Perfect Chaos

“What?”

“It’s Wednesday.” He frowns when his prompt of what day it is obviously goes over my head. “Weekly rundown?”

Of course. Every Wednesday at nine since we formed Christianson Walker, all staff sit around the conference table and everyone gets up to speed on business. It totally slipped my mind. I rise from my chair but pause mid-lift. “Will . . .” My words fade when I realize how entirely stupid it would be for me to ask if Lainey will be in attendance. Not just stupid, because every PA at Christianson Walker attends the weekly catch-up meeting and always have, but stupid because I might clue Sal into something that I really don’t want him clued into.

“Will, what?”

My arse falls back down to the seat. “You know, I’m gonna sit this one out. I’m up to my eyes in the Pyra pitch. I want to get it wrapped up. Gina will take notes and bring me up to speed.”

Sal’s smooth forehead creases. “In seven years, you’ve never missed a meeting.”

“Yeah, I have.”

“For a holiday or something, yes.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“Jesus, what’s with the interrogation?” I laugh, half amused, half irritated. “Just have the meeting without me.”

“Okay, okay.” Sal holds his palms up in acceptance, backing out of the door. “You okay? You look . . . off.”

I roll my eyes. Isn’t everyone being observant today? I am off. Because I didn’t get off. “I’m fine.”

“What time did you leave the office last night?”

“Nine.”

“Productive?”

“Very,” I confirm, pointing across to the coffee table where all my sketches are still waiting for me to tweak. “I’ll show you later.”

“Or you could come to the meeting and show me now?”

My teeth grind. There’s no way I can be in the same room as Lainey. Not until I can be sure my eyes won’t stray and my brain will behave. “I’ll see you later.”

I hear Sal sigh his acceptance as he starts to pull my door closed.

“Hey, how’s Lainey getting on?” The question is out before my mind can pull the words back from my mouth.

“Brilliant,” he replies, annoying me. I wanted him to rant and rave about how shit at the job she is before going on to tell me that he plans on firing her stunning arse this moment. “I’ve found a gem in her, that’s for sure.” The door closes and I swear my motherfucking head off.IT’S FRIDAY. I HAVEN’T HAD an orgasm since Monday morning. My balls are screaming at me. I’ve watched porn. I’ve thought of Pamela’s tits. My cock has been my pride and joy for so long, but right now, we are not on speaking terms. Or spanking terms, for that matter. It’s a fucking catastrophe. I honestly can’t seem to control my direction of thought. Lainey. Lainey, Lainey, Lainey. And my body seems to gravitate toward Sal’s end of the floor whenever I put myself outside my office space. I’m literally tormented by a force that’s taking everything in me to lock down, and the only way I’ve been able to do that is by remaining at my desk.

But now I need coffee, and my damn PA isn’t answering. “Where the fuck is she?” I slam my phone down and immediately dial Gina again. No answer. So I try again, and when it rings off once more, for the hundredth time, I call her mobile. That rings off too. “Fuck’s sake,” I curse, standing up from my desk and straightening myself out. The king of ejaculation—me—has become a prisoner in my own fucking office.

Running a hand through my hair, I round my desk determinedly. “I’ll get my own coffee,” I mutter to myself, opening the door warily. I peek outside, finding Gina’s desk empty, obviously, and then gaze down the corridor to check the coast is clear. I’m good to go. I hurry on my way, and I very nearly make it to the kitchen without being intercepted, but then Callie rounds the corner up ahead.

“Ah, Ty, I’ve got some snippets from the track being produced.” She stops, but I do not, keen to fetch my coffee and get back to my office.

“Well done.”

“I’ll keep you abreast as things develop?” she asks on a frown as she watches me scurry past.

“You do that.” But don’t use the word breast again. I fall into the kitchen and eye the wretched coffee machine on a scowl. I will not be defeated by a fucking coffee machine.

Glancing down at my three-piece, a gorgeous bespoke silver-gray work of art, my scowl deepens, and I start to rethink my plan. Where’s my fucking assistant?

I look up when one of the lads from the design department walks in. “Hey, Ty,” he says brightly, grabbing a cup from the shelf and placing it under the spout. I watch as he simply presses the button for his selection—a latte—and leaves the machine to pour his coffee. “We missed you at the meeting on Wednesday.”