Page 18 of Work: Strictly Professional

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.

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