Part 1
“So, what do you think?” Anne asked, her voice tinged with eager anticipation.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the shades, catching flecks of mica in the polished floors of Damien’s office. Anne sat beside him to his left on the plush couch, her tablet balanced on her knee as she took him through each of the three logo designs the graphic design team had rendered. Damien leaned in, flipping through each one in its different variations—small and large, single color and full color, on dark and light backgrounds. Each logo had three distinct pieces: the logomark, the logotype, and the combo mark.
His gaze traced the sleek lines and vibrant colors before turning to Anne, his knee brushing hers as he moved. “I like all of these,” he remarked, tapping the screen lightly. “They’re clean, modern, bold, and, in my opinion, capture the brand identity effectively. But,” he flipped back and forth, “I’m not sure which is which here. Are they in Goldilocks order?”
“Nope,” she said, a cute, coy smile of conspiracy on her face. “If they were in a specific order, it would affect your bias. We wanted the logos to speak for themselves.”
Clever girl, he mused.
“Sneaky. If I guessed, would you tell me then?”
“Nope.”
He cast her a look of faux disapproval. “Well,” he began, flipping to one of the logos, “I like all of them, but this is my favorite. I think it conveys a sense of innovation and forward-thinking the strongest. Truth be told, I have no idea which of these the board would favor, if any. I’d like to think I could overrule them on such a decision. You know, provided it is my company.”
Damien tried to gauge which logo—safe, out there, or Goldilocks—he’d picked based on her expression, but her poker face was astonishing.
“I’m sure you could persuade them. I’ve heard you have a bit of a silver tongue,” she said.
“Any other rumors about me you’ve heard?”
“Nothing that won’t get me into trouble.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Such as…? Good trouble or bad trouble?
The angel on his right shoulder was appalled. What the hell is wrong with you? it asked, aghast.
“I’m looking forward to seeing the next steps. If I recall correctly, that’s moving into mocking up actual placements and products, yes?” Damien asked.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed. “The team is already on it.”
I like it when she calls me ‘sir.’
“Now, I’d like to shift gears to the presentation, if we could,” Anne said, taking the tablet back from him. Once again, their knees brushed, and their fingers touched briefly as they exchanged the device.
Damien felt the contact like a brand, hot against his skin.
“While Evie, the art director, is hard at work putting together your infographics—”
“Our infographics,” he corrected.
“Our infographics—Ollie and Carrie have also been hard at work making us a really great presentation template.” She tapped the tablet lightly a few times before handing it back. “They’ve input all of the different sections of the talk with placeholder text so you can see what each slide variation looks like. Title, main point, what have you. I have opinions as to where I think my voice would be most valuable. The presentation as it is now is just a rough framework, so obviously, you have the final say on how we should structure it for the best approach. You’re the experienced public speaker.”
Damien scrolled as she spoke. Once past the introductory slides, he moved into each section: Understanding Customer Needs, Creating Personalized Experiences, Building Lasting Relationships, Driving Innovation through Customer Feedback, Measuring Success, Case Studies, and finally, Conclusion and Next Steps. Leaning back against the cushions, his mind shifted gears as they delved into the intricate details of the presentation, fine-tuning it to ensure a compelling and cohesive message.
“You should absolutely take the lead on the section about Customer Needs and how that feeds into evolving with Customer Feedback. That’s precisely what your current targeted campaign is, right?”
Anne nodded. “I can also take on the Measuring of Success section.”
“Honestly, if you did the whole presentation, you’d blow people away a lot more than I could,” he said. With her smile and charm? She absolutely would. “I won’t make you do that, though.”
“Hm, I don’t know about that,” she disputed. “You’ve got the charisma and stage presence in general.”
“You only saw me give the one, in here, with my terrible slideshow.”
“I may have watched one of your TED Talks,” she admitted.
She watched one of your TED Talks, his brain repeated, pleased.
“To be fair, though, that one also had terrible graphics.”
A laugh burst from Damien, one that made Anne laugh along with him. For whatever reason, they were brought to tears by that single statement. The laughter felt good. It felt really good.
Anne wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her thumb. “It’s my turn to have a proposal,” she said once she caught her breath.
“You mean to tell me that the rebrand wasn’t the only one?”
“I have an entire backlog of ideas I’m trying to unload now that I have you wrapped around my finger. You broke the seal, dearest Damien.”
