Part 1
The first-class cabin on the flight to San Francisco was mostly quiet, the steady drone of the engines providing a soothing backdrop. The seats—vinyl or perhaps leather—cradled Damien and Anne on opposite sides of the open partition. Without windows, they were left with views of blue skies and a sea of clouds below, stretching endlessly on either side of the plane.
Damien glanced to his left, where Anne was engrossed in a book. Though she hadn’t said so outright, he could tell this was her first time flying first class. Her curious but composed glances when they boarded had given it away. It wasn’t the wide-eyed look of someone merely gawking at the luxury but rather a quiet excitement—the kind that said, I actually get to sit here?
She looked up from her book, meeting his gaze with a quick smirk before abruptly raising the partition between them. Startled, Damien blinked in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. But before he could react, she pressed the button again, lowering the partition with a playful smile tugging at her lips.
“I’m kidding,” she said, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
Damien tilted his head, a smirk of his own forming. “I’m glad you find the ability to shut me out so amusing.”
“What can I say?” she replied with a small laugh. “I’m used to sitting next to people who fall asleep on my shoulder, paint their nails mid-flight, or let their kid kick the back of my seat while a baby screams nearby.”
“I don’t miss flying economy.”
“I’m pretty sure I once sat next to a couple where she was definitely trying to give him a discreet handjob.” Anne made a crude hand gesture. “Trying being the operative word.”
“Yikes,” Damien snorted, laughing. “Trying to give a handjob or trying to be discreet?”
“Probably both, but mostly the latter.”
“Hope you weren’t in the middle seat.”
“That would’ve made it way more fun,” she said, grinning.
“For you or for them?”
“I do have two hands.”
Damien’s mind betrayed him for a moment, conjuring thoughts he quickly shoved aside.
Anne closed her book, setting it on the small table beside her. “So,” she began, her tone curious, “you obviously go to a lot of these things, and I’ve never been to one—at least not one outside of a small conference room at the local Holiday Inn. What should I expect?”
“As expected, it’s a convergence of industry leaders showcasing the latest advancements,” Damien explained. “It’s all about marketing and advertising—staying ahead of the curve, networking, and gaining insights into emerging trends. You’ll see food vendors, B2B exhibitors, marketing firms, ad agencies, software companies peddling analytics platforms, e-commerce tools, and promotional item companies handing out endless swag. Hope you brought a bag—you’re going home with a lot of useless shit.”
“You underestimate my love of useless shit. What do you enjoy most about these events?”
Her question caught him off guard, but he welcomed the opportunity to answer. “I enjoy the energy—the constant buzz of innovation and creativity. I like catching snippets of engaging conversations and seeing ideas exchanged between people who are passionate about their work. People like you.”
Anne nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds enriching. But knowing how much you hate networking, I’m surprised you didn’t mention that. You know, any chance to prove you’re the smartest one in the room.”
Her slight smirk and raised brow gave her jesting tone away.
“Don’t make me turn this car around,” Damien said, playing along as he fought the smile tugging at his lips. Erik had been right about her sharp tongue. “I’m looking forward to watching you take it all in—the design and layout of the booths, the way these vendors market themselves. If nothing else, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of notes on that.”
“Best to set your expectations low.”
“I’ll keep them on the floor,” he teased, chuckling.
“Perfect,” she replied, picking up her book again.
Damien slipped his earbuds back in and returned to the document on his tablet. Comfortable silence settled between them for a time, until Anne leaned over the partition and tapped his arm.
“So, Damien,” she said, mischief glinting in her eyes, “what’s the worst experience you’ve ever had at an expo?”
He pulled out his earbuds, laughing at the question. Two mishaps immediately came to mind. “Well, there was this one time,” he began, grinning as the memory surfaced, “when our entire display decided to stage a rebellion.”
Anne leaned in, intrigued.
“It was a typical morning at an expo—busy, bustling, full of anticipation.” Damien adopted a dramatic tone. “Then, just as the doors were about to open, disaster struck.”
Anne gasped theatrically, placing a hand over her heart. “No, not a disaster!”
“Oh, yes,” Damien continued solemnly. “Our meticulously arranged display—assembled over hours of hard work—collapsed spectacularly.”
“All of it?”
“All of it,” he confirmed. “It started with one wall tipping slightly, then toppling onto the central table, smashing our digital displays. Banners fell, props gave up—it was chaos.”
Anne stifled a laugh, clearly entertained. “Quite the spectacle.”
“It was,” Damien admitted with a rueful smile. “That’s what happens when someone forgets a few screws. But that wasn’t the only time our luck ran out.”
Her curiosity deepened, and she leaned closer, her scent lingering in his space.
“There was another time,” Damien continued, “when a simple miscommunication led to disaster. We’d spent weeks preparing our trade show display, but on the day of assembly, we discovered…”
“Let me guess,” Anne interjected, “it wasn’t there?”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Our entire setup was sitting in a warehouse in Albany when it should’ve been in Aspen.”
Anne shook her head, smiling. “Every expo has its challenges.”
“Let’s hope we don’t bring any of that with us.”
“You were at both of those?” she asked.
