“I swear, this was not a request,” I said. “I’ll call downstairs-”
She dropped her bag. “Absolutely not. You’ll get some poor maid fired. It’s fine. We’ll… just, God. Let’s-” She made a snatching gesture and swept the rose petals onto the floor in a blizzard of pink. “There. Crisis averted.”
Her composure snapped back on like a latex glove. “You can take the master. I’ll use the other room.”
I took a step toward her, trying for calm. She was near the window, the city’s static-lit grid glimmering behind her. For onemad second, I wanted to close the gap, pin her against the glass, and see if her heart pounded as hard as mine did. Instead, I pointed at the bed.
“It’s a king. The other room is a double, which I could take, seeing as you’re not, in fact, my wife.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? Because apparently the universe has other plans.”
There was a line we hadn’t crossed since that night together. All I had to do was step over it. One move. But she beat me to it, flicking her gaze away and scooping her bag off the carpet.
“I’ve got work to do.” She turned and walked into the second room, shutting the door. I heard the soft click of the lock.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on my knees, and willed the world to stop spinning. My pants were uncomfortably tight. I thought of a cold shower, then rejected it. Instead, I shrugged out of my jacket, loosened my tie, and poured myself a glass of the champagne.
The last time I’d been on a business trip with a woman, I’d spent most evenings babysitting her through a haze of whiskey shots and tears. By midnight, she was draped over my shoulder like a wet towel, and I was holding her hair out of her face while she retched into a marble sink.
Eliza drank seltzer. Occasionally lime, if she was feeling wild. I admired it; her discipline, her refusal to give control to anything or anyone. It was, in fact, deeply fucking attractive.
The glass was sweating in my hand. I set it down and got up to change. In the bathroom, my reflection looked like the opening credits of a legal drama. I yanked off the tie and started on the buttons. As I stripped, I could hear her through the wall,muted but unmistakable: the clack of keys, the scrape of luggage wheels, the scuff of heels. She was pacing, organizing, prepping for battle.
I wanted her.
Not in the abstract, not in some convenient workplace-adjacent fantasy, but here, now, in this suite. I imagined her on the bed, hair down, mouth pursed in challenge. I’d wager every dollar in my portfolio that she was thinking the same thing, in some subterranean corner of her brain, even as she locked the door.
The last button came undone. I swapped out pants for fresh ones and ran a hand through my hair. It came away damp. The suit did nothing to hide my condition, but she was behind a barricade, and I’d be damned if I was the one to knock first.
Back in the bedroom, I stood at the window and looked down at the city. Billions in transactions, all flowing through those little points of light. Money was easy. People were not. And Eliza Reeves was a person I had not, despite all my best algorithms, figured out.
I poured another half glass of champagne. Considered leaving it outside her door with a snarky note, thought better of it. Instead, I sank into the armchair and picked up my phone, scrolling absently through the day’s news. No amount of market chaos could distract from the locked door twenty feet away.
I liked the feeling. The friction. The not-quite. It was better than any after-hours tryst, more addictive than a bull run. She’d left me hanging, and the only move I could make now was to wait her out.
The clock ticked past midnight. The city outside hummed on, indifferent to my problems.
She didn’t come out.
Then I realized something.
I made my way to her door.
“You haven’t eaten,” I said.
After a moment, the door opened, and her eyes locked on mine. “Neither have you.”
“You’re running on fumes.”
“I’m running on competence, which is more than I can say for half your acquisitions team.” Her eyes were glassy. Not with exhaustion, but something worse, hurt.
“Was it you?” she asked, voice low enough that the air barely carried it.
The question hit harder than it should have. I’d spent the last decade engineering every variable, every potential outcome.
“You think I want this to blow up?” I said, softer than I intended.
She folded her arms across her chest. The dress she wore was professional but designed to make men underestimate her. It had the opposite effect on me; I found myself focusing on the spot where her pulse hammered under the skin.