There it was again—that delightful grin of hers and the tightening in his throat that went along with it.
“But no, it’s an outing proposal. I’ve been thinking about how I can one-up your business dinner,” she began, her tone warm and playful, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Damien raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What might that be?”
“Dinner and a show,” she said with a charming, coy smile, leaning in a bit closer. “We sponsored a charity fashion show by a local organization that’s all about improving the mental health of underprivileged youth in our community. I thought it might be fun for us to shake things up and attend together.”
Unable to resist her playful energy, he teased, “You want me as your date?” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.
“I mean, there’s no Gucci or Balenciaga on display,” she joked, giving his whole body a quick once-over, “or Hugo Boss.”
Damien almost quipped that the suit du jour was actually Burberry but decided that might be a tad on the obnoxious side.
“Consider it a business outing with a twist,” she replied with a wink. “I think it could be fun. Plus, it’s a great opportunity for some networking and PR. I think as much as you seem to like staying out of the spotlight, you being there would reflect really well.”
“Are you saying that my charming presence would be an asset to the company?” he played along.
“Absolutely,” she affirmed, her smile softening into something more genuine as she met his gaze. “Who knows? We might even have a little fun along the way. What’s not to love? Hors d'oeuvres and children’s creativity?”
Damien grinned, a swell of excitement rising at the prospect of spending more time with her outside the office. “Well, how can I possibly say no to that?”
The day of the fashion show had arrived, and Damien couldn’t shake the mix of excitement and nerves bubbling inside him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended a sponsorship event like this, and the prospect of going with Anne only heightened his anticipation.
Seated at his desk on the top floor, he tried to focus on the reports in front of him, but his mind kept wandering to the evening ahead. With a glance at his desk phone, he decided to give Anne a call. Dialing her extension, he waited anxiously until she picked up.
“Anne from the Domestic Marketing Department,” he greeted her as soon as she picked up, attempting to sound casual despite the butterflies flitting about his stomach.
“Damien from C-Suite,” she replied, her tone warm and bright. Her voice held a cheery lilt, and he could easily picture her in her office several floors below, leaning back in her chair as she spoke.
“I was thinking about the fashion show,” Damien admitted, a strange surge of self-consciousness creeping into his tone.
There was a brief pause on the other end before she responded. “Oh, me too! I’ve been pondering what to wear all morning. Quite the conundrum,” she confessed with a soft laugh. “I really wanted to strike the perfect balance between professional and stylish, you know? I think I’ve got an outfit in mind, though. I’m planning to pick it up during my lunch break.”
“I’ve been debating what’s in my closet too, trying to decide on something that fits the bill,” he said.
She chuckled. “I have no doubts that you’ll look incredibly dashing no matter what you choose.”
Warmth spread through him at her compliment.
You hate to admit it, but Erik is right. You want to bed her. It’s lust at its most primordial, Damien thought, the notion twisting uncomfortably in his chest.
“But I’m sure you could just wear a suit. I think you have one or two of those floating around. You’re probably even wearing one right now. C-Suite chic and all that,” Anne teased.
“You too will look stunning in whatever you decide on,” he countered.
Her laugh was soft and genuine. “You’re too sweet, Damien. I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.”
The conversation flowed naturally, shifting to the charity’s cause and the other sponsorships Anne had overseen even in her short tenure—ones Damien hadn’t even known about. This side of marketing, with small community events and activations at expos, arenas, and sports games, was something he hadn’t fully appreciated. His own ignorance of parts of his company’s operations astounded him.
“It’s been lovely chatting, but I really do have some things to finish up—we can pick up this conversation later,” Anne said after a while.
“Are you hanging up on the CEO?” Damien asked playfully, feigning shock.
“Yup,” she replied, her tone light and friendly.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, but she had already hung up. With a chuckle, he set the receiver back in its cradle.
At that moment, his cell phone buzzed on the charging pad beside him with a text from Erik.
Dumbass (10:02 AM): i think i finally got it
Damien (10:03 AM): Got what?
Dumbass (10:03 AM): what the song was missing
Damien (10:04 AM): That’s awesome.
Damien (10:04 AM): What did it need?
Dumbass (10:05 AM): a completely new bassline 🙃
Dumbass (10:05 AM): you could say
Dumbass (10:06 AM): it was
Dumbass (10:06 AM): all about that bass
Damien (10:07 AM): Groan 😒
Dumbass (10:07 AM): can you give it a listen
Dumbass (10:08 AM): honest feedback
Damien (10:08 AM): Of course.