“I was.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Damien flattened his mouth into a line. “Aren’t you sassy.”
Anne met his sarcastic gaze with her own. “You can only blame yourself. After all, you call on me when you want some insubordination. I’m happy to oblige.”
“Of course, how could I forget?” He laughed, and she laughed too. Their shared laughter sent a warmth radiating through him, igniting every nerve.
As the plane began its descent into San Francisco, the captain’s voice crackled through the intercom, announcing their imminent arrival. Damien stowed his tablet and adjusted his seat to its upright position, glancing at Anne. She craned her neck in vain, trying to catch a glimpse of the iconic skyline through the porthole windows. Once the plane taxied to the gate, they gathered their belongings and made their way through the bustling terminal. Anne followed closely, the wheels of their carry-on bags trailing behind them.
“Rental or taxi?” she asked from behind.
“Taxi,” Damien replied, turning to face her. He caught the flick of her eyes as they made a quick detour down his body. Did she just bite her lip?
His body responded with a quiet hum.
“By the way,” Anne said, her gaze returning to his face, “I almost didn’t recognize you at the airport without the three-piece.”
Is she checking me out? Damien glanced down at his outfit: black slacks, a blue patterned collared shirt—untucked, two buttons open—and a black sports jacket.
The hum became an electric charge that flitted through him. No, you fool. You’re just dressed differently than usual. She’s cataloging the change. You have no idea what she’s actually thinking.
“Well, they’re rather uncomfortable to travel in,” he said.
“They seem uncomfortable to exist in. Don’t you ever just want to put on a pair of jeans?”
“Fear not, I have at least one pair of boring gray sweatpants I exist in during the evenings.”
“Gray sweatpants? Say it isn’t so!” she laughed. “I truly cannot picture you in anything remotely casual.”
Have you pictured me naked yet?
Of course, she has. You’re objectively good-looking.
And that’s conceited, pretty boy.
Stepping into the bright California sunshine—considerably cooler than the air left behind in Albany—they hailed a taxi. Damien gave the driver their hotel address. The ride was filled with Anne’s animated questions about the driver’s life in San Francisco and her commentary on the sights they passed. It was evidently her first time in the City of Fog. Watching Anne experience a new place with unjaded eyes was a rare breath of fresh air.
“If I had to venture a guess,” Damien said during a lull in the conversation, “you haven’t had much opportunity to travel.”
“I’ve done some traveling—hot spots in Europe a couple of times, and I’ve been to most of the East Coast. But this is my first time on the West Coast. I know we’re only here for work, but if possible, I’d like to see Golden Gate Park if we have time.”
“We’ll make time,” Damien assured her with a smile as the taxi pulled under the hotel’s front overhang. He handed the driver a tip before leading Anne inside.
“Two rooms, two nights?” the receptionist confirmed, her gaze flicking between them. Damien handed over the corporate card, and they went through the usual motions—hours for the bar, pool, and the 24-hour fitness and business centers.
“The Wi-Fi password is your name and room number—Wilson, 917 and 921,” the receptionist added, passing them their key cards. “Enjoy your stay.”
In the elevator, Damien turned to Anne. “I have some work to catch up on. Entertain yourself for a couple of hours—sweat, swim, shower, read, whatever.”
Touch yourself and think of me between your legs.
“I don’t need another excuse to pick up my book again. What time should I meet you downstairs?” she asked.
The elevator dinged, opening its doors to the ninth floor.
“How’s seven sound?” Damien stepped out.
“Perfect,” Anne replied, doing the same.
In his room, Damien swiftly set up his laptop and prepared to tackle the mountain of emails awaiting his attention. Through the window, glimpses of Oakland Bay peeked between the towers of the San Francisco financial district. One might have even been the tapered side of the Transamerica Pyramid, though it was hard to tell. The steady hum of the air conditioner served as soothing background noise while he skimmed through emails, prioritizing urgent inquiries and providing updates on projects he probably should have delegated.
Just as he delved into his next task, his phone lit up with an incoming call. Seeing Charlie’s name on the caller ID, Damien sighed, resigned to dealing with the ever-persistent president of marketing. He answered, bracing for the inevitable deluge of questions, demands, and crises.
“Damien, it’s Charlie,” came the brisk, urgent voice on the other end.
Damien almost pointed out that caller ID existed for a reason but opted instead for politeness. “Hey, Charlie. How can I help? Why are you calling so late?”
“You weren’t answering earlier. First, I need to update you on the revised marketing strategy for the power bank. We’ve seen success in the European markets,” Charlie began, wasting no time. Even with their clashes, Damien couldn’t deny Charlie’s results-driven approach. “Despite the niche nature of the product, targeted social media ads for businesses, homeowners, and agro-industry folk, paired with local partnerships, have gained traction. Initial feedback is positive, and engagement metrics are promising—not just click-through rates but consumer-level pre-orders.”
“Good to hear. Sounds like we’re ready to take that stateside. I also think we should explore a campaign on recycling and repurposing EV batteries. Let’s discuss later. What about the PR strategy for the grid infrastructure project in New England?”
“So glad you asked. I need to wrap up the brief soon. We’re still early in development.”
