“Mr.Rogan, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you considering our project.”
We settle into the routine of business dinners—small talk about the hotel, the current state of the maritime industry, mutual acquaintances.But my mind keeps drifting.When Rogan mentions the declining appreciation for traditional craftsmanship, I wonder what cutting remark Eve would have about that.
The thought takes me by surprise.Why is she always in my head?I never let anyone distract me from business, but here I am, thinking of how Eve would react, or what she would say.Since when did she become the baseline for everything?The metric by which I measure whether something is interesting or worth noting?It's like she's colonized some part of my brain, set up permanent residence without asking permission.And the worst part?I'm not entirely sure I want to evict her.
“The Serastra 70 launch event,” Rogan says, cutting into his beef Wellington.“I understand you’ve had some recent...difficulties with your craftsmen lineup.”
I force myself to focus.This is too important to fuck up because I’m distracted by a woman who won’t even look at me.“Yes, unfortunately we lost several key artisans to competing offers.But that’s exactly why we need someone of your caliber and reputation to anchor our heritage demonstrations.”
“Indeed.Live demonstrations are quite different from commission work.”He studies me carefully.“What exactly would you need from my participation?”
We go back and forth for an hour.I present our vision for the Serastra launch—the yacht club venue, the distinguished guest list, our ‘Legacy Refined’ marketing approach that positions the Serastra as heritage luxury.I explain how live craftsmen demonstrations will be the centerpiece, showing potential buyers the kind of traditional artistry that goes into these vessels.
“And your connections,” I add carefully.“We understand you work with a network of the finest artisans.Having a metalsmith and leather specialist demonstrate alongside you would create an authentic showcase of maritime craftsmanship.”
His eyes sharpen with interest.“You’ve done your homework, Mr.Wilder.”
Slowly, methodically, I win him over.By dessert, he’s nodding along, talking about demonstration techniques and audience engagement, mentioning Giuseppe Marcelli for metalwork demonstrations and Henri Dubois for leathercrafting displays.
“I think we can make this work,” he finally says, extending his hand across the table.“You have yourself a commitment.I’ll anchor your craftsmen demonstrations, and I can bring Giuseppe and Henri in as well.The three of us together will give your guests a proper showcase of maritime artistry.”
I shake his hand, feeling a surge of satisfaction that should eclipse everything else.This is huge.Rogan’s participation alone will legitimize our entire heritage angle.Add in Marcelli and Dubois, and we’ve just gone from disaster to the kind of exclusive artisan showcase that gets written about inYacht & Leisure Magazine.But as Rogan leaves and I wait for the valet to bring my car around, the satisfaction fades.
The rain that’s been threatening all evening finally starts, a light drizzle that promises to get worse.I stand under the hotel’s awning, watching the water bead on the concrete, and all I can think about is Eve.The way she looked when I cornered her in the stairwell.Defiant and breathless and so fucking beautiful it hurt.The way she felt pressed against me, the sound she made when I kissed her.
And then the way she looked at me afterward.Or rather, the way she didn’t look at me.Like I was nothing.Less than nothing.
Christ.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself.What am I even doing?I’ve always found Eve annoying.Her arrogance, her need to be right about everything, the way she acts like she’s better than everyone else—it’s driven me crazy since college.
But now I can’t keep my hands off her.And the fact that she’s specifically pissed at me—not upset or having a bad day, but pointedly, deliberately freezing me out while being perfectly charming to everyone else—it bothers me more than it should.More than I want to admit.
The valet finally brings my car around, and as I tip him and slide into the driver’s seat, I realize something that makes my stomach clench.Unless I do something—really do something—Eve’s going to draw a line between us.She’s going to make this professional-only thing stick, and all this heat, all this electricity that crackles between us, will just...disappear.
And I don’t want that.I don’t want to go back to what we were.
The rain is coming down harder now, drumming against the windshield as I pull out into traffic.My windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm, and with each sweep, the same thought echoes in my head.
I have to do something.
* * *
By the timeI make it to Eve’s building from the parking lot, my shirt is plastered to my back and water is dripping from my hair into my eyes.The rain has turned vicious, coming down in sheets that make it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
I stand outside the glass entrance doors, looking through at the empty lobby.The building has one of those security systems where you need a key fob or someone to buzz you in.I’m debating whether to start randomly pressing buttons on the intercom when I spot someone approaching from inside.
A guy in his forties, wearing a tracksuit and carrying a gym bag, pushes through the inner door.When he sees me standing outside looking like a drowned rat with my hands clearly full, he pauses.I quickly start fumbling around my pocket like I’m trying to get my keys out, grimacing as the rain pours down on me.
“You need in?”he asks, holding the door open.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, stepping quickly into the warm lobby before he can change his mind.He nods and heads out into the rain without another word, already pulling up his hood against the downpour.
Perfect timing.
I take the stairs two at a time, adrenaline mixing with nervous energy.By the time I reach the third floor, my heart is pounding from more than just the climb.I can feel water dripping from my hair onto my collar, and I know I look like a complete mess.
This is insane.I should turn around.Go home.Send flowers with an apology note like a normal person.
