Page 1 of Work: Strictly Professional

1

Wyn

The second I meetDerek MacAvoy, I know two things to be true. The first thing is that he’s an asshole. I know it on sight. There’s no doubt about it. It’s one of, if notthe,most cut-and-dried cases of assholism I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen an asshole or two in my time, believe me. It’s in the air around him, in his eyes, in his slight snarl. It’s heavy and dense. Dark and menacing. He leans back in his big leather chair, tilting his head just enough to give himself the perfect vantage of me. A vantage gained by intentionally looking down the line of a regal nose.

He takes me in, considers me for a moment, and finds me wanting. He makes no effort to hide it. His lips thin and he releases a clearly audible sigh. He flicks his eyes at Clarissa, head of recruitment for the MacAvoy Group, and she winces from the impact.

He returns his attention to me. His hair is so dark and glossy that it looks like black liquid with fine highlights of silver. It’s swept off his face in a swoop, bringing an air of grace to arrogance. He has a strong jaw and jarringly attractive features. It’s clear at a glance that whoever had a hand in his creationwas loath to incur his wrath and thus took it upon themselves to spend a few extra minutes arranging his face to get it just right. His thick, perfectly arched brows are currently knitted together in displeasure. Coffee-black eyes blink and deliver a clear, unapologetic message:I am not manageable.

“So, as I was saying,” trills Clarissa, “Wyn has themostremarkable resume. He’s by far the most qualified applicant we’ve had and, and, well”—she takes a quick breath to settle herself—“he can start today.”

With that, she spins on her heel and takes several short but profoundly quick steps toward the elevator, pushing the down button four times in rapid succession as she waits for the doors to open.

I’m left faced off with a less than impressed, unmanageable man.

It takes a few seconds for me to piece together what just happened.

I appear to have landed myself the position of personal assistant to Derek MacAvoy, CEO and owner of the MacAvoy Group. It’s odd for several reasons, chief among them being that I didn’t apply for the job.

I’ve been doing temporary admin work for a couple of months while looking for the next right thing. For the right person, really. There’s something very personal about assisting someone at the level I do. You get to know things about each other that most people will never know—the good, the bad, the ugly. You see it all when the pressure is on.

And at the top, the pressure is always on.

A good rapport, an understanding, and an appreciation for how the other person works is essential. You need to be in tune with each other. It’s chemistry, I guess. You have it, or you don’t. If you don’t, sure, there are ways around it. You can make it work, but you can’t make it sing, if you know what I mean. Workwill feel like work, and I don’t want that. I love what I do and was spoiled by Sasha, my ex-boss. I worked for her for almost four years and we had an incredible relationship. I probably know more about her than her husband does, and I still completely adore her. The way she functioned and what she achieved in a day often left me in awe. It was a privilege to work for her, to make her life run smoothly, to pick up the clutter so she could go in for the kill. I loved it.

Working for Sasha didn’t feel remotely like work. We were a well-oiled machine, the two of us. It wasn’t laborious or hard. It was like being on a team. And not just any team either, a winning team. The A-team. If my mom hadn’t threatened to have a heart attack at the mere mention of it, I would have moved to Tokyo with her in a heartbeat when she was promoted to head up the office there.

Truth be told, Mom’s heart attack notwithstanding, I’m kind of sorry I didn’t. It’s been a lot harder to find the right person than I thought it would be, but by God, have I inadvertently stumbled upon the wrong one.

The wrong one’s top lip rises and twists slightly to the left, giving me a hint of an incisor. If it’s an attempt at a smile, it’s a poor one.

“I look forward to working with you, Mr. MacAvoy,” I lie.

His stony silence makes it clear I’m alone in the sentiment.

He waves dismissively at my desk and says, “Get yourself up to speed. The stakeholder meeting starts at two.”

With that, he leaves me to sit, adjust the height of my seat, and stare vacantly at my screen.

What the hell just happened?

I’m supposed to be on the fifth floor, doing general admin, working with a very nice group of people in a low-stress position. I only started this morning, but my initial impression was great. There was a morning meeting with gossip and doughnuts andeverything. I was only supposed to be here for three weeks while someone named Samantha recovers from shoulder surgery. I was about to start on some filing when there was a kerfuffle in the HR section that culminated with an irate woman yelling, “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. I won’t. I quit!”

Less than an hour later, I’d completed the filing and was about to work on some travel bookings when Clarissa came sidling up to my desk and asked me to take a walk with her. Turns out, that walk was less a walk and more an elevator trip to the twenty-second floor.

“Welcome to the CEO suite,” she said looking as pleased as one would if they’d built it themselves.

It’s a magnificent space, so I can understand why she looked so happy. Vast expanses of floor-to-ceiling glass provide an uninterrupted view of the Los Angeles skyline, and everything that isn’t glass or steel has been liberally draped in Carrara marble. The floor, the wall behind the reception area, and even the reception desk itself are all marble. The desk is a large, semi-circular affair cleverly lit from below to create the illusion that it’s floating. The starkness of the glass and stone is broken by not one but six mature olive trees forming an indoor forest behind an enormous curved white bouclé sofa, which I presumed serves visitors to the floor.

I’d eyed the sofa, wrongly presumingIwas a visitor, but then noticed that Clarissa had pulled out the chair behind the reception desk for me.

“But, I…”

“Okay.” Her Colgate smile faded and was replaced by something distinctly more businesslike. “I’m going to level with you, Wyn. We’re in deep shit here. Pam just walked out, and it’s month’s end. There’s a very important meeting happening this afternoon, and we have to have someone here. We just can’t…not. Weneedsomeone. Anyone. You don’t even really have to doanything. Just, you know, answer the phone, and if Mr. MacAvoy asks for anything, give it to him. That’s all.” A high, tinny laugh echoed off the marble and glass. “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

Now, I’m good at what I do. I’m a hit-the-ground-running kind of a guy. I pride myself on it, and history has shown I’m a person who actually does have what it takes to thrive in a fast-paced environment. I’ve been a PA for eight years, so while this is not what I expected when I got out of bed this morning, it isn’t uncommon. I’m trained to expect the unexpected. It happens. I’ve had days like this before. A lot of them. It’s part of the job. It’s called being flexible. It keeps things interesting and fresh. It challenges me to stay on my toes.

Plus, how bad can it really be?

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