7. Wyn

"Hey, Siri, play ‘I Will Always Love You' by Whitney Houston," says Bridget when she thinks I'm out of earshot.

I stop dead in my tracks and head back into the living room. "No!" I yell. "Siri, no! Don't you dare play that."

Siri ignores me.

"You have to say hey, Siri, or she won't listen."

Bridget looks a little better than she did yesterday, but she's still in her pajamas, and judging by the state of her hair, I don't think she's had a shower since the breakup.

"Hey, Siri," I say firmly, "Play ‘I Will Survive' by Gloria Gaynor five times on repeat." That rouses a dry chuckle from Bridget. It's the first flicker of life I've seen from her in days, and it cheers me immensely. "Any chance of you attempting a shower today?" I ask hopefully.

"Doubtful." She lays her head on the arm of the sofa and opens her laptop to a page filled with images of people with large tattoos on their backs.

It's a worry. It's the second time I've caught her looking at this type of thing in the past twenty-four hours.

"You know what they say about not making big decisions in times of hardship or trauma, don't you, Bridge?" I remind gently. I'm not sure exactly who said it, but I'm sure someone very, very wise must have touched on the topic at some point.

She sighs and opens a Snickers bar, painstakingly tearing the wrapper along the seam, waving me off silently as I leave for work.

Traffic is bad, so I use the time to give myself a good talking to. I've been up half the night reliving the horrors of my behavior yesterday. It occurred to me at three this morning that since I started my sex sabbatical, I haven't been drinking all that much, what with all the staying home. I think that could explain some of what happened to me. The whiskey went straight to my head. To be on the safe side, there'll be no more consumption of alcohol at work. It's water, coffee, and maybe a soda in the afternoon, but only if I feel my energy dipping. There'll be no more days like yesterday. I have two and a half weeks to plan a wedding, for Christ's sake. The last thing I can afford is to spend an entire day watching a door for no good reason.

No. Today will be different. I'll be getting things done. I'll be checking things off my to-do list. I won't be making conversation with difficult men, and nor will I be talking nonsense. The words snot and turd won't be leaving my lips around Derek MacAvoy again for as long as I live.

I won't be distracted by big hands or veins.

I won't bend over his desk for any reason whatsoever. Should I find myself in need of another pen, I'll simply reach over and take one out of his stationery caddy like a normal person. No. Scratch that. I'll take my own notepad and pen into his office to be on the safe side.

It's called risk mitigation.

"And another thing"—I'm alone in my car and appear to have taken up talking to myself—"I'm done with the day-to-day file. That shit is over. Too many people have had a hand in it. I'm starting my own damn file. That's what I'm doing. I'm not following the misguided recommendations of people who clearly failed dismally in their attempt to manage Derek MacAvoy. I'm an executive assistant. It's not just about assisting people. It's about making executive decisions. I'm done trying to predict what that man wants based on the guesswork of others. I'm not spending all day running around pandering to his whims. I don't have the time. I can't be distracted by that kind of crap. I'm a personal wedding planning executive assistant, and I'm about to plan the fuck out of a goddamn wedding. And while I'm doing that, I"m going to start making executive decisions about what's best for my terrible boss, and that's the end of it."

With all that in mind, the first thing I do when I get to the office is call Ellie.

"I need a hot chocolate delivered to the CEO suite every day, Monday to Friday, from now until Christmas," I say. "I need it here by nine a.m., and I don't care what it costs. Thank you so much." I hang up and immediately call her again. "Actually, El, make it two hot chocolates."

See?

That's some executive decision-making right there.

By the time the hot chocolate arrives, it's occurred to me that the last thing I want is Derek MacAvoy experiencing caffeine withdrawals. He's a nightmare already. There's no sense in making him worse. It's no problem. Easily solved. I simply crank up the coffee maker and decant three shots of espresso into his hot chocolate.

Hmm. You know what, Derek's a big man. Easily six three or six four and a hundred and eighty pounds without shoes on. I make another shot and pour it into his cup, stirring carefully to avoid overflowing.

"Peruvian hot chocolate," I say, setting the cup down without the pomp and circumstance it richly deserves. He can drink it or not. That's up to him. I won't be getting upset about that kind of thing anymore. I've done what I can.

Derek picks up the cup, holding it in both hands, and lifts it to his nose. Despite what I've just told myself, a tiny ball of rage gathers. He leans down as I watch, gingerly blowing twice, and then takes a sip.

I'm quietly thrilled.

That, Muriel, is how you get shit done.

Now, it's just the small matter of planning an entire wedding and working out how to make peach blossoms bloom out of season.