The Intern: An MM Office Romance

by Akeroyd , Serena

  I opened the bathroom door now I’d finished up, and Devlin shot me an embarrassed look as he rubbed his temples, making me wonder if he had a headache. I thought it said a lot that he hadn’t switched from hands free, though. That he hadn’t quickly lowered the volume so I couldn’t hear what his father was saying.

  Was it a warning?

  I returned his look with a weak smile then pointed at the door and waved.

  Without looking back, I made my way out, glad that Sadie had left earlier so I didn’t have to deal with her as I moved toward the elevator. The door closed behind me, shutting out his father’s strident voice. I knew they spoke every day, and also knew that after the call, he had a couple of meetings with some VPs and his EA.

  In the time I’d known him, I’d learned that Devlin’s days were long. But that wasn’t something new to me. With my father and his company before Google had bought it, he’d worked nineteen-hours without complaint. Sometimes, he hadn’t even bothered coming home.

  Long, hard days were part of the corporate life, but I had a feeling that something else drove Devlin.

  My father had lived and breathed his software program, well aware that the moment he could get a massive tech company to buy it, was the day that he’d make bank. And it’d worked. He’d made two-hundred-sixty million dollars on that elaborate piece of code. Afterward, he’d retired. Now, he spent most of his time playing the stock exchange, because he had a pathological terror of being poor again.

  He’d been raised in a bad neighborhood in Stockholm, in a city that was supposed to be safe.

  His aunty had been one of the tellers involved in the Norrmalmstorg robbery, where a bank heist had gone wrong. She’d been trapped with the thieves for five days, and during that time held hostage, she and her fellow captives had worked to protect their captors.

  It was a story that fascinated me because it affected my family, and it was where the term ‘Stockholm syndrome’ came from.

  That event had a massive impact on my dad, and he’d worked hard to make sure that he and his family lived in good areas—no matter the country they were inhabiting. Of course, when I thought of where I lived now, and if he knew of my address, he’d probably be getting hives.

  I kind of hoped he did.

  And if that made me cruel, then so be it.

  Being cast aside, claimed as the golden child all my childhood, then tossed out like I was a piece of junk didn’t exactly put me in a friendly frame of mind.

  However, that past was what drove Dad.

  I was curious as hell as to what drove Devlin.

  Our time together had been pretty intense, but not enough to learn the ins and outs of what made the man. Especially when getting him to open up to me was hard.

  The intensity between us, however, was what drove me to continue this madness despite his quirks. To head up to his office when he asked, to seek him out simply because he said he was having a bad day.

  A part of me, I’d admit, was trying to stay separate, trying not to get too attached before he came to his senses and went back to women. But then he’d say something that would blow my mind. Or he’d look at me like I stole his breath. That alone was intoxicating, addictive. Devlin, did he but know it, was one massive mixed signal, but I quite liked that about him.

  He was an original, someone who danced to their own beat, and there were too few of that type of person around.

  Still...

  ‘You have to do your duty,’ his father had said.

  Duty was shacking up with a duchess and making little dukes. Not miniature Devlins, just dukes. More Astleys.

  I couldn’t imagine having to live like that. To exist only for duty. Was that how he’d been raised?

  I mean, I could judge my folks for a lot, but though my dad had worked hard, he’d been my biggest supporter until I’d come out. Any pivotal games, he’d been there. Science fairs, plays at the end of the year, PTA conferences, and meetings at school, he’d attended them all. Somehow managing to make time in his busy schedule for what he considered important events that steered my education in the right direction.

  Mom had worked for Dad’s company—that was where they’d met—and after I’d been born, until I was in school, she’d stayed at home. But when I’d been old enough, she’d started working again, yet that hadn’t changed my routine much. I hadn’t been a latch key kid or anything. She was always there at school, waiting to pick me up every night and to drop me off every day. No bus for me.

  Everything had changed when I was nine and Google had come calling, but they’d grown more focused on me rather than negligent.