“‘Hi, we’re tearing up your roads to bury power lines, but don’t worry, it’ll only take four years,’” Damien quipped dryly. “They’re going to love that.”
“That’s why it’s PR, Damien,” Charlie retorted, irritation creeping into his tone. “We’re working on spinning the benefits to overshadow the inconvenience. But I need more concrete details. The board expects a comprehensive plan by next week.”
“What’s the hold-up?” Damien asked.
“It’s hard to get anywhere when our domestic project manager—who’s supposed to be wrangling stateside PR—is AWOL,” Charlie snapped. “Have you spoken to your darling star child? I’ve been trying to reach Anne since noon, but she hasn’t returned my calls or emails, and she wasn’t at her desk.”
Damien’s heart skipped at Anne’s name, a sinking feeling forming in his stomach. “Actually, Anne’s with me,” he admitted, opting for honesty.
Charlie’s response was instant, his disapproval cutting through the line. “What do you mean, ‘with you’? Why isn’t she responding to me?”
“We’re in San Francisco for the marketing expo,” Damien explained, bracing for Charlie’s backlash.
“You took her to San Francisco?” Charlie’s tone was incredulous, abrasive. “Damien, I didn’t authorize this. You can’t just whisk her away on a whim. She has more important responsibilities than gallivanting off to trade shows I’m supposed to be attending.”
Damien clenched his jaw, irritation rising at Charlie’s incessant need for control. Now that he was in constant contact with someone actually doing the marketing groundwork, Damien was beginning to understand Anne’s frustration with the man. He resented the implication that his decisions required Charlie’s approval. For whatever reason, the man consistently failed to grasp who held the real authority.
“I understand your concerns, Charlie,” Damien replied evenly, refusing to let the man’s hostility rattle him. “Anne’s presence here is beneficial. We’re gathering insights that will contribute to our current and future projects. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: fresh perspective. She’s perfectly capable of contributing to this endeavor.”
A pang of concern shot through Damien as he imagined Anne caught in the crossfire of their authority struggle.
“This is highly irregular, Damien. You know this falls under my job duties,” Charlie spat, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Perhaps you should have turned in your field trip permission slip,” Damien replied flatly.
Charlie let out a dismissive grunt, his severe dissatisfaction simmering beneath the surface. Damien could practically feel the man’s anger through the phone, half expecting the aluminum and glass brick to melt in his hand. After muttering something unintelligible, Charlie grumbled, “Make sure she gets back to me as soon as possible,” and ended the call abruptly.
Damien set his phone down with a sharp exhale, frustration curling in his chest and a faint churn of anxiety stirred in his stomach. It was becoming increasingly clear that Charlie’s resentment toward Anne was growing, and navigating his thinly veiled hostility would require a delicate balance of diplomacy and assertiveness. It was tiresome.
Despite Charlie’s objections, Damien stood by his decision to bring Anne along. Her fresh takes on marketing extended beyond the need for a new brand system.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair and turning to gaze out the window with his good eye. The city outside was bathed in the warm hues of an impending sunset. Picking up his phone, Damien tapped out a message:
Damien (6:15 PM): Got tired of staring at the screen. Hungry a little early?
Anne (6:17 PM): Sure!
Damien stood, pocketed the key card, and left his room. He strolled two doors down, knocking thrice. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing Anne wearing only a robe. The tie was cinched tightly at her waist, but the fabric parted just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. Her damp hair framed flushed cheeks; she had clearly opted for the shower.
Damien turned the color of a roasted beet. Spinning on his heel, he covered his eyes with one hand. “Sorry,” he stammered, embarrassment tingling his cheeks like static.
“Clearly, you didn’t see my other text,” she said, amusement lacing her tone.
Damien glanced at his phone. Sure enough, an unread message sat beneath her previous reply: Just got out of the shower. Give me five.
Let’s skip dinner altogether, his mind offered. Let me in, dessert sounds nice.
“Give me five,” she repeated, her voice soft as she closed the door. Damien stood awkwardly in the hallway, the miles of atrociously patterned carpet beneath him doing little to cool the heat coursing through his body.
Blood pounded in his ears and surged traitorously to one place that didn’t need it right now.
No, no, no. Put it back in the can.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his thoughts to pivot toward Charlie. Nothing cooled him down faster than thinking about the shitshow awaiting him in Albany.
A few minutes later, Anne emerged fully dressed, her cheeks no longer flushed but her presence no less captivating. “Now I’m ready,” she said.
“Again, I apologize,” Damien offered, meeting her eyes, just barely.
Anne opened her mouth, inhaled as if to speak, then closed it with a small nod.
They settled into their seats at the hotel restaurant, a cozy ambiance surrounding them with soft lighting and the murmur of other diners. Small talk accompanied the perusal of menus, anecdotes about past dining experiences breaking the ice further.
Once their orders were placed, the earlier awkwardness began to fade. Still, Damien’s mind couldn’t fully relinquish the image of her standing in that doorway, a moment too intimate for their working dynamic.
She could’ve chosen not to open the door. Or just cracked it. She knew it had to be you knocking.
