Page 12 of Work: Strictly Professional

“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’mhot.”

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 balledinto 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, softY, notI,” 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.

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