“I’m proud of you,” I say quietly.
She smiles, but it’s soft around the edges. “It still sucks.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “You’re not alone.”
Maya squeezes back, then exhales and peels her hand away. “God, I’ve been talking about Asher non-stop. I completely blanked. How areyoudoing? With… you know.” She wiggles her eyebrows like we’re in middle school and not grown-ass adults dealing with actual heartbreak and questionable professional etiquette.
I force a smile. One of those tight-lipped ones that sayslet’s not.
I haven’t talked about the galaxy he sent. Or the email that followed.
Not to her. Not to Jeremy. Not to anyone.
It’s been a week since I opened that box and felt the floor drop out from under me.
A week since I read those words—a one-time lapse in judgment—and locked that part of me away as though it never existed.
I didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Just... closed the door. And turned the key.
Because if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if it’s real, then I have to admit how humiliated I am.
Because in a few weeks, I’ll have to see him again. Work with him. Compete against him.
Pretend that my mind isn’t haunted by the way his fingers made me sing like a goddamn aria behind that bathroom door.
Pretend I don’t still feel him in the hollow ache between my thighs when I’m trying to sleep. That I’m not picturing him every time my thoughts drift into dangerous places.
And pretend—worst of all—that it wasn’t the best I’ve ever felt.
Nothing about this is professional.
And now, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to scrub off the shame. It’s lodged in my skin, jagged, stubborn, like a barnacle.
And God help me, I loved every fucked up, unprofessional, dizzying second of it.
But it’s done.
“Nolan?” I fill in the blank, already feeling the wave of discomfort roll in.
“Mr. Stars-In-A-Box himself. What the hell kind of maniac move was that?” She leans in, eyes wide. “Did you thank him with a mind-blowing, toe-curling blowjob?”
“Jesus Christ, Maya.” I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Well.” I grab my water hoping, start gulping it like it might drown the shame. “I haven’t seen or heard from him. I sent him a thank you email and about two seconds later, he replied me a rejection.”
Her face drops. “A rejection?”
“Yup.”
“Okay–butwhywould he do that?”
I shrug, but everything about it feels tight. Coiled. “It was all just...a lot.One minute, I was plotting the corporate downfall of Big Stream, and the next I’m orgasming against their top exec in a bar bathroom? What the hell is wrong with me?”
She tries so hard not to laugh, she snorts into her glass. “Rorie, I’m begging you—never change.”
“I’m serious.” I slump back against the chair. “All I wanted was a one-night stand. With somerandomguy. Some fun-sex to reset the algorithm.”
“And instead,” Maya finishes, “you got Nolan Rhodes, emotional mindfuck and CEO of Making You Forget Logic Exists.”
“I’ve got a mental highlight reel of his hands in my hair and my thighs around his waist,” I groan. “I haven’t been able to blink without seeing that adorable dimple of his. It’s a mess.”