You don’t know what she was thinking, he reminded himself.
Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me, his mind taunted. Bang bang bang means you’ll meet me in the hallway.
“You mentioned earlier that you’ve been to Europe a couple of times,” Damien said, steering the conversation to safer ground. “Where have you been?”
A wistful nostalgia softened Anne’s features as she recounted her travels. “I took solo trips to Iceland and Denmark. In Denmark, I stayed pretty exclusively in Copenhagen.”
“A fantastic city,” Damien remarked. “Did you venture out of Reykjavik at all?”
“I joined a few tours along the southern shore and saw some highlights on the west coast.”
“Did you get to see the auroras?”
Her eyes lit up. “I did—just once. I got really lucky. One of my hostel roommates ran in, shouting that they were in the sky. Everyone raced outside, and we saw them dancing over the bay. It was incredibly emotional for me.”
“It is,” Damien agreed softly. “And that emotion never fades with subsequent viewings.”
“You’re very fortunate.”
A flicker of something passed through Anne’s expression before she began describing a trip to the UK with a friend, focusing on a sitcom-worthy incident involving a rental car and a car wash gone rogue.
“I’m sorry I’m laughing,” Damien said, wiping a tear from his eye.
Anne waved her hand dismissively, sipping her wine. “It’s fine. I laugh about it now too, though it took years before I could go back into a car wash.”
“Note to self: don’t take the exotics through the car wash anymore,” Damien quipped.
“Probably for the best,” she agreed with a chuckle. “The most formative trip I took was to Italy during undergrad. I had an opportunity for an independent study.”
“Did you study abroad?”
“Not exactly,” Anne replied. “I sort of wish I had. Did you?”
Damien shook his head. “Same boat. What was this independent study?”
“Our art history professor asked a select group of students to research a work by Michelangelo and present our thesis in front of the actual piece.”
“Wow. Which work did you choose?” Damien leaned in, his curiosity piqued, although he prayed it was a piece of Michelangelo's works he actually knew, so as not to look like a complete fool in front of her.
“I chose The Last Judgment—the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel. My topic explored its religious iconography, symbolism, and allegory.”
“I thought you couldn’t speak in the chapel?”
“You can’t,” Anne confirmed. “So I got to present in front of the sign in the courtyard, or Giardino Quadrato, which was sort of anticlimactic.” She chuckled. “On the other hand, I think it allowed me a better opportunity to just take the piece in. It’s so much different. You stare at this fresco in pieces and details in books during your research so you don’t really get to fully appreciate it. Every time you look at the full piece it’s no bigger than a full spread, if you’re lucky. I think that with the exception of maybe David or his Pietà, which were also incredible works, it’s very easy to consume and understand his body of work more easily through books because they’re much smaller and less detailed. But when I stepped foot into the chapel, and I looked up at this massive painting…”
Anne’s pensive awe deepened as she spoke, her voice tinged with emotion. “When I finally laid eyes on that giant painting I’d studied for months, only ever seeing it in pieces, a fraction of its actual size…”
Her eyes glistened as a fond smile tugged at her lips. “It took my breath away. Truly, I was awestruck. It was such a profoundly spiritual moment, and I don’t even subscribe to religion or spirituality. It was unforgettable.”
Damien was captivated, a dull ache forming in his stomach at the realization that he’d never experienced a moment like that. His research projects had always pertained to the objective. Arts, culture—anything “right-brained”—had never been part of his repertoire, leaving him without an emotional anchor to compare.
“My knowledge of classical and fine art is limited,” Damien admitted. “I can recognize a few of the most famous pieces and enjoy a trip to an art museum, but I wouldn’t be able to name the artist, movement, or time period. All I could do is point to a painting and say, ‘I like that one.’ I probably couldn’t even articulate why.”
He thought of the painting above his fireplace.
“There’s an exception,” he added, lifting a finger.
“Oh?” Anne raised an eyebrow as she took a bite of her food, likely room temperature by now given how much they’d been talking.
“Hudson River School,” Damien said with a faint smile. “Every time I see their work, I have a visceral reaction. Durand, Bierstadt… but especially the heavyweights—Cole and Church.”
“You’re full of surprises,” she remarked, her intrigue evident.
“I try to keep everyone on their toes.”
“We should take a trip to a museum sometime,” Anne suggested, her eyes glinting with playful intent. “I’d love the chance to unload my knowledge onto you.”
There was a record-scratch moment in Damien’s head, but despite the comedic jolt, he found himself saying, “I’d like that,” before taking another nervous bite of his now-lukewarm food, washing it down with a sip of water.
“What about your brother? Does he appreciate fine art? What did you say his name was—Erik?”
Damien laughed. “Yes, Erik. The only things he truly appreciates are beautiful women and beautiful guitars.”
He shook his head, correcting himself. “That’s reductive, though.”
“I believe you told me he was funny, talented, immature, annoying, and…” she searched her memory, “emotionally intelligent.”
Damien nodded. “Erik has this uncanny ability to tune into your thoughts and feelings—even ones you might not see in yourself.”
“I remember you saying that.”