  I’d been raised knowing I was important to my parents. Knowing that I mattered.

  Devlin had been raised knowing he was an Astley, a cog in the endless wheel that fed the noble line.

  Wondering if I needed to binge-watch Downton Abbey to understand this crap about entailed estates, or if Wikipedia would suffice, I slinked into the elevator once it arrived on the top floor and went down to my level.

  No one was working except for Rhode and Cassandra who glowered at me when I returned to my cubicle.

  “What are you doing back here? I thought Mr. Astley wanted to see you again.”

  If only she knew... That booty call had been unexpected but all the more delicious for it.

  “I still have work to do before tomorrow.”

  Plus, I might as well wait Devlin out here. No point in Gian wasting gas in going to my place just to bring me back again forty-five minutes later.

  She huffed at my reply, and because it was uncalled for, and maybe because it was late, and I was feeling shaken in what I’d figured out about Devlin, I grumbled, “You really don’t have to treat me like crap, you know? I don’t argue or quibble about all the work you dump on my desk when, literally, my job is to make copies and brew coffee. I think you’re lucky I’m here to help.”

  Her eyes flared wide in surprise at my talking back to her, the first time I’d ever done it, then her mouth tightened. “You have no right to speak to me that way.”

  “No? Then watch how you speak to me and we should get along just fine.”

  Leaving her with that, I retreated to my little space and switched on my computer again.

  Surprised to see a couple of emails about the Kyrian Trevelyan cover, I flipped through them, relieved that the new mock ups were in so fast, which told me Design had been whipped into shape by someone. They were exactly what Trevelyan had asked for, less cartoony, and more real. The other had been illustrated, not exactly graphic, just with a pattern on the front.

  This one was a picture of two hands. It was black and white, simple in the extreme, but the only color on the entire cover were the silver rings on both guys’ hands.

  Twisted Love was in the same silver, with Trevelyan’s name in black.

  I preferred it to the illustrated cover for sure.

  The other option, I liked less, but it was good. Having managed to snag an Advance Reader Copy early this week, I knew from the storyline the hero, Liam, had a massive back tattoo. This was proof, even if Trevelyan didn’t like it, that Astley Publishing had tried. The designer had clearly read an ARC too, because the guy’s back was Liam’s tattoo, but intertwined amid the strokes of the back piece, which depicted a massive water dragon, along the scales, the title gleamed gold.

  Impressed with them both, even if I preferred the other, more sentimental version, I’d had orders from Cassandra to pass them onto Trevelyan’s people the second I received them. I didn’t want to say that they were washing their hands of the cover, but it was getting pretty close to that. So, with the proofs burning a hole in my inbox, I obeyed and sent them both off to Trevelyan’s agent and to the man himself.

  It boggled my mind that I had his email address, and still, two months on, the prospect gave me a fan boy moment. Especially when I had to send a message to him.

  I didn’t expect a reply this late, so I moved onto peering through the other promo material
we had set up. It was four weeks until release day, and by now, I knew that, ordinarily, the cover would already be set in stone, be used in marketing. But Rhode was doing something different with her campaign, which had given Trevelyan some time to fight over the end product.

  Her plan was either going to be the equivalent of a belly flop or a double somersault from the top diving board. I wouldn’t be surprised if it did the latter because she had the Midas touch, neither would I be shocked if she wanted it to flop. From her slurs, I took it to mean she didn’t like gays, although as far as I could tell she didn’t actually like anyone. So, if she was homophobic, it’d make sense she didn’t want this book to do well.

  This far, she’d been building up the hype for the cover. Normally, it would be revealed about six months before release, sometimes even earlier depending on the publisher. Astley, however, tended to act faster than the other traditional presses. But she kept on throwing teasers out there, stirring up interest, and it appeared to be working—Trevelyan’s fans were wild for news on Twisted Love.

