Page 68 of Work: Strictly Professional

“And what happened to Derek being a walking red flag?”

“Oh, he’s still a red flag. Don’t let that performance before fool you. He can be charming, but he’s still a massive red flag.”

It’s true. There’s a plethora of things about Derek that would give any sane person pause. There’s the boss business, for one thing. And the fact he’s almost twenty years older than I am. Not only that, he’s brand-newly divorced, he’s never been with a man, he feels sad after sex, he pays me for sex—and that’s just off the top of my head.

The trouble is, I have a thing for each and every one of his red flags. I want them. Have to have them. Want them all. Want to collect them and stitch them all into one giant red flag. Then I want to cut a neat slit in the middle of that big ole red flag and drape it over my head so I can wear it as a kaftan.

I’m not completely sure, but I might even take a leaf out of Barbara Anne’s book and pair it with an obnoxious hat and a big pair of sunnies.

I think I could make it work.

“What about you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you have yet to spill the tea about your little hookup. The only reason I haven’t interrogated you more is because I had so much to hide.”

“Oh,” she says, waving me off elaborately, “that. No. That’s nothing. That’s just one of those stupid things you need to do eight or ten times to get it out of your system.”

“Eight or ten? You said one. When I got back from Hawaii, you clearly stated it only happened once.”

“Yeah.” She drains her glass. “It had only happened once then. That was then, and this is now. God. Would you look at the time? I’m late. I need to get back to the office.”

At three in the morning, I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping in shock and outrage. I roll out of bed and fly into Bridget’s room, not bothering to knock.

“Bridget Thelma Louise Jones’s Diary.” It’s not my best work, but I don’t have time to get upset about it right now. “You said stupid.”

She sighs deeply and lifts the covers for me to get in.

“So you see,” she says when she’s given me a play-by-play about what’s been happening with Anton, the overtight T-shirt-wearing fuck boy from upstairs, “from an evolutionary point of view, fuck boys actually serve a valuable purpose. I never realized it before, but they’re here to help us recover from terrible breakups. When you think about it, it’s an act of service. It’s a wonder they aren’t more celebrated.”

As soon as she says it, she realizes how bad it sounds and stops talking.

“So what d’you think?” I ask. “D’you think tomorrow you should call my mom and I should call yours? They shouldprobably come and get us. I don’t think we’re coping. I think adulting is kicking our asses.”

Bridget murmurs in agreement. “Yeah, probably, but I can’t tomorrow. I have a thing.”

“A stupid thing?”

“Yep.”

I giggle sympathetically. “That’s okay, Bridge. I can’t do tomorrow either. I have something scheduled too.”

“Ah, a work thing, right?”

Like the idiots we are, we cackle hysterically at that. We laugh and laugh until Bridget is snorting and sniffling and my eyes are watering profusely.

Our laughter dies down abruptly, and the room falls silent. Things catch up with me suddenly. All the things I’ve been trying hard to hold back and push down all rush to the surface. It’s dark, and since I already have tears running down my cheeks, I let a few more fall. I’m tired, so tired. Keeping this whole Derek thing from Bridget has really weighed on me. I feel so much better for having shared this with her that I don’t censor myself. I tell her the thing. The big, awful thing. The terrible, undeniable thing that’s been circling me since the first time Derek fucked me.

No, it’s been with me since the night we talked into the early hours after the wedding.

Since the first time we kissed.

Since the first time he called me into his office and scolded me.

Since the day I met him and his eyes told me he was unmanageable.

“I’m scared, Bridget,” I whisper.

She takes my hand and squeezes it tight. “Like him that much, huh?”

I don’t answer, but my jaw clicks as I nod into the pillow, hiding because as ill-advised as it is, and as much as I know it’s a stupid, reckless thing to do with my heart, I’m really not sure like is the right word anymore.

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