question. Sexually fantasizing about my boss is out of the question. It's neither here nor there how attractive he is. That literally doesn't come into it. The workplace is a place of work. It's all right there in the name. Work and place. It honestly couldn't be clearer. It's a place for putting your head down, and no, it's not a place for thinking about putting your head down into the lap of the very man making your life a misery.

Jesus.

I need to snap out of this.

And I do. I snap out of it big time because no sooner have I taken my seat than the elevator doors open to reveal a beauty of such epic proportions that I find myself momentarily pitying straight men. No man remotely interested in women would stand a snowball's chance in hell against her. She might well be the reason men started fearing women to begin with. She waits for a beat once the doors are open and then makes her entrance, seemingly generating her own wind as she moves. She arrives in a flurry of long, perfectly wavy blonde hair and a skintight white dress that falls to her knees and accentuates her curves to such a degree that I feel unsure where to look. She seems to blur as she moves but comes into sharp focus when she stops at my desk. Big blue eyes blink and a pair of perfect lips curl into a smile that's in no way friendly. She looks a little like Barbie—if Barbie had really good Botox and balls of solid steel.

"Oh," she says by way of greeting. "You're still here." I get the impression she'd look surprised if she had full use of her eyebrows. "Tell him I'm here."

She doesn't seem to think she needs an introduction, and she's right. I know without a shadow of a doubt who she is. Barbara Anne MacAvoy, Derek's ex—and she's beating a path to his office.

I leap up and hurry after her, feebly calling out in an attempt to get her to take a seat in the visitor area until I've announced her, and when that fails, I try to give Derek a subtle warning that the shit and the fan look likely to be meeting shortly.

By the time I get to his door, I see a glimpse of a smug smile as the door clicks shut. The cold sound of steel grating against steel makes me step back.

She locked Derek's door.

Less than a second later, the gallery window mists and becomes opaque.

That bitch!

My heart clatters erratically in my chest cavity and my palms sweat. I spend the entire time she's in Derek's office wiping them on my work pants and checking the clock instead of making any of the approximately eleven million calls I need to make today.

I try to reason with myself, I do—he's straight, he's awful, he's older, etcetera, etcetera, but it falls on deaf ears. I watch the door to Derek's office with the level of focus usually reserved for people awaiting death by electrocution.

Barbara Anne is in there for six minutes and thirty-three seconds.

Yes, I timed it and no, I'm not proud of myself.

"Call the elevator," she says, sliding an enormous pair of sunglasses up the bridge of her perfect, and if I'm not mistaken, non-surgically enhanced nose.

I do as she says, resisting the urge to bow from the neck as she leaves, but not by much.

Derek's door stays closed for the remainder of the day, glass misted over. I have a mountain of work to do, all of which I worry about incessantly, none of which I get done. Something's wrong. I can feel it. Something's wrong with him. His presence leaks out under the crack where timber meets marble, slinking over to me. It's dark. Darker and heavier than it usually is. I watch the door, then I watch the window. When I'm done with that, I revert back to watching the door.

I text Bridget to check on her, then I text my mom. Both of them tell me to resign without asking what's happening.

At five-forty-five, I can't take it anymore. I tap on Derek's door gently, just the tip of a fingernail against timber, almost as if I'm trying to get his attention without actually being the person doing it. It's sad. If I wasn't the one acting like this, I'd feel an overwhelming sense of pity for the poor, hapless fool reduced to this kind of behavior.

"Come in!" he says gruffly.

I open the door and then remember I don't, strictly speaking, have a reason to be here.

Ooh.

Something's wrong with me. Something's really, really wrong with me. This isn't me. I don't go around doing this kind of thing. Not ever, but especially not at work. It never, ever happens. It's never happened once in my life.