Damien’s thoughts drifted to Erik’s relentless teasing about the very woman sitting across from him. He thought about how Erik seemed to know, without being told, how hard Damien was working to keep his mind from straying toward the secrets hidden beneath her clothes.
“Erik embodies my antithesis in many ways, and yet, I love him for it, even when he exasperates me.”
“Why does he frustrate you? Aside from the usual sibling reasons, I mean.”
“He doesn’t take anything seriously,” Damien explained. “Trying to have a serious conversation with him is like pulling teeth. He’s the court jester. Everything is a joke to him, so he’s lightning quick with repartee and puns, and he has a sass to rival yours.”
Anne grinned, and Damien grinned back.
“Sometimes, though, life requires seriousness, and he struggles to grasp that. On the other hand, that’s part of why I love him. He balances me out. He takes up the slack—because I know that I am often much too serious. Where I’m the intellectual, he’s the creative. Erik’s the artsy one who knows how to appreciate beauty in all of its different forms—he does see beauty in every woman, yes. But he sees beauty in things like cars, same as me. He certainly sees it in music, probably fine art, and in people in general, in the human experience. He is an artist, after all, and that’s the space where his serious side comes out. He is so good with the music and lyrics he writes. He has an incredible ability to render emotions and tell stories in his music. He’s loyal, and energetic, optimistic, and seldom is he in a bad space.”
“Are you describing a man or a golden retriever?”
“Uh, yes?” Damien quipped, earning another giggle from Anne that sent warmth flooding through him.
“Despite his inability to take things seriously, Erik is always there when I need to talk about something heavy—and yes, he’ll inevitably make me laugh while doing so. He understands me. He judges me but never harshly and isn’t afraid to humble me.”
“You need it,” she teased.
“Hey,” Damien replied with mock sternness, relishing her laugh. “One of my favorite Erik moments happened years ago. I don’t even remember how it started, but he threatened to sign me up for some speed dating event. I told him, ‘You better not fucking dare.’ Well, guess what he did?”
She pretended to consider. “He dared?”
“I got a text from him—I’ll never forget it—that said, ‘I signed us both up, my guyest of guy. Here’s the address. Be there on this date and time, and don’t be late!’ It even had one of those kissy-face emojis he loves. I was furious but also impressed because Erik doesn’t do dating. But that’s a story for another time.”
“So, did you go?”
Damien sighed. “Yes, I went. I felt guilted into it because Erik volunteered to do it with me.”
“I’m sure the women you met were thrilled by your enthusiasm,” Anne said, her grin pure mischief.
Damien shot her a flat look, but the way her smile challenged him made his heart flip. “As a matter of fact, I showed up at the restaurant where this supposed speed dating mixer was happening…”
“Oh God, don’t tell me it wasn’t real.”
He started laughing. “I stepped inside and got hit with a loud, enthusiastic ‘SURPRISE!’”
Anne raised an eyebrow.
“Erik had thrown me a surprise party to celebrate making Forbes 30 Under 30—barely. Balloons, streamers, champagne, cake, my team, some mutual friends, the whole nine yards. He didn’t even invite any strippers, which I’m sure was torture for him.”
“Remarkably self-restrained of him, it seems.”
“He even wore a suit and tie. I’m sure that was agony.”
“That’s really thoughtful, the whole thing.”
“Erik’s a lot to get used to, no doubt. He’s an aggressive flirt, but he knows when to stop. He’s a good man.”
Her expression held a flicker of skepticism, and Damien was acutely aware of how his words might sound—empty, perfunctory—coming from a man.
“He’s kind to everyone,” Damien continued, trying to bridge the gap. “The way he engages with people so easily, so genuinely… it’s something I envy. Erik makes friends effortlessly. Believe it or not, the schmoozing part of this job doesn’t come naturally to me.”
Anne nodded, her gaze steady.
“He was my first best friend and will always be the most important person in my life. I love him deeply, and I make sure he knows that often.”
Her expression softened, her eyes studying him with a tenderness that sent a faint ripple of warmth through his chest. “You’re very lucky to have someone like Erik,” she said, her tone gentle but assured. “I can see how important he is to you. It’s not just what you said—it’s how you said it. Your admiration and love for him run so deep. Honestly, it’s rare to hear a man talk about another man with such clarity and complexity. Seems like you’ve picked up a few of those emotional intelligence traits from him.”
Damien paused, her words resonating more than he expected. She was right. Among the men in his life, he seldom heard relationships described with such openness and depth. Conversations were usually sparse, sometimes dismissive, and often steeped in a toxic aversion to vulnerability. The word love was rarely uttered, regardless of the relationship’s nature. Damien felt a pang of pride that his bond with Erik defied that norm.
“Being open with him is a key component of our bond,” Damien admitted. “I can, will, and do tell him everything. Good or bad. Unfortunately, that means I get the same treatment from him.” He laughed, breaking the solemnity. “His stories tend to involve a lot more niche local gossip, women, and shenanigans than mine do.”
Anne’s eyes locked on his, her stare unwavering. “So what does he know about me?”
