I type back:Can’t tonight. Rain check?
The truth is, I haven’t been sleeping well, and alcohol would only make it worse. The last thing I need is to lower my inhibitions and accidentally say something about those files to the wrong person.
Well. Almost every night has been sleepless.
There was one night last week when I managed to forget. Briefly.
I didn’t plan to go to that bar. I was walking home from work, taking the long way to avoid my empty apartment, and I passed O’Malley’s. Something made me stop. Maybe it was the warm glow through the windows. Maybe it was the exhaustion of carrying secrets I didn’t ask for. Maybe I just needed to feel normal for five minutes.
One drink, I told myself. Just one.
I claimed a stool at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Hendricks. The good stuff. If I were going to drown my sorrows, I might as well do it properly.
I was halfway through my drink when he sat down next to me.
I noticed his hands first. Large, with long fingers and clean nails. The kind of hands that looked like they’d never done manual labor but could probably crush something if they wanted to.
Then I looked up.
He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled out his charcoal suit jacket as if it were custom-made forhim. Which it probably was. His hair was dark blond, almost brown, and was cropped shorter on the sides and longer on top. A few strands fell across his forehead, and I watched him push them back with an absent gesture. His jaw was strong, his nose straight, and his cheekbones high enough to make a model jealous.
But his eyes. God, his eyes. Clear blue, the color of glacier ice. They swept over me with an interest that felt almost physical.
We talked for hours. He was clever and quick, matching my sarcasm beat for beat. He didn’t ask what I did for a living. Didn’t try to impress me with his accomplishments. Just talked to me. Listened to me. Made me laugh so hard I snorted gin up my nose, which should have been mortifying but somehow wasn’t.
By eleven, I’d forgotten about the documents. Forgotten about the merger. Forgotten about everything except the way he looked at me.
The cab ride was silent. Charged. My pulse thundered in my ears the entire way. Neither of us touched, but I could feel him beside me. The heat of his body. The weight of his gaze when he thought I wasn’t looking.
His apartment was absurd. A penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that belonged in a magazine. I barely had time to take it in before he was kissing me, his hands in my hair, his mouth hot and demanding against mine.
I’d had sex before. Good sex, even.
This was different.
He took his time with me. Learned my body like he was memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot, every sound Imade when he touched me just right. His hands mapped my skin with a patience that drove me crazy. When I tried to rush him, he pinned my wrists above my head and told me we had all night.
When I came the first time with his mouth between my thighs and his fingers digging into my hips, I forgot my own name. He didn’t stop until I was shaking, until I had to push him away because it was too much.
Then he started again.
When I came the second time, riding him while he held onto my waist and watched me with those ice-blue eyes, I forgot everything else, too.
I woke up at four in the morning, tangled in sheets that smelled like expensive cologne and sex. He was still asleep beside me, with one arm thrown over his face.
I slipped out without waking him.
Back to real life. Back to spreadsheets and secrets and the slow-motion disaster of my professional existence.
That was a week ago, and I’ve spent the last seven days replaying that night in my head while I should have been working. Wondering who he really was. Whether he thought about me, too. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter, that it was just one night, that I would probably never see him again.
I need to focus. The new boss arrives on Monday. My job is on the line. The last thing I should be thinking about is some stranger I slept with once.
And yet.
Friday bleeds into Saturday, which crawls into Sunday. I spend the weekend alternating between polishing my work portfolio and doom-scrolling job listings. Just in case.
Monday morning arrives too fast.