"I," I trill, dragging the sound out in the hope I'll think of something to say before the word has fully left my lips. I'm in luck. "I'm afraid I forgot to pick up your dry cleaning today, Mr. MacAvoy." It's not perfect. I don't totally love it for me, as it doesn't paint me in a good light, but it is better to get in front of things like this. It's called being accountable. It's called taking ownership of your actions. "I mean, I did pick it up. I picked it up from the cleaners, and I dropped the clean laundry at your place. It's just that I forgot to pick up the bag at the entra— I did see that you left it out for me, and I meant to pick it up. I-I just…"

I'm silenced by nothing more than his eyes. For once, he looks directly at me. The force of it curls around my windpipe and squeezes like a fist. His face is almost passive, brows only slightly drawn down. There's a question in his eyes. It's distant, but it's there. There's something else too. Deeper. Behind the question, there's a sadness so ancient it makes me draw a sharp breath.

"I-I-I apologize," I splutter. "It won't happen again. I'll go by tomorrow and pick it up."

He gives a curt nod and looks away, his no-nonsense way of inviting me to take my leave.

"Actually"—the gravel in his voice rubs up against my spine as I walk, stopping me in my tracks—"could you witness something for me?"

"Of course, Mr. MacAvoy!" I reply, accidentally slipping straight into major ass-kissing mode. "Of course I can. I'd be only too happy to help."

He manages to avoid an eye-roll. Narrowly. I decide to walk my enthusiasm all the way back, and I'm largely successful despite standing so close that I could lick him. Obviously, I wouldn't. That would be grounds for dismissal. Obviously. No, I'd never do that. Wasn't even thinking of it, really. It's more of an expression than anything else.

So close I could lick him. It's a saying. I'm sure of it.

He opens a folder I don't remember seeing on his desk before. "Initial here and here, and at the bottom of each page, then sign and date under my name." Mammoth hands flick through pages as he speaks. I watch intently because it's important to understand exactly what's required of me. I've been off my game today, and that needs to stop, so I follow the haphazard vein that tracks along the back of his hand. It's thick. Virile. A faint blue-green vessel that runs under his skin, steadfastly pumping blood to his heart. I tilt my head slightly to get a better view as it meanders around the knuckle of his forefinger.

Attention to detail. That's what it's called.

I'm known for it.

Ask anyone.

I'm so busy with my attention to detail that it takes a while for the letters on the page to organize themselves into something comprehensible.

"Oh my God!" I yelp when they do.

Divorce papers?

YES!

I mean, no. I mean, I'm terribly sorry. What a difficult time and what an awful experience to go through. My deepest condolences.

That's what I mean.

I don't know. Does one say condolences or congratulations when someone gets divorced? I guess it depends. I guess it's one of those things you have to judge on a case-by-case basis.

I glance at Derek, unable to tell if condolences or congratulations are in order. Either way, the sadness from before is still there, skipping over nearly black pools like a stone on a flat body of water.

The sight of it catches my breath and leaves me feeling shaky. I can't let it stand. It's my job to assist him. To help him. To keep his life running smoothly. Right now, I'm failing. There's nothing about him that looks assisted or smooth.

Except for his hair. That shit is smooth as hell. Dark-chocolate strands of silk swoop off his forehead and stay in place as if it's been styled by some sort of mystical force.

"Just give me a sec," I cry, trotting out of the room at a brisk pace. I open my bottom drawer to extract the first-aid kit I keep there and then dash to the boardroom to fetch a couple of glasses. I run back at a speed I definitely couldn't keep up for more than sixty or seventy yards.

I arrive back in his office, wares in hand, panting like I've run a marathon.

Damn, I'm unfit. As soon as my life returns to something resembling normal, I'm joining the gym.

Just wait and see. I'll do it. Don't think I won't.

I open the first-aid kit and retrieve the remedy I keep on hand for this kind of emergency: a couple of those little bottles of whiskey you get on airplanes. I crack them open and pour a glass for Derek and one for me. It's only once I've done it and amber liquid glints in glass that it occurs to me how inappropriate this is. Derek isn't Sasha. He isn't like any of my previous bosses. He hasn't given me any reason to think he'd appreciate this type of fraternization.

