"Where exactly are we headed?" she asks, with an edge of uncertainty that rarely cracks through her corporate composure. Her damp hair brushes against my jaw as she shifts in my arms, trying to get a better view of my face.
"Somewhere proper for celebrating," I announce, my voice booming with the kind of enthusiasm that makes fluorescent lights jealous.
"Your apartment?" She's already running through the logistics in her head, I can tell. Calculating drive time, factoring in traffic patterns, probably drafting a mental timeline.
"Too far away," I shake my head decisively, adjusting my grip on her as I pivot toward the concrete ramp leading down. "My truck is right here in the garage. We can start now. Right this very moment."
She pushes back, her eyes going wide with alarm, those sharp features sharpening even more as her professional instincts kick into overdrive. "Absolutely not. We are categorically not doing this here. In your vehicle. In the company parking garage.During business hours—well, technically after business hours, but still on company property."
"But we've already done it in the supply closet on the third floor," I counter, unable to suppress my grin. "And remember that shed during the thunderstorm? The one with the broken door? And your apartment, what was that, maybe twenty minutes ago?"
"Those were all completely different circumstances," she insists, though her protest sounds increasingly hollow even to her own ears. "Each one was an extenuating situation that required immediate action."
"This is an extenuating circumstance. I need to celebrate my promotion." I set her down next to my beat-up truck, the one that barely fits in standard parking spaces. "And you negotiated it. You should be rewarded."
Her professional mask cracks completely. That sharp, controlled exterior melts into something softer, something real. She bites her lip, a tell that gives away everything she's thinking, and I feel triumphant.
"The windows are tinted," I offer, spreading my hands in what I hope is a persuasive gesture. "Complete privacy. Nobody can see a thing from outside."
"That's your selling point? Tinted windows?" She crosses her arms, her sharp features skeptical, though I can see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "What else do you have? Please tell me you have more than tinted windows."
"Also, the back seat is very spacious," I add, gesturing toward the truck bed's extended cabin with obvious pride. "Plenty of room to move around. More legroom than your sensible little sedan, that's for sure."
She glances around the parking garage, her sharp eyes scanning the concrete expanse with someone conducting a security audit. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, castingeverything in that sickly institutional glow. Row after row of sensible sedans and practical hybrids stretch out before us, the vehicles of people who've already gone home hours ago, who've returned to their normal lives and their normal evenings. It's just us here now, suspended in this strange after-hours limbo where the rules of the daytime seem to dissolve.
"This is incredibly unprofessional," she says finally, though her voice lacks its usual conviction.
"You just created an entire department called Aggressive Negotiations," I counter, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. "You literally institutionalized chaos. Professional went out the window the moment you greenlit that initiative."
She considers this for a long moment, her jaw working as she processes the logic of my argument. Then, with what appears to be a deliberate act of willful abandon, she reaches down and opens the back door herself. She climbs in with as much dignity as someone in a wet suit and thoroughly ruined heels can possibly manage, her movements careful and controlled even as she surrenders to the moment.
I follow, pulling the door shut behind us. The interior light fades, leaving us in shadow. She's already unbuttoning her blouse again, the one she buttoned wrong earlier.
"Now," she whispers, pulling me down on top of her. "Let's go celebrate the promotion."
And we do.
15
ORLA
The next morning, I arrive at the office exactly seventeen minutes early, which is precisely fourteen minutes later than my usual arrival time. My hair is still damp from the shower Thraka and I shared, and my blouse has a button missing that I didn't notice until I was already in the elevator.
I'm falling apart.
My office looks the same as it always has. Minimalist desk, ergonomic chair, framed degrees on the wall that prove I'm qualified to be here. The window overlooks the city, all those buildings full of people following rules and protocols and five-year plans.
Thraka arrives at the office forty-three minutes later, carrying two coffees and a bagel he's already half-eaten. He's wearing the same suit from yesterday, slightly more wrinkled, and there's a visible tear in the shoulder seam that definitely wasn't there before.
He grins when he sees me through the glass wall of my office, that wide, unrestrained grin that makes my stomach flip.
I stand and lock my door.
His grin widens.
"Little Manager," he says when I let him in, setting the coffees down on my desk with careful precision. "You have that look in your eyes. The one that means you're planning something."
"I'm celebrating," I announce, reaching up to loosen his tie. "Properly celebrating. The way we should have done it last night before we got interrupted by the security guard making his rounds."