Damien (10:09 AM): Email it, I’ll give it a listen later.
Dumbass (10:09 AM): and none of that ✨it’s perfect✨ bullshit
Damien (10:10 AM): I promise I’ll give you an in-depth critique when I can dedicate some time to it. Too much to do before tonight.
Dumbass (10:11 AM): What’s tonight?
Damien (10:11 AM): The charity fashion show.
Dumbass (10:12 AM): lol the fashionably late CEO makes an appearance
Damien (10:12 AM): I’m never late.
Dumbass (10:13 AM): there’s a woman involved isn’t there?
Dumbass (10:13 AM): is the lucky lady mystery Anne???? 😏
Damien (10:14 AM): We’re representing Hudson Gateway at this thing. We sponsored it. She asked me to come. It’s that simple.
Liar, liar.
Dumbass (10:14 AM): look at you, rubbing elbows with the plebs. I APPROVE.
Damien (10:15 AM): Seriously. It’s for PR and networking purposes.
Your bespoke suit is on fire.
Dumbass (10:15 AM): sure it is
Dumbass (10:16 AM): whatever you say “casanova”
Damien (10:16 AM): Who are YOU of all people calling Casanova?
Dumbass (10:17 AM): 🍆🐱
Dumbass (10:17 AM): Have fuuuuun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do 😘
Damien (10:18 AM): That is a very short list of things, but I will try to contain myself.
Damien sat back in his chair, shaking his head at Erik’s antics. The uncomfortable truth gnawed at him: his brother was right. Aggravatingly, Erik was always right about such matters. Damien couldn’t deny it any longer—he wanted her. But he firmly believed he was of sound enough mind and will to resist that compulsion. He could look past his own urges and treat Anne with the dignity and respect she deserved. She was a skilled, kind, and passionate professional; she deserved to be seen as so much more than just a sex object.
There was no point in expending any more energy thinking about that now. There was work to be done before the show tonight. He slipped in his earbuds and powered through his tasks to the funky beats of electronica.
Later, an alert popped up in his inbox. Erik’s mixdown, along with a few extra demos, had arrived. Switching gears from the electronica soundscape to Erik’s gritty rock, Damien hit play. The layered complexities of the track immediately grabbed his attention. Whatever Erik had done to elevate the music had worked—it was miles ahead of the previous versions Damien had heard.
A movement in his peripheral vision made him glance up. Anne stood in front of his desk, hands folded neatly, a half-smile on her lips. He pulled out his earbuds, setting them down as Erik’s demo played faintly in its tinny timbre. Pausing the track, Damien straightened.
“Oh shit,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I lost track of time. I was really in the zone there. It’s too late for me to change, isn’t it?”
He stood, taking in Anne’s outfit for the evening. Her attire gave no hint of whether the show had a theme, but she looked stunning, as he knew she would. She wore sleek black pants and a shimmering top that dipped low, offering a tasteful but tantalizing view of her cleavage. For a brief moment, his imagination ran wild.
“I hope there’s not a theme I was supposed to dress for,” he quipped. “Was I supposed to come as, I don’t know, the stoned caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland?”
“Yes, you nailed it,” she replied with mock seriousness. “You pull off Mr. Moneybags from Monopoly very well.”
He opened his mouth to object but caught the playful flash of challenge in her eyes. Then she shook her head, her gaze sweeping him slowly, deliberately, from bottom to top.
“But no,” she continued, her tone shifting. “There’s no theme. Your suit is just fine. Very dashing, as predicted.”
A swell of gratitude rose in him, though Erik’s earlier jabs about tolerating insubordination from “certain colleagues” echoed in his mind. He could already imagine Erik’s teasing if Damien ever told him about her “Mr. Moneybags” remark.
“Just give me a second to finish up,” he said, clicking through his open tabs, saving his work, and shutting down his laptop.
Anne reached for his suit jacket hanging on the coat rack. “You were clearly into whatever you were listening to,” she remarked, watching him. “You were bobbing your head. What was it?”
“Erik’s new demo.”
“Remind me—who’s Erik?”
“My brother.”
“Ah, yes. You did mention he’s a musician.”
With everything squared away, Damien nodded. “I’m good to go. Shall we?”
