Page 17 of Ten Day Affair
Papers shuffle, but the silence stretches.
“We’re staring down a $300 million acquisition, and this is what you bring me?”
Leonard clears his throat. “We ran into delays with the regional valuations?—”
“Not my concern.” I tap my Montblanc against the desk. “Your job is to anticipate problems before they become mine.”
My mind drifts, just for a second.
Dark hair. That sharp intake of breath when I slid my hand between her legs. The way she arched into me like she didn’t care who was watching. Like she wanted to be ruined.
“Cole?” someone says.
I blink. “What?”
“Do you want the revised breakdown for domestic only, or global?”
“Both. I want a full portfolio assessment. I want clean projections by the end of the day.” I push back from the table.
"On it, sir," some faceless voice replies.
“We’ll sort the garbage tomorrow,” another kiss ass chimes in as their faces disappear one by one. Behind me, my assistant, Angela, silently powers off the screen.
The glass windows reflect the city. There's nothing soft about it, and yet, I find it comforting.
Somewhere south, she's probably peeling off her gloves after a long shift, scrubbing out, saving lives, pretending that night didn’t matter.
That’s fine.
It wasn’t supposed to.
The ocean sound from her deck in my mind is remarkably clear. The way her laugh caught me off guard, how her eyes looked in moonlight, flash in front of my face.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I move to the window and rest a hand against the cool glass. Sixty floors above Manhattan, and my head’s still stuck on a beach in Florida.
Her laugh, the way she moved, the way she didn’t flinch or chase or play dumb. That was fucking hot.
One night, that's all it was. So why the hell am I still thinking about it?
“Should I reschedule Zurich for Thursday?” Angela's voice slices cleanly through the fog. She’s already by the table, tablet in hand, professional as always.
I don't turn around. “Thursday’s fine. Cancel anything after four.”
She taps her screen. “Block it for prep?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just make it unavailable.”
A few seconds pass, and she doesn’t push. I hear walking out, her heels soft against the carpet.
I stay at the window, staring past the skyline.
This isn’t about her. It’s about me. I don’t get distracted. I don’t get thrown off.
And yet, I’ve checked my phone three times since the meeting started, half-hoping she replied to that stupid text I sent yesterday. God, I'm such an idiot. What the fuck was I thinking?
Nothing, of course.