The brazenness of her question threw Damien off, his thoughts momentarily stumbling. He took a sieve to his memories, debating how to find the right balance of veracity, omission and willful ignorance. He didn’t want to lie, and he didn’t think she was fishing for compliments. Her question felt premeditated, though her motives remained unclear.
“Well,” Damien began, choosing his words with care, “he knows we’re working together on the rebrand and the keynote. He knows I accompanied you to the fashion show and that we had a nice time. He knows you’re independent and damn good at your job. And, of course, he knows about your impressive talent for being a smartass subordinate.”
Anne’s cheeks tinged with red, but her posture remained composed as she responded, “Thank you. I work hard to be those things.”
She wasn’t one to shy away from compliments, nor should she. Damien believed she deserved every word. Hearing himself articulate those qualities about her, even in a professional tone, was—
“Would you like to see a dessert menu?” the waiter interrupted.
Damien’s mind betrayed him, conjuring an image of Anne standing in her robe, flushed and bare-skinned, biting her lip. In the director’s cut of the fantasy, she hooked a finger into his belt loop and beckoned him inside.
The faint whine of a phantom old TV transformer hummed in his ears as he glanced at her. He deferred the decision to her, and she shook her head, politely declining the waiter.
Minutes later, the check arrived, and Anne instinctively reached for her purse.
“I swear to God,” Damien said, his voice low but firm, “if you reach for your wallet, I’ll fire you, and you’ll have to walk home.”
Anne raised her hands in mock surrender.
Good girl, Damien thought, a fleeting but vivid notion of wrestling her wallet away in bed flashing through his mind.
Back upstairs, as they stepped off the elevator, Damien debated walking her to her door but decided against it, given their earlier encounter. Instead, he stopped at the elevator, bidding her good night and offering to meet for breakfast.
In his room, Damien stood by the window, the lights of San Francisco spilling into the darkened room. He watched the night motion below. Distant sirens called out, and he thought he could see tendrils of the famous fog curling in from between the buildings. He ran a hand through his meticulously styled hair, disrupting its order. He sat at the edge of the bed, sighing as he kicked off his shoes and discarded his jacket.
Images of Anne slipped unbidden into his mind—her robe loosening, her skin gleaming in the dim light. The spark of sensation that had ignited earlier flared again, an insistent current coursing through him. It was a vivid imagination compensating for the actual absence of sight.
Damien tried to ignore it, busying himself with preparations for the next day, but the more he fought it, the more his mind returned to her. Alone in her room. Unraveling her layers like his own personal striptease.
The thought consumed him, refusing to be quelled. Left with nothing but his thoughts and a mounting ache, there was only one thing he could do.
So he did.
The expo hall was alive with chatter and activity, an atmosphere that enveloped attendees in a whirlwind of sensory overload. Shuffling footsteps and bursts of laughter echoed off the tall walls of the convention center, but Damien could always pick out Anne’s laughter above the din. It wasn’t just because she stood beside him—it was simply unmistakable.
The hall itself was a labyrinth of booths, a maze that even a detailed map could hardly simplify. Each space boasted flashy banners and elaborate displays vying for attention. Some showcased cutting-edge tech with sleek modern designs, while others featured larger-than-life product demos. Despite the visual overload, Damien found his attention consistently drifting back to her. Maybe it was the late-night thoughts still lingering, unresolved, but the vibrant displays paled in comparison to the curve of her lips when she smiled.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of gourmet snacks from nearby kiosks. Occasionally, the acrid tang of printer ink and electronics added a subtle edge of industrialism. Beneath it all, every time Anne stood close, Damien caught her scent—a cocktail of something light, sweet, and wholly intoxicating.
Attendees clad in everything from sharp business attire to casual wear navigated the crowded aisles, clutching tote bags stuffed with brochures, pamphlets, and promotional swag collected from a seemingly endless array of booths. Their branded lanyards and ID badges announced affiliations while they jotted notes or exchanged contact information. Damien and Anne wore their own name tags, their titles proudly displayed alongside the Hudson Gateway Energy Solutions logo.
Their conversations flowed easily as they moved through the dense throngs, toggling between professional banter and debates over the innovative products and emerging technologies they encountered. They paused at booths showcasing state-of-the-art gadgets, and over a cup of coffee during a break, they debated their potential applications within HuGES and market impact with fervor. That fervor simmered beneath Damien’s skin, and he desperately tried to cool it down. It felt helpless, like the old adage—he was a moth to a flame.
At one point, they sat in a seminar about the future of artificial intelligence in marketing, taking notes of their own about the latest advancements in AI technology, and its broad scale impact on strategies, engagement, and experience. Over another cup of coffee, they debated that too—Damien in favor, she against, hoping he could sway her with the right amount of playful banter and logic. Her hand brushed his as they walked, sending jolts of electricity through him each time, though her occasional eye contact remained indecipherable.
The crowded room grew oppressive, and Damien’s patience waned under the strain of proximity and unresolved tension. The way she moved, her confidence as she navigated the maze, only fueled the restless flame inside him, and he considered it a true miracle that he wasn’t sporting an erection. He found himself lagging behind her, unable to resist watching. Every so often, Anne turned to check if he was still following, her glances catching him feigning interest in a nearby display. Only once did she catch him outright staring. She didn’t flinch, holding his gaze with a subtle smile that made his stomach plummet.