  As I proofread the material, making sure it was all good for the eyes of the queen herself, I spotted a few issues, sent them back to the designers, and continued with my work. By the time it rolled around to Devlin shooting me a text saying he was ready to get out of here, I’d waded through the to-do list for tomorrow, feeling somewhat lighter hearted at the prospect of a desk that wasn’t bogged down with yesterday’s unfinished tasks.

  Before I switched my light off, my eyes aching with fatigue from strain, I saw that Rhode was in her office barking at someone on the other end of the phone, and Cassandra was still at her desk. When she didn’t look up from her computer, I didn’t bother wishing her a good night. Just got the hell out of there.

  I wasn’t sure why she was so rude, or if it was simply her way of being Rhode-in-training, but it sucked. I hated the atmosphere, and Cassandra was one big storm cloud hanging over my end of the office.

  When I made it into the elevator, Devlin was waiting for me. He shot me a cautious smile, which didn’t take a genius to figure out. I moved to the other corner, away from him like we weren’t about to fuck at his apartment and, after, spend the night together there. Choosing, instead, to peer down at my phone until the doors closed.

  “I understand the need for discretion,” I told him simply as I checked my messages, immediately feeling guilty when I saw Rachel had tried to call but, thanks to ‘Do Not Disturb’ I’d missed it.

  Ever since Devlin and I had hooked up, I’d been neglecting her, which made me feel like such a shitty friend. Although, knowing Rach, she’d be stoked for me. After all, since I’d told her I was gay, she’d been the one pushing me into the dating scene. I just couldn’t be open with her about who I was dating, so it made it difficult not to be secretive.

  Rachel: Why won’t you come out with me tonight? *pouts*

  Me: I have a date.

  Rachel: With an executive hottie? I can’t believe you won’t tell me who it is!

  Rachel: I’m going to try to guess.

  Me: Go for it.

  Devlin rumbled, “I didn’t doubt that you did.”

  I shot him a look. “Then why the cautious smile and the ‘hands off’ sign on your shirt?”

  He sighed. “You mistake the ‘hands off’ sign for a ‘I feel like shit’ sign.”

  Surprised, my brows rose. “You’re sick?”

  “I don’t know.” He wriggled his shoulders as he glowered down at his shoes. “Just tired, I guess.”

  Rachel: Tell me more! Who is he? Is he from the office? The one who keeps sending you food? Give me a clue!!

  Shoving my phone in my pocket and ignoring the incoming messages that were her demanding more information I wasn’t at liberty to discuss with her, I moved over to his side. “Do you think you’re getting a cold?”

  Even though it was risky to touch him intimately here, I reached over to place my hand against his forehead. I didn’t think he was burning up, but he felt quite hot. The elevator was frigid thanks to the AC, and in my suit coat, I wasn’t warm so I didn’t think there was much reason for him to be either when he’d been in here longer than me.

  “I don’t know.” He leaned into me, letting his head droop slightly so he was resting on my hand. The move stunned me and, considering our location, made me realize something was definitely going on with him. “It’s been a long day.”

  “It has,” I confirmed, well aware that it was nearer nine than eight, and wondering if it was just me or if he sounded stuffier than usual.

  Pondering the right thing to do, because Devlin didn’t take me as being the best patient out there, I asked, “Is it okay if we stop off somewhere before we go back to your place?”

  His nose crinkled. “It’s not a club, is it?”

  I had to laugh. “Because you look ready to dance.”

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to go back to VICE,” he said on a sigh. “Haven’t even taken you out of the apartment,” he muttered. “Just bore you stupid with discussions.”

  “You don’t bore me,” I countered. “If I wanted to go to VICE with you again, I’d tell you.”

  “Might want to go on your own,” he muttered.

  “I’m not that brave,” I said dryly. “I was only there that night we met because of a friend.” I shrugged. “I’m not really into the clubbing scene. I tried it before, but I hated it.” Watching his glassy eyes peer over at me in bewilderment, either because he was sick or because my admission surprised him, I carried on, “I think you are coming down with something. You look kind of rough.”

