"Mr. Turner," she said formally, stopping a careful distance from my table.
"I need to speak with you."
The "Mr. Turner" was clearly intentional—a verbal barrier between last night and this morning. I gestured to the chair across from me.
"Ms. Blake. Please."
She sat, her posture rigid, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Close up, I could see the strain beneath her composedexpression—the slight tremor in her fingers, the tension around her eyes.
"This is impossible," she said quietly.
"Agreed."
"We need to establish some ground rules."
I raised an eyebrow. "Ground rules?"
"About how we proceed from here."
Her voice was steady, professional, but her eyes betrayed her—the same vulnerability I'd glimpsed last night lurking beneath the surface. “No one can know what happened."
"Obviously," I agreed.
"And it can never happen again."
This came out less certain, almost questioning.
I studied her face, noting the faint flush spreading across her cheekbones. "Is that what you want?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "What I want isn't relevant. This is about what's right."
"And what's right is pretending last night never happened?"
"Yes."
She glanced around the bar, ensuring we weren't overheard.
"Your son is pursuing me again, professionally if not personally. We'll inevitably have to interact."
"And you believe we can simply ignore what passed between us?" I kept my voice low, intimate.
"Forget how you felt beneath me? How you sounded when you came? The things you whispered in the dark?"
The flush deepened, spreading down her neck.
"Stop."
"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable to remember? Or because it makes you uncomfortable to want it again?"
"This isn't appropriate," she hissed, but her pupils had dilated, her breathing quickened.
"Neither was last night," I pointed out.
"Yet here we are."
She looked away, gathering herself.
When she turned back, her professional mask was firmly in place.
