I should let it go. Shut her from my mind and forget about her. That’s the rational response. Identify the distraction, remove myself from it, and move on. I’ve built my life on that principle. Weaknesses get isolated. Wants get compartmentalized. Control is everything.
And yet, hours later, with the city lit up beneath my office windows and the governor’s mess temporarily contained, she’s still there. In my head. In my body.
I sit back in my chair and press my fingertips against the edge of my desk, grounding myself in something solid.
Jessica isn’t a woman I picked out in a club or summoned because the night was long and my patience was short. She didn’t present herself to me. She didn’t try to catch my attention.
She earned it.
Competence has always been more dangerous to me than beauty. Beauty distracts other men, not me. But a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing, who stands her ground under pressure and doesn’t bend just because powerful men expect her to…that kind of woman alters the balance of a room.
I replay the meeting without meaning to. The way she answered every question without hesitation. The calm authority in her voice when she pushed back against the architect. Theflash of something sharp in her eyes when I said I didn’t like it, followed not by offense, but curiosity.
As if she wanted to understand me.
That’s unacceptable.
Understanding leads to influence. Influence leads to loss of control.
I glance at my phone, still face down on the desk, as though it might accuse me of something if I look at it too long.
This is lust, I tell myself. Pure and simple. A physical reaction sharpened by proximity and novelty. It will pass.
Except my body has never reacted like this to lust.
Lust doesn’t make me imagine the weight of a woman in my hands. Doesn’t make me catalog the slope of her hips or the way her thighs press together when she’s standing still. Doesn’t make my thoughts drift to permanence instead of release.
I stand abruptly and move to the window again, watching traffic slide through the Strip below. Every light represents someone going somewhere. Living a life that has nothing to do with mine.
Jessica doesn’t belong in my world. That should be the end of it.
Instead, the thought twists in my chest, sharp and possessive. Because whether she belongs here or not, she’s already brushed against it. Already stood in a room where decisions that shape cities are made.
I turn away from the window and pick up my phone, nudging the papers from her design pack around until her phone number becomes visible beneath her business logo.
I don’t overthink the message.
I want another meeting. One-on-one. Tomorrow evening. My office.
I pause, then add a second line.
Bring the revisions. And yourself.
I ignore the way my heartbeat has increased and send it before doubt can catch up.
The response confirming she will be here at 4PM doesn’t come immediately, and that’s fine. It gives me time to look into her.
As I set the phone down again, a familiar calm settles over me. Whatever this is, I won’t let it drift unchecked. I’ll assess the situation and remind myself why I don’t let emotions dictate outcomes.
And if the pull is still there then I’ll deal with it the way I deal with everything else.
On my terms.
Jessica
I’m running late, and that almost never happens.
That fact alone has my nerves stretched tight as I hurry through the hotel lobby, heels striking too fast against the polished floor. I planned this morning down to the minute. Alarm. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Three meetings with other potential clients. One last review of the revised concepts. Plenty of time.