  “Great! I have a toy boy and he says I look rough.”

  I sucked my lips between my teeth to stop myself from smiling. “Have you been drinking?”

  Was he just drunk or getting sick?

  “I had one brandy after my conversation with Father.” He grunted. “You can guess why. It was a conversation definitely worthy of a bender.” He started chuckling like he’d cracked the best joke in the world.

  I huffed. “That means something different to me.”

  “It does? What?” He squinted. “All these years on and I still speak another language.”

  “It means to get drunk.”

  He snorted. “It means the same to us, but it’s a play on words.”

  “What kind of play on words?”

  “It’s a bad word.”

  Amused, I asked, “Yeah?”

  “Bad way of calling someone gay. That’s why it’s hilarious.” He rolled the R for so long I grunted, which had him murmuring, “Do you know something?”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  It was stupid for my cheeks to blossom with heat when this was evidently drunk/feverish chatter, but I’d take the compliment.

  Thankfully, the elevator saved me from having to respond as the doors whirred inward, prompting me to leap back to maintain our privacy, and someone joined us for the rest of the ride to the first floor. We carried on down to the basement garage where Gian had the car idling beside the bank of elevators.

  With the back door open and waiting on us, Devlin groaned as he moved away from the side of the elevator and staggered over to the car.

  When we’d been in his office, I hadn’t seen any signs of him coming down with something apart from his croaky tone of voice, but he overworked, didn’t sleep much, never really relaxed, so why wouldn’t he be susceptible to a summer cold?

  I followed him as he climbed into the limo, but paused to ask Gian, “Can we stop off at Lei’s Medicine? It’s over on West 45th.”

  He nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  As I slipped in beside Devlin, I registered that he’d placed his briefcase on the seat beside him, and he was using it as a pillow.

  With his butt facing the door and his legs out in front of him so he was making an ‘L’ shape, a weird sensation welled in my chest, one that wasn’t the start of a cold or he
artburn, and was a welter of feelings that coalesced into a strange blur which had me wanting to rearrange him, make him more comfortable.

  Leaving him to his own devices wasn’t in the cards. Even if he didn’t want me to look after him, there was no way I was going to leave him on his own. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  It was probably a testament to how much I liked him, and how unsure I was of my place where he was concerned. I didn’t want an avowal of love or anything, but did I have the right to look after him? Or should I call on a relative?

  A part of me was sure the answer was I should call on a relative, but that wouldn’t stop me from taking this opportunity to get closer to him.

  The drive to Lei’s took less than ten minutes, each of which I spent watching his bobbing butt as Gian drove over bumpy roads that had him jostling in place. I didn’t bother to move him, not when by some miracle he was managing to stay in place, but that he didn’t awaken told me his fever had probably grown worse.

  A few minutes later, once I’d made my purchases, I returned to the car and found him lying flat out on the back seat. Grateful he’d moved of his own accord, I closed the door, and within a minute, the limo took off for Devlin’s apartment.

  You couldn’t buy the stuff in America, but my grandmother always sent something called Kan Jang over to us. It was a trusted home remedy for the Swedes, and you could get the principal ingredient—a herb called Andrographis paniculata—in Chinese medicine places over here. It usually worked on colds—if that was what he had.

  For it to come on this fast, I figured it was.

  Burnout would have compromised his immune system, and if I’d learned anything in my time at Astley’s, it was that everyone was strung out. Working too many hours, with insufficient time in the day to live life outside of the office. I knew that was the Big Apple way, knew it was standard in most corporations, but standard didn’t make it suck any less.

  Getting him out of the limo once we made it to his building’s parking garage and into the elevator was the opposite of fun, but I was grateful for Gian’s help. Propping him up, we got him into his apartment with the driver’s key, and then we staggered into the bedroom where Gian asked me if I needed help.