Beside me, a deep puff of air is roughly expelled. I can't be completely sure because his expression remains neutral, but I think it might be Derek MacAvoy's version of a laugh.

He raises his glass, long fingers wrapping almost all the way around it, and waits for me to raise mine. I tilt it toward him. To be on the safe side, I take extra care to ensure my fingers don't touch his.

I feel the sound of glass on glass in my bones.

He downs his drink in a single sip, swallowing without any reaction.

"Uh-oh, I thought we'd sip it slo…" I stop talking and down my whiskey, eyes watering as I try not to cough.

He holds his glass out again, so I rummage in the first-aid kit for the last of my medicinal beverages. Typically, one dose is enough, but I keep extras just in case.

By the time we've both taken another shot, I'm warm inside and out. A thin film around my face buzzes when I move my head fast. It occurs to me distantly that I can't remember what I had for lunch today. I remember being at my desk and going out to get a salad for Derek, and I remember watching his door intently, but I can't seem to remember eating the salad I bought for myself. Come to think of it, it might still be on my desk.

"Golly," I say a few times despite not being British and being unable to think of a time I've found it necessary to use that word in the past. Black ink streaks across the paper, leaving well-practiced marks in its wake. His initials, then mine. Words and big numbers come in and out of focus as pages turn. "Golly, that's a lot of money to hand over to someone." I'm aware my filter is slipping, and I'm not happy about it, but short of ordering a massive pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a gallon of water, I'm not sure what I can do to rectify the situation.

Another puff of air leaves him. I feel it on the side of my face, light and warm, then hot. When it's heated my entire face, it slides down my neck and under my collar.

"As my dad used to say, it's only paper," says Derek. His lips part to show me a sliver of teeth.

"O-only paper?" Seems like quite a bit more to me if these numbers are anything to go by.

"Yeah, that's what he said. He used to say it all the time when I was starting out. Every time I was at a crossroads, weighing things up, worried about what the wrong decision would cost me, he'd say, ‘It's only paper, my boy. You can always make more.'"

"Sounds like the two of you were close," I say quietly.

"Yeah, we were. He was my best friend. I hero-worshipped him, I guess you could say. It was easy between us. It always was. We got along. I loved spending time with him." A low hum rumbles from his chest. "Neither of us ever had to send letters from legal to get each other's attention."

"Is that what you do with Miller? Is that why you do it?"

"I think so, yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know." There's a deep sigh and a small, wry smile. "It's complicated between us. It always has been. It's been strained since he was young. Maybe he's a little better at spotting character flaws in his old man than I was." A big shoulder rises and falls. "Maybe I have more flaws than my dad did."

By the time the document is signed, it's well after six. Despite being a little chattier than I'm comfortable with, I think my behavior has been above reproach. Especially if you ignore the fact I"ve just leaned over his desk and arched my back hard in his direction, swaying my ass unnecessarily, when all that was required was for me to reach over and grab a different pen when the one I was using ran out of ink.

I don't know how to explain it except to say that I found myself momentarily unable to resist the temptation to present my hole to him. I can only put it down to a terrible combination of whiskey, no lunch, and temporary insanity.

A wave of humiliation hits me when it occurs to me what an ass I've made of myself. It's hot and so intense my eyes threaten to water. "Ooh, look at the time," I say. "I better get going. Bridget will be expecting me."

"Who's Bridget?"

"She's my person," I tell him, confident that at least I know that much to be true. "She's my roommate, best friend, and platonic soulmate. Poor thing's just had the most awful breakup. I left her on the sofa this morning with a box of tissues beside her. It's not good. I really should run. I don't want to leave her alone for longer than I have to. Her ex is a manipulative piece of work, and I wouldn't put it past him to try to get her back."

I say a few other things before I'm able to rein myself in. Something about snot and the way Bridget's face looked this morning. While I'm frantically trying to stop talking about that, I say something about Josh being a turd—I actually use the word turd—and follow that up with an unflattering analogy, likening him to a piece of poop stuck on the sole of a shoe.

I need help, don't I?