Anne handed him the jacket, and he slipped it on with practiced ease. Offering her his arm, he said, “We shall.”
The venue buzzed with excitement as Damien and Anne entered. The fashion show was held in a repurposed church by the river, and the warm, inviting atmosphere was enhanced by colorful decorations adorning the walls and the soft music playing in the background.
As they navigated through the crowd, Damien took in the diverse mix of attendees: proud parents, eager supporters of all ages, and local community leaders and politicians, all gathered to celebrate the creativity of young designers. Around them, people mingled while munching on crudités, spanakopita, and pigs in a blanket, with empty plastic wine bottles and cups scattered on bar tables draped in black tablecloths. A catwalk ran the length of the former nave, flanked by rows of black chairs. Each chair had a black slipcover adorned with sponsor logos. Damien’s eyes landed on chairs in the front row bearing the outdated Hudson Gateway logo, signaling their assigned seats.
As they made their way to the snack table, a state representative intercepted them. Damien’s jaw tightened as he recognized the man—a politician he deeply disliked. The representative extended his hand with a practiced smile, and Damien returned the gesture with surface-level politeness, making sure his hand was on top during the handshake.
“Damien Wilson of Hudson Gateway, isn’t it?” the representative said smoothly.
Damien nodded, his smile amiable but calculated. “Indeed. A pleasure to meet you, Representative Roberts.”
It’s not remotely a pleasure, you absolute ass.
If thoughts could scowl, Damien knew that’s precisely what they’d be doing.
“Likewise, Damien. It’s fantastic to finally put a face to the name. I’ve heard many things.”
That’s “Mr. Wilson” to you. We are not buddies, he thought sourly.
“Mostly good things, I hope,” Damien replied, noticing Roberts’ deliberate disregard of Anne. She took a step back, retreating toward the vegetable platter and offering Damien a glance of silent support. He envied her escape.
“Hm. I certainly find your dedication to perpetuating the climate change myth admirable. I have certain respect for those who know how to monetize nonsense.” Roberts gestured to the Rolex on Damien’s wrist.
Oh, that’s how we’re starting this, huh?
“I assure you, Representative, it’s not nonsense that lines my pockets,” Damien said coolly. “The overwhelming consensus among us STEM folk is that climate change is a very real and pressing issue. Dismissing the evidence as a hoax is not only irresponsible but dangerous. What lines my pockets is innovation—pioneering sustainable solutions for our world.”
Roberts waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’ve heard that bullshit before. Let me tell you, Damien, I’ve been in politics long enough to know when something smells fishy. Climate change stinks to high heaven.”
Well, if warming oceans weren’t killing so many fish, maybe it wouldn’t have that stench, Damien thought dryly, only managing to keep the remark to himself with the greatest of restraint.
Damien took a deep breath, maintaining his composure. “That’s why you’re a career politician, and I’m a career scientist and businessman,” he said evenly. “I’m where I am because I understand the science. And I’m at the socioeconomic status I’m at because I understand the fiscal and economic benefits of transitioning to renewable energy. It’s not only environmentally responsible and mitigates the impacts of climate change by reducing dependence on fossil fuels, but it also creates jobs—thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. I thought job creation and economic growth were principles your party stood for.”
Roberts shook his head stubbornly. “I’m not buying it, Damien. But hey, everyone’s entitled to their own opinions, as wrong as they may be.”
Damien forced a polite smile, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. “Of course. But if you ever reconsider your stance on green energy, I’d be happy to discuss it. I’ve got plenty of policy ideas that could benefit everyone.”
Roberts gave a curt nod and moved on to another group of guests. Anne reappeared at Damien’s side, handing him a plastic glass of red wine with a sympathetic glance.
“You handled that far better than I would’ve,” she said, her tone wry. “Looked like you might need this.”
Damien took a sip, then accepted the sample platter of snacks she handed him. “Diplomacy isn’t just for diplomats and politicians,” he muttered, crunching on a cucumber slice. Years of corporate dealings had taught him the art of surface-level diplomacy—a survival skill, not something he enjoyed. He liked the numbers and science of his job, not the small talk. He despised small talk.
“How do I know if what I see is the real you and not some manufactured diplomatic version?” Anne asked.
Damien paused, then met her gaze, noting the sincerity in her question, absent of judgement. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I wouldn’t have accompanied you to this shindig otherwise,” he said.
