Page 2 of Work: Strictly Professional

That’s what I thought. That’s what I actually thought. I remember the words and the concept and the feeling behind them clearly, but that was two hours ago. That was Past Me, and Present Me is a very, very different person.

Present Me has had several interactions with Derek MacAvoy, for one thing. And none of them have been good.

I flick through the main drive and study Derek’s schedule in detail, but without being assigned anything to do, I start feeling a bit like a pimple on a smooth marble chin, unwanted and perched on display, while Derek broods in his office. I know for a fact he’s brooding because even though his door has been firmly shut since Clarissa introduced us, the huge pane of glass separating his office from the reception area gives me a clear view of Derek at work. He paces, limbs snaking in long, feline movements as he moves around his desk. He’s on the phone, hands gesticulating in a way that gives me the impression he’s displeased. I can’t hear what he’s saying, courtesy of the thick pane of glass between us, but I have a feeling that if I could, his voice would be loud and his words would have the potential to leave knees knocking in their wake.

I’ve only just managed to find the perfect height for my chair when the landline on my desk rings. That in itself is a surprise. I haven’t used a handset in years. I eye it suspiciously for a few seconds, willing it to stop ringing, but when I feel Derek’s eyes boring into me a few seconds later, I snatch it up and hold it to my ear.

“MacAvoy Group, Derek MacAvoy’s office, how may I…?”

A deep, husky voice barrels down the line. “Is the letter ready to go?”

I twist my body, pinning the handset between my shoulder and ear as I frantically search for a notepad and pen, “What letter is that, Mr. MacAvoy?”

“The letter about the Miller situation.” I don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s talking through his teeth. “Surely,surely to God, Pam caught you up on the Miller situation?”

“I, I’m afraid not, Mr. MacAvoy. I didn’t get to meet Pam before she left, but if you let me know who has the letter, I’ll run it dow—”

“I’ll do it myself.” I hear the start of a rough sigh and then the dull bleep of a dial tone.

He’s gone, and I find myself not just a pimple on a marble chin but a shocked, unhappy one. I feel distinctly scolded. I’m very taken aback. I’ve always been a star employee. Just check my performance reviews. It’s all there in black and white. My bosses love me. They always do. Even the hard nuts crack pretty easily. I can’t even remember the last time I was scolded for a good reason, never mind for something completely out of my control.

I can’t say I care for it.

I take a few minutes to rally, but when I see the time, I realize it’s past midday, and I don’t need to know much about Derek MacAvoy to deduce that this man hangry is the last thing I need in my life.

I tap on his door and enter when he grunts. “Lunch, Mr. MacAvoy?”

“Avocado salad from Joey’s,” he replies without looking up. A subtle heat rises up my chest and makes its way to my clavicles before I’m able to push it back down.

“Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?”

This time, he does look up. He glares at me as though I’m completely neurotic and says, “Avocado. Salad. From. Joey’s.”

I decide to leave it at that. The man is clearly in the throes of a sugar crash or something more sinister. If it were up to me, I’d be getting him something much stronger than an avocado salad. He looks like a man in dire need of red meat, but far be it for me to tell him what he should eat. I’ll get him exactly what he wants, and I’m sure his mood will improve.

Wrong.

I hand him his salad after a brisk walk to Joey’s, only to be met with blank, dark eyes.

“This has red onions in it.”

He saysred onionsthe way people foiling an attempted murder saycyanideand wastes no time dumping the entire contents of the container into the trash can next to his desk.

He storms off after the salad debacle, leaving a grim mood behind him, muttering something that sounds like “…can’t get the help” as the elevator doors close.

I reel, mentally composing a long list of things I’d like to say to him as I man the reception desk feeling more and more like a lost fart. I have absolutely no clue where he’s gone or when he’ll be back. I have no idea of his whereabouts, and that’s something that would never, ever have happened with Sasha. In four years, I can’t think of a single time I didn’t know where she was during work hours. And don’t think I didn’t know exactly where she was out of work hours either because I sure as hell did.

She never stormed out of anything, and she certainly didn’t change her plans without letting me know. Not once. She wouldn’t do that. It’s called common courtesy. It’s called being professional. Both things someone around here seems to be sorely lacking.

I’ve checked his schedule. He has a fifteen-minute gap in his day that started three minutes ago. I can only hope he’s taken it upon himself to go to Joey’s and buy a goddamn avocado salad sans red onion for his own goddamn self.

The elevator pings, and I sit up straighter, but it’s a false alarm. It’s not Derek. It’s Clarissa. She’s back, and this time, she’s wielding several files in the crook of one arm and something that looks worryingly like an employment contract in the other.

“So,” she says brightly, dropping the files onto the desk and presenting me with the contract as though it’s some kind of award. “I thought we’d start with six months with the possibility of going permanent.”Permanent? Like hell, lady. She flips through the pages and underlines the salary with a neatly manicured, bubblegum pink fingernail. “I’m sure you’ll find our remuneration package very generous.” Her eyes sparkle. “And don’t forget about the bonus.”

I follow her finger as she traces another line under the salary.

“Fifty percent bonus?” I exclaim.

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