In mid-afternoon, his thoughts were abruptly doused when his phone buzzed with a call from Charlie. Damien’s chest sank as he puffed out his cheeks and answered. He pressed a finger to his other ear, trying to muffle the background noise.
“Put Anne on,” Charlie barked, wasting no time.
Damien sighed, his patience thinning instantly. “Good afternoon to you too, Charlie.”
“I’m not here to play games, Damien.”
“Go fish.”
“She’s there with you, isn’t she? I’ve been trying to reach the woman, and she’s conveniently not answering.”
With a resigned glance at his watch—7 PM on the East Coast—he relented. “Yes, hold on.”
Threading his way through the crowd, Damien tapped Anne on the shoulder. She turned, her expression softening. “What’s up?”
Wordlessly, he handed her the phone. She regarded it suspiciously before raising it to her ear. Damien crossed his arms, observing as her expression shifted—from confusion to guilt, then irritation, and finally resolve.
“No, I have not been keeping this from you,” Anne said firmly, her voice cutting through the expo’s clamor with such sharpness, it drew the attention of some people around them. “And I certainly haven’t been ignoring you. The timeline for this project was clear, and we’re still on track. You’ll have your complete report by the agreed deadline.”
Damien could hear the edge in her tone as she listened to Charlie’s response, her brows knitting in frustration.
“Anything urgent has been handled,” she snapped. “What you’re asking for isn’t due until the end of next week. I don’t appreciate being spoken to this way.”
A pause followed, the static tension palpable even in the noisy hall.
“Charlie? Hello?” Anne pulled the phone from her ear and glanced at the screen. “He hung up,” she muttered, handing it back to Damien.
Their fingers brushed, the contact sparking a familiar tingle.
“Everything okay?” he asked, watching her closely.
“Not if you asked him.” She muttered something under her breath, lost in the surrounding din, and shook her head. Her face was somewhat pinched, like she was fighting tears, and she blew out a slow, narrow stream of air from between her lips.
“Given that he’s your boss, you’re gonna have to extrapolate just a little bit more. I’m pulling the superiority card here,” Damien said, his tone light but firm.
Anne sighed, shaking her head, perhaps trying to shed the frustration that had put a sheen on her eyes. “He was looking at the metrics for a test campaign we’re running. Technically, it’s an A/B campaign. One that he has a brief on, including a timeline. The campaign is still fresh, and he was looking at the analytics, asking why we’re spending money on it when it’s clearly failing, and why I’ve been keeping the failure from him. I haven’t been. We were going to go over the KPIs on the following Monday when we had all of the performance data and analyze and rethink. He knows this. It’s in an email, and I think even on paper. There was no need to call me, or you, on this. None. I’m happy to show you what I mean later if you don’t believe me.”
Charlie had clearly activated her defense mode, Damien noted. If she’d had hackles, they’d be raised by now.
“No, that’s not necessary. It’s clearly been a long day. Let’s finish up these last two aisles and then head back to the hotel. On second thought… dinner, Golden Gate for sunset, and then the hotel. I’m just about expo-ed out anyway. I’ve had a little too much stimulus for today.”
Of this kind, anyway.
The sky was painted in hues of purple and deep magenta by the time they were on their way back to the hotel. Anne sat beside him in the taxi, swiping through the photos she’d taken throughout the day—products, business cards, potential swag options, booths, and various bits of inspiration. One photo stood out: a vase of lilacs on the dinner table, their soft petals a burst of color amidst the sleek decor.
“These lilacs are so pretty,” she’d said earlier, snapping the photo. “My mother loves flowers, so every time I see nice ones, I have to send her a photo. Make sure she knows I’m thinking of her, and all that.”
As Damien heard the whoosh of her text sending, he’d briefly wondered what her mother knew about him.
“Lilac is my favorite floral scent,” he’d admitted casually. “I get the appeal of its beauty.”
Anne now swiped to the sunset photos of the Golden Gate Bridge, its massive towers silhouetted against the vibrant sky, their lights glowing like red beacons as night crept in. The photos wouldn’t win awards, but they were tokens of the moment. The last photo on her roll, though, was striking.
“Let’s get one together!” she’d exclaimed, asking a passerby to take a quick shot.
There they were, frozen in time before the iconic bridge. Her smile radiant and infectious, her arm around his waist. His hand rested lightly on her ribcage, carefully placed to avoid any semblance of impropriety.
“I sent it to you,” she said, her voice breaking his reverie.
“Hm?”
“The photo we took.”
Checking his phone, he found it. The photo was now part of their expanding digital thread—one that had strayed far from work. What had started with a single picture had spiraled into memes, jokes, links to videos, and playful exchanges. Her messages were colorful, filled with emojis, while his remained straightforward. It felt like friendship.
It felt like danger.
In the closed space of the cab, all Damien could focus on was an intensifying desire to put his mouth on her neck. He was acutely aware of the small gap between their bodies and how desperately he wanted to close it, to feel her warmth against him. His chest tightened with restraint.