Her lips curved into a smile, and a blush crept up her cheeks as she held his gaze. “I’m really glad you did.”
Her eyes flicked past him, lighting up with a different kind of excitement. Damien turned to see a group of teenagers bustling backstage, scrambling to put the finishing touches on their creations.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Anne said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “These kids have worked so hard to bring their visions to life.”
Damien nodded, sharing her admiration. “I’m excited to see what they’ve come up with.” He gestured toward their seats. “Shall we sit before the show starts?”
Damien picked up the program booklet placed on his seat, flipping through its contents. Each page featured a bio of one of the designers and their models, accompanied by an artist statement. Scattered throughout were advertisements from the show’s sponsors, including a full-page, full-color ad from Hudson Gateway. The elegant design of the ad made their outdated logo stand out even more like the dated atrocity it was.
From their front-row seats, Damien had a clear view of the makeshift runway. Settling in, he felt the buzz of anticipation building as the lights dimmed, and house music thumped softly in the background.
“The more I see it, the more I realize how right you are about the logo,” he murmured to Anne.
Anne plucked a puff pastry from his plate, popping it into her mouth with a mischievous smile. “Of course I’m right,” she said, her eyes glittering just as the first model stepped onto the stage.
The model wore a vibrant ensemble designed by one of the teenage creators, a dazzling display of creativity and ingenuity. Outfit after outfit paraded down the runway, each as unconventional and eclectic as the last, reflecting the unique personalities of their young designers. Photographers captured every moment, their camera flashes strobing like tiny lightning strikes.
Throughout the show, Damien and Anne leaned toward one another, whispering comments and sharing smiles, watching each young designer showcase their work with confidence and pride. It was clear this event meant a lot to them, and Damien understood why Anne and her team might attend an event like this. There was joy in witnessing it all.
During a brief intermission, Anne excused herself to speak with one of the designers backstage. Damien watched her saunter off, a mixture of admiration and something more complex stirring within him as she connected with the young talents.
She returned a few minutes later, her face alight with excitement. “You have to see this!” she said, grabbing his arm to guide him backstage.
Curious, Damien let her lead him. They passed through a lively backstage area where teenagers buzzed around, excitedly discussing their designs with a reporter and photographer. Anne directed Damien toward a timid girl standing beside a model clad in one of the show’s standout pieces, a piece he had exclaimed to Anne was one of exceptional creativity as it had been strutted down the catwalk.
“This is Taneisha,” Anne said, introducing him to the young designer. “She’s the creative genius behind this work of art.”
Damien smiled warmly at Taneisha, who looked no older than thirteen. “Your work is beautiful, Taneisha. I’m really impressed by what I saw out there. You have true talent.”
Taneisha blushed, her eyes lighting up. “Thank you so much,” she whispered. “I’m glad people like it.”
“Show him the sketches you showed me,” Anne encouraged. Taneisha nodded, retrieving a sketchpad from a nearby table and flipping through her designs. Each page revealed intricate details of a larger collection she explained was a tribute to her grandmother.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted. A photographer dressed in black stepped forward, camera poised on his shoulder. “Can I get a photo of you three?”
Anne beamed. “Of course, but let’s make it four. You’ve got to get Taneisha’s piece in too!”
The model joined them as they posed together for the camera. Damien felt Anne’s hand lightly grip his side as they stood close, her body brushing against his to the point where he could feel her breasts against him as they posed. Heat flared through him, spreading outward from her touch and stirring an unbidden tension he fought to suppress with Herculean strength.
After a few shots, Anne asked the photographer to take one more with her phone, first with the group and then just the two of them after the designer and model wandered off. The photographer snapped the final photo and stepped away, leaving Damien and Anne alone.
“Hey, can you send those to me?” Damien asked as soon as the photographer left, not pausing to consider how the request might sound.
“Of course! What’s your number?” she asked, fingers poised over her phone.
For a split second, Damien’s mind blanked, his own number eluding him. When his brain finally caught up and put itself back into working order, he rattled off the digits, feeling a wave of relief as his phone buzzed moments later. Pulling it from his pocket, he opened the photos, lingering on one in particular: Anne, radiant with a flushed smile, looking every bit as stunning as he knew she would. He didn’t look half bad either, though his stiffness in the photo betrayed his usual composure.
“Would you be alright if I posted this on our socials?” Anne asked, pulling him from his reverie. “Community-geared stuff gets engagement,” she added.
