My fingers tighten on my pen. Thraka's eyes narrow, fixing on Chad with an intensity that makes the VP of Sales shift uncomfortably.
"I didn't mean..." Chad backpedals. "Just saying, maybe we could make it more engaging?"
"I think Orla's presentations are very thorough," Janet offers weakly.
Thraka hasn't stopped staring at Chad. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"It's fine." I force my voice to remain level, professional. "Let's continue. Q3 marketing budget?—"
"Your tie is crooked," Thraka interrupts, still looking at Chad. "And your cologne smells like desperation."
Chad's face flushes an unflattering shade of crimson that clashes violently with his overpriced burgundy tie. "My cologne costs two hundred dollars a bottle," he snaps, his voice rising half an octave in a way that absolutely undermines whatever authority he's attempting to project.
Thraka's expression doesn't change. He simply continues staring at Chad with that unnerving, predatory focus that I've seen him use when he's identified what he calls a "worthy opponent"—though in this case, Chad is decidedly not worthy of anything except perhaps a strongly worded email about professional conduct.
"Wasted money," Thraka says, his voice a low rumble that somehow carries more weight than Chad's indignant sputtering. "You still smell desperate."
I should intervene. I should redirect the conversation back to the budget. I should be the professional mediator who prevents workplace conflicts.
Instead, I watch Thraka's hands where they rest on the conference table. Those hands that yesterday mapped every inch of my skin, that knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure, what rhythm would make me forget everything except the pleasure building inside me.
Professional boundaries.
I'm failing spectacularly at professional boundaries.
That's what I should be thinking about. That's what any rational, competent executive would be focused on right now—maintaining appropriate workplace conduct, keeping personal entanglements separate from professional obligations, ensuring that nothing compromises the integrity of quarterly budget reviews.
Instead, all I can think about is Thraka's foot against mine, the deliberate pressure that seems to communicate an entire conversation without a single word. My carefully constructed walls, built over years of corporate discipline and rigid self-control, are crumbling faster than a poorly structured merger agreement.
This is a disaster. This is exactly the kind of complication I've spent my entire career avoiding. Variables I cannot account for. Emotions I cannot quantify. Risk factors that don't appear on any spreadsheet.
And yet I don't move my foot away.
"Moving on." I flip to the next page of my presentation with more force than necessary. "Department expenditures show a significant increase in office supplies?—"
Thraka's foot finds mine under the table, the contact so unexpected and deliberate that it sends a jolt straight up my spine.
I freeze mid-sentence, the words dying in my throat. My brain, which had been running through calculations about cost-per-unit and vendor contracts, suddenly goes completely blank. Empty. A spreadsheet with all the cells deleted.
He's not looking at me. He's studying the projected spreadsheet on the screen with apparent interest, nodding along like he understands what EBITDA means.
But his foot is definitely pressing against mine, warm even through the barrier of our professional footwear. The pressure is deliberate, unmistakable, a secret communication in a room full of people who have no idea what happened between us less than twenty-four hours ago.
My pulse kicks up. I can feel it in my wrists, a rhythm that has nothing to do with quarterly reports or budget allocations.
Focus. Focus on the spreadsheet. Focus on the data.
"Office supplies?" Janet prompts gently when I've been silent for what feels like an eternity but is probably only five seconds. Her fingers hover over her laptop keyboard, waiting for me to continue, to explain the variance in departmental spending that she's highlighted in yellow on the projected screen.
"Yes. Office supplies. There's been a... " His foot slides up my calf. "...a notable increase in paper consumption."
"Probably Thraka eating all the printer manuals," Chad mutters.
Thraka's foot retreats. He sits forward, and I see his jaw tighten, hands flexing against the table edge.
"Chad." My voice is sharper than my usual carefully-modulated professional tone. "That's inappropriate."
The temperature in the conference room drops several degrees. Even Janet stops typing.
