Page 77 of Work: Strictly Professional

I’m changed, and I won’t be the same ever again. I know it.

Derek has a dazed, glazed expression that tells me he feels the same.

At least, that’s what I think until he tries to talk.

“Ing goo.”

I whip upright and check his pupils. They’re severely dilated. His eyes are so dark that I can’t tell if one is more dilated than the other. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t reply, and the switch from bliss to blind panic is instantly flipped.

Holy fucking fuck. I knew I should have read that article my mom sent me on how to identify signs of a stroke. I knew it. I told myself I’d come back to it, but I didn’t, and now look what’s happening. I’ve finally found the man of my dreams, and I’m going to lose him.

“Goo,” says Derek again.

Oh, Jesus, my heart can’t take it. I only just got him, and now he’s dying. “Derek,” I yell, not even trying to stop the hysteria from seeping into my words, “Are you having a stroke? Do you need me to call 911?”

I don’t know if people know when they’re having a stroke because I didn’t read the goddamn article, but Derek isn’t most people, so I can only hope he’d know if he was having one.

He laughs softly and pulls me down. “I’m fine, baby. I’m just goo. All goo. My bones are goo. My brain is goo. My insides too. Just goo, goo, goo, and it’s all because of you.”

I’m not entirely reassured, but I’m starting to think that a medical crisis is not what I’m dealing with here.

“Is goo good or bad?” I ask, leaning up to check his pupils again to be on the safe side.

He starts laughing. A low, bubbling sound that works its way up from his belly and pours tenderly into the space between us. “Goo’s love, baby, that’s what goo is.”

Derek keeps talking nonsense about love and goo. I laugh and cry at irregular intervals as he babbles. He holds me and lets me, wiping my tears when I cry and laughing with me when I laugh.

When it’s pitch dark and quiet out, and Derek is lying still beside me, I lean over and kiss his cheek and whisper, “I’m goo too,” into his ear.

34

Wyn

When a man likeDerek MacAvoy takes it into his head to woo a person, he does it with style, believe me. It’s been months since we both became goo, and my feet have yet to touch the ground. When I said I wanted to be wooed, I meant I wanted a bit of an effort, you know? I wanted to feel like I was important. Like I was worth a bit of trouble to someone.

Derek definitely didn’t get that message. When he heard grand gestures, he heard Paris and Venice. There have been trips to both cities. Kisses at the top of the Eiffel Tower and gondola rides under the stars. There have been picnic lunches on the floor of his office, complete with a blue-and-white checkered blanket and a wicker basket he filled with my favorite treats. And there have been boxes upon boxes of pizza delivered to my desk.

“First bite’s for you,” he always says, looking at me with molten chocolate eyes.

I love pizza, so I haven’t bothered to tell him I was a basket case when I said it and that all I actually wanted was for him tolookat me like I was the first bite of his favorite pizza. It’s oneof those misunderstandings I don’t really mind. It’s easy to live with if you know what I mean.

The big things he does are lovely, and yes, they tend to sweep me off my feet, but I like the small things just as much. Maybe more.

I like the way he never fails to text me to tell me he misses me on the rare mornings we don’t wake up together, and I like the way he kisses me as if he’s starving and I’m air when he hasn’t seen me for a few hours. I like the way he never walks past my desk without stopping and telling me I’m pretty or organized or the world’s best PA, and I love the fact that the big window between his office and mine hasn’t been switched to frosted in months—except for when I’m in his office with him and decency absolutely demands it.

I love how he introduces me to people. A hand on the small of my back and a big, goofy grin on his face. “This is my Wyn,” he always says, planting a soft kiss on my hair. He keeps his eyes on me when he says it, not even bothering to look to see how the other person might feel about the fact he’s with a man.

For my part, I take care of him in every way I possibly can, and he lets me. Yes, yes, he calls me bossy now and again, but he loves it, really.

He does. Honest. He tells me so at least once per day.

“You ready?” he asks, coat over his arm, luggage trailing behind him.

“I’d be more ready if you told me where we were going.”

“I did tell you. It’s a surprise.”

---