Damien nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
As the lights overhead flashed twice, signaling the end of the intermission, they returned to their seats. Damien watched Anne type out a caption for the photo, posting it to Hudson Gateway’s social media.
The second act flew by in a blur of vibrant colors and bold designs. As the final model strutted off the runway, applause erupted, mingling with excited chatter and the rapid clicks of cameras. Damien joined in, his own smile faint compared to the pride radiating from the young designers, their models, and the supportive audience around them.
“That was so much fun,” Anne remarked, her eyes alight with admiration. “The talent and passion on display tonight. Just, wow. Some of those kids have an incredible future if they choose to pursue it.”
“I agree. If I were a fashion house, I might recruit some of them right here on the spot,” Damien said with a grin.
“It’s not too late,” she teased, her eyes narrowing playfully. “After all, climate change is a hoax, and at least we know fashion is real.”
Damien gave her an exaggerated look of exasperation. “Don’t get me started.”
She giggled, the sound light and delightful, and they continued walking toward his car.
“Are they all like this?” he asked. “These sponsorship events?”
“The local tee-ball league isn’t nearly as fun,” she quipped. “The big events are the ones we generally try to attend—the most public ones. Dinners, check presentations, charity basketball games, mixers, dunk tanks.”
“Dunk tanks?” he repeated, intrigued, an eyebrow quirking upward.
“Oh, yeah. We should put you on the platform. Five-dollar donation to whatever cancer charity we’re sponsoring that day, and you get a bucket full of baseballs to get the CEO all wet.”
“Sounds miserable,” he laughed.
“Or cathartic. I played softball for most of my younger years, so it would take me,” she reached out and placed her finger lightly on his tie, “one good underhand pitch, and all the time you spent making your hair look that perfect would be in vain.”
She thinks my hair is perfect, he thought, pleased.
“Then I guess the fairest form of revenge would be to stick you on the platform and see how long it takes me to get you wet,” Damien said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Todd knows what it takes.
Stop it. Open mouth, insert foot.
Even his thoughts were horrified.
His face turned red, and he saw her blush too. While his expression was one of horror and shame, hers held a coy crook of amusement.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” he stammered, scrambling to apologize for his clumsy remark.
“I know what you meant,” she said softly, her amusement lingering. “Strike two, Damien from C-Suite.”
He stopped walking, stuffing his hands into his pockets, a mixture of relief and embarrassment swirling within him. Searching for a way to ease the tension, he said, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Anne turned back toward him, her gaze steady and teasing. “Would it make you feel better if I added ‘that’s what she said’ as an addendum to that, in true Millennial fashion?” she teased, breaking through the awkwardness.
Damien swallowed, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent. “Probably,” he admitted with a nervous chuckle.
“Besides,” she added, turning her back to him again, “I don’t think you have enough balls to achieve getting me wet.”
His brain short-circuited. Are we still talking about the same thing?
They reached his car, and with embarrassment still warming his features, Damien opened the passenger door for her. “Should we, uh, head back now?” he asked, eager to move past the awkwardness.
“Sounds like a plan,” she said, taking the door from him and locking him in another playful stare. “Don’t want one of us to say anything by accident that might get us in trouble with HR, do we?”
“Definitely not,” he agreed, offering her an apologetic smile.
With a shared understanding, they set off toward the tower, leaving the vibrant creativity of the fashion show behind them.
Erik wiped the orange smudge of grease off his beard with the back of his hand before cleaning it with a paper towel.
“You said what?” he laughed, incredulously. “I would have paid to see the look on your face after dropping that gem.”
Damien sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I’m sure you would have relished the humiliation.”
Erik chuckled, his attention shifting to his phone as he scrolled lazily.
“Speaking of,” he said, a smug grin creeping into his tone, “how about this lovely post I just came across on Facebook?”
Damien raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious of his brother’s newfound glee.
“Our CEO Damien and Anne, one of our marketing managers, had a blast attending the annual fashion show tonight, celebrating lots of young design talent like Taneisha and her design inspired by her grandmother’s legacy. Hashtag Hopeful Minds Foundation. Hashtag Fashion Show. Hashtag Young Talent,” Erik read aloud, tapping on the photo for emphasis.