“Thank you for everything today,” Anne said as they stepped off the elevator, walking toward their rooms. “You didn’t have to come with me to the bridge tonight, but you did. I’m glad you did. It was a lovely time.”
Damien escorted her the extra few steps to her door, his resolve wavering under the weight of the primal longing that coursed silently beneath his skin.
She slipped her key into the slot, the indicator light flashing green. Pushing the door open, she glanced back at him, her gaze lingering. For a moment, silence stretched between them, the tension tangible.
“Well, goodnight, then, Damien,” she said, offering a hesitant smile before stepping inside and closing the door.
Inside his own room, Damien felt the last firewall give out. His thoughts spiraled into forbidden territory, vividly imagining scenarios that left propriety far behind. His body felt overheated, a bead of sweat forming on his brow as fantasies of her consumed him. The way he could imagine making her moan, and the way he could imagine her hands in his hair and his in hers and they took turns giving. The way he dreamed of tasting her sweat and cum on his tongue. The way he fantasized about having her pinned against the wall, crying out his name, their bodies locked together with such vivid clarity was all-consuming.
“Damien?”
He blinked, snapping back to reality, only to find himself standing at her door, hand poised mid-knock, unclear of how he got there
You walked, idiot, his mind supplied.
Anne opened the door, her expression amused. “What’s so urgent? You saw me, like, a minute and a half ago.”
A shiver ran down Damien’s spine as he stood there, teetering on the edge of recklessness. The tension between them was a live wire, sparking and dangerous, and with one touch he’d be sent right over the edge. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such raw hunger.
His mind began to war with itself as the moment stretched between them.
Here we go again. Don’t do it, Damien. What about Todd?
“Todd” is inconsequential.
Okay, then it’s career suicide.
For who? Her or me?
Both. Mostly her.
You crave her. Her mouth and hands are dangerous. Don’t you want them all over you?
What if it backfires? You fuck up, and that’s it. You only get one shot, Marshall Mathers.
But what if she lets you in? You know she’d feel so good underneath you.
Think of the power imbalance here, Damien. Would she even be able to say no?
Of course she would.
Don’t kid yourself into thinking it’s that simple.
All sorts of frustration were boiling under his skin, and there was a millisecond of deflation.
Put yourself in her shoes.
It’s in her eyes. She wants you.
No, she doesn’t. You’re projecting.
There’s only one way to find out, Damien. Take the leap. Jump. Taste her.
Damien stared at her, caught in the gravitational pull of her presence, feeling every ounce of the electric tension between them. She was a magnet, and he was a helpless satellite, pulled irresistibly into her orbit.
“Damien?”
He locked eyes with her, and there was something swimming in them. He prayed it was arousal, reciprocated.
Do it.
Damien’s heart hammered in his chest, his body tingling with anticipation. Like the anecdotal old trade show display, he felt himself begin to lean, closing the gap between them, ready to kiss her, on the cusp of a consequential crash. He could smell her, could almost taste her. He was mere moments from crossing the threshold of no return when—
The sharp chime of the elevator bell pierced the haze of desire, jerking him back to reality with a violent jolt. The sound crashed through the heated tension like a brick through glass, leaving him disoriented and raw, as though pulled from a fever dream.
The elevator doors slid open, and a lively family of four spilled into the hallway, their laughter and chatter cutting through the heavy, charged silence. Two children darted past, their damp towels flapping behind them as they left small puddles of water on the carpet. Their parents followed, offering a polite, “Good evening,” as they passed.
Damien stood frozen, a tangle of adrenaline, shame, anxiety and relief rooting him in place. The universe, it seemed, had intervened, yanking him from the tempting precipice of an irreparable mistake. As the family’s voices faded into the distance, the suffocating noise in his head dissipated, and in its wake was a vacuum of silence and the pain of clarity. He blinked, grappling with the turbulent whirlwind of emotions that blew through him.
“Uh, yeah,” he said awkwardly, his voice a hollow echo of its usual steadiness. “Sorry. Got lost in a thought there.”
Anne arched a brow, her expression unreadable save for the faint glimmer of curiosity and concern. Her lips parted slightly, and she ran her tongue across them, a simple gesture that still sent a ripple of heat through him.
“Just came to tell you we need to be at the airport no later than nine,” he said. “Might be easier to just grab McDonald’s or something there.”
“That’s fine,” Anne replied. “This meeting could have been an email, you know.”
Damien managed a weak chuckle. “Right.”
The playfulness faded, replaced by something softer. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Well, goodnight, Damien. Sleep well.”
She stepped back into her room and gently shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the dimly lit hallway. The moment the latch clicked, a wave of embarrassment and frustration crashed over him. He dragged a hand down his face and muttered a curse under his breath.
With a resigned sigh, he turned and trudged back to his room, his steps heavy, his mind clouded with self-recrimination. Once inside, he mechanically stripped off his clothes and turned the shower on, the sound of rushing water filling the otherwise silent space.
“Well,” he muttered dryly, the bitterness of resignation coating his words, “guess there’s only a handful left to do.”
He stepped under the hot stream, letting the water cascade over him, hoping it would wash away the remnants of his desire and the weight of his regret.