Damien glanced at the screen, taking a bite of the pizza he'd ordered to make up for the light fare at the fashion show. As he chewed, he debated the wisdom of inviting Erik over. Free food always guaranteed his brother’s presence, but the teasing might outweigh the company. Beside Erik, Damien flipped to another page of Time, absently scanning the article breaking down the latest crisis in the Middle East to look as nonchalant as possible.
“You look like a tool,” Erik remarked, pinching to zoom in on Damien’s face before dragging his finger across the screen. “But she’s real cute. Totally your type. Honestly, I didn’t think she was a real person until I saw this photo. Though, this could be AI… I think you’ve got seven fingers here.”
“Of course she’s a real person,” Damien said flatly.
“How would I know? With how much I annoy you about bringing a woman home, you could’ve invented her to get me off your back. The perfect ruse: ‘She’s a colleague, Erik, nothing more.’”
“She is a colleague, Erik. There is nothing more,” Damien stated firmly.
“Oh, I love this game. It’s Guess Who, but instead of different faces, it’s all Anne’s face, and every time you say, ‘She’s just a colleague,’ one gets pushed down until the only one left is…” Erik paused dramatically.
“Anne,” Damien finished with a sigh.
“Exactly. Then she’s not just a colleague anymore because we’ve ruled out all those ‘just a colleague’ Annes!”
Damien sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just a colleague.”
“What’s the definition of insanity?”
“Erik, stop.” His voice carried an edge of warning.
“Damien, my guyest of guy, you need to lighten the fuck up. Seriously, when did you last get laid?”
Damien frowned, recalling with difficulty. A year or two?
“When was the last time you behaved like an adult?” he deflected.
“I did my laundry yesterday. Gimme five!” Erik held up his hand, fingers splayed wide.
Instead of returning the high five, Damien picked up his magazine, rolled it up, and swatted Erik upside the head.
“Hey, ow! That’s child abuse.”
“Ah, so he admits he’s a child.”
“Look, man, getting my laundry done is a big accomplishment. It deserves a celebration. Where’s my gold star? Pretty sure I filled up my star chart and earned a free popsicle.”
Despite himself, Damien snickered.
Erik gasped in mock astonishment. “Did I just… hear you giggle?”
“I don’t giggle. It was just a thought.”
“Aaaaand it made you giggle. Wanna share with the class?”
“You’re classless, so that’s an impossibility.”
“And you’re mean.”
Damien slung an arm around Erik’s shoulders. “And you’re insufferable, brother dearest, but I love you anyway.”
Erik’s mouth flattened into a line, feigning offense.
“I was going to say,” Damien continued, “of course you think getting your laundry done is a big accomplishment. It probably takes twice as many runs through the washer, given how stiff as a board it all is.”
“Damn straight.”
Damien crinkled his nose in disgust.
“Hey, you said it, not me,” Erik replied, grabbing another slice of pizza. His green eyes studied Damien intently.
“What?” Damien asked, uneasy under the scrutiny.
“You know what. And there’s no point cracking jokes because you get increasingly defensive every time I bring her up.” Erik’s tone shifted, becoming serious. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I don’t know whether you want to bed her or wed her, but she’s clearly occupying at least one of your two heads at any given moment.”
Post-business-dinner déjà vu.
“How many times are we going to have this conversation?” Damien asked, his patience thinning.
Erik pulled the photo back up on his phone, zooming in on Damien’s face. For once, his own expression held no trace of humor.
“I don’t remember the last time I saw you smile like this,” Erik said, holding the phone toward him. “Even in our pictures together, you don’t smile like that—and I’m a laugh riot, so that’s particularly offensive. But here,” he stabbed a finger at the screen, “you look… happy. I think it’s because she’s right there with you. Even when she’s not around, you can’t see the way you absently smile sometimes. I know it’s because you’re thinking about her, and that happens more and more.”
Damien opened his mouth to object, but Erik raised a hand to stop him.
“That’s a good thing. I want you to be happy,” Erik said softly.
Damien raised an eyebrow, trying to deflect. “Didn’t know you were capable of emotional clichés. Really showing your acting range tonight.”
“Who’s got the jokes now?” Erik quipped, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. He placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder, meeting his gaze directly. “I won’t bring it up again,” Erik promised. “Just be aware of your own feelings, Damien. Wherever they come from. Denial helps no one, especially not you.”
Damien nodded slowly, though he disagreed. “Love you, Erik.”
“I know.”