Page 12 of Executive Privilege (Event Horizons Agency #1)

The week goes by smoothly. Nicholas is a brilliant work partner. I feel supported and also empowered.

The Morrison Industries retreat center looks like summer camp for executives—rustic cabins nestled among pine trees, with a beautiful log cabin style main lodge.

"This should be fun," I say to Nicholas as we unload our overnight bags from the company shuttle.

"Define fun," he replies, eyeing the rock climbing wall visible through the trees with what might be apprehension.

"Come on, Nicholas," Morrison calls out, approaching us with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes rope courses build character. "Ready to show the team what Event Horizons is made of?"

"Looking forward to it," Nicholas says with his professional smile, but I catch the way his jaw tightens slightly.

The next few hours pass in a blur of icebreaker activities and strategic planning sessions. I handle the social media documentation while Nicholas manages more executive interviews.

But it's when we reach the outdoor challenge course that things get interesting.

"All right, everyone," Morrison announces to the assembled group of executives and marketing team members. "We've got a rock climbing wall, rope courses, and collaborative problem-solving challenges designed to build trust and communication."

I glance at Nicholas, who's studying the climbing wall with the expression of someone being asked to have surgery without anesthesia.

"Sadie," Morrison continues, he's dropped last name formalities completely making me, at least, feel like an extension of his team, "since you're our expert climber, would you mind demonstrating the proper technique?"

"Of course," I say, already moving toward the wall to check the safety equipment. The holds are color-coded by difficulty level, and I choose an intermediate route that should be challenging enough to be impressive without being showoff-y.

As I strap on the harness and check my helmet, I become aware that Nicholas is watching me intensely.

"Safety first," the retreat instructor calls out as I approach the wall. "Remember, trust your equipment and communicate with your belayer."

I start climbing, falling into the familiar rhythm of reading the route, finding the holds, trusting my technique. About halfway up, I encounter a tricky sequence that requires me to reach across my body for a hold that looks questionable.

"Looking good, Sadie!" One of the more outgoing Morrison execs calls out.

I make the reach, test the hold, commit to the move. The route opens up above me, and I continue climbing until I reach the top and ring the bell that signals completion.

The rappel down is smooth and controlled, and when my feet touch the ground, there's applause from the Morrison team.

"Excellent demonstration," Morrison says, beaming. "Who wants to go next?"

Several of the younger executives volunteer immediately, but I notice Nicholas hanging back, his professional composure intact but something tense in his posture.

"How about you, Nicholas?" Morrison suggests. "Ready to tackle the wall?"

"I'll observe for now," Nicholas replies smoothly. "Document the team dynamics for the campaign content."

But I can see something in his eyes that looks suspiciously like fear. Which is impossible, because Nicholas Blackwood doesn't show fear. Not about anything.

The afternoon continues with various team members attempting the climbing wall with mixed success. Morrison attempts it and fails goodheartedly and says he'll stick to golf.

Sarah makes it about three-quarters of the way before rappelling down, smiling and laughing at the thrill.

Through it all, Nicholas maintains his position as observer and documentarian, taking notes and occasionally asking questions about technique or safety protocols. Professional. Distant. Completely in control.

But I know him well enough now to recognize the signs of discomfort he's trying to hide.

As the afternoon winds down and the group starts to disperse for dinner preparation, I find myself alone with Nicholas near the climbing wall.

"Everything okay?" I ask quietly.

"Fine. Just gathering content for the campaign narrative."

"Nicholas." I step closer, lowering my voice. "You don't have to climb if you don't want to. Morrison's not going to fire us if you skip the rope course."

"I'm not concerned about Morrison's opinion."

"Then what are you concerned about?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring up at the artificial holds with an expression I can't quite read. "Heights and I have a complicated relationship."

The admission surprises me. Nicholas Blackwood, master of the universe, afraid of heights?

"How complicated?"

"The kind where I prefer to keep my feet on solid ground."

I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the careful way he's not looking directly at the wall. "Bad experience?"

"You could say that."

Before I can ask for details, Morrison appears beside us with his usual enthusiastic energy.

"Nicholas! Changed your mind about giving the wall a try? We've got about an hour before dinner, perfect time for a quick climb."

"I appreciate the offer," Nicholas says, his professional charm sliding back into place, "but I think I'm more valuable documenting the team experience from the ground."

"Nonsense! Part of team building is everyone participating. How can you write about the experience if you haven't lived it?"

I can see Nicholas's discomfort increasing, though he's hiding it well. Morrison isn't being malicious—he genuinely believes everyone should participate—but he's also not picking up on the subtle signs that this isn't just preference, it's genuine anxiety.

"Actually," I say, stepping in, "Nicholas is too proud to say it, but he has a sore back, from ...a different employee event."

"Oh—I didn't know. Sorry, Nick." Mr. Morrison claps him on the back. "Shoulda just said so."

As Morrison walks away to check on other team members, Nicholas turns to me with an expression that's part gratitude, part frustration.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "But I can handle Morrison."

"I know you can. I just thought you might appreciate backup."

"I don't need rescuing, Sadie."

"I wasn't rescuing you. I was supporting my professional partner." I pause. "There's a difference."

Something in his expression softens slightly. "Professional partner."

"That's what we are, isn't it? When we're working?"

"When we're working," he agrees, but there's something in his voice that suggests the line between professional and personal isn't as clear as either of us pretends.

Dinner is served in the main lodge, family-style at long tables that encourage conversation and bonding.

I find myself seated between Morrison's marketing director and one of the younger executives, while Nicholas is positioned strategically at Morrison's table where he can continue building the client relationship.

The food is surprisingly good—barbecue and sides that feel authentically Texan rather than corporate retreat generic. The conversation flows easily, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the relaxed atmosphere.

"So Sadie," Sarah says during a lull in conversation, "Nicholas mentioned you paint. What kind of art do you create?"

"Nothing serious," I deflect. "Just hobby-level abstract stuff."

"Don't be modest," the young executive, Madison, beside me chimes in. "What inspires your work?"

I glance across the room toward Nicholas, who's deep in conversation with Morrison but somehow still aware of what's happening at my table. Our eyes meet briefly.

"Movement, mostly," I say, turning back to the conversation. "Color and energy and the way feelings translate into visual expression when words aren't enough."

"That sounds beautiful," Sarah says. "Very emotional."

"Art should be emotional," agrees another voice. "Otherwise it's just decoration."

The conversation continues around me, but my attention keeps drifting to Nicholas.

He's performing flawlessly in his role as charming agency executive, but I can see the careful control underneath the professional facade.

The way he maintains perfect posture, the slight tension around his eyes, the controlled gestures that never reveal more than he intends.

After dinner, the group gathers around a fire pit for what Morrison calls "informal networking and reflection." S'mores and wine and the kind of manufactured camaraderie that somehow manages to feel genuine despite its obvious corporate purpose.

I'm sitting on a log bench, roasting a marshmallow with probably too much focus, when Nicholas appears beside me.

"Room for one more?" he asks.

"Depends. Are you going to judge my marshmallow technique?"

"I'll reserve judgment until I see the results."

He settles beside me, close enough that I'm grateful for the warmth of his body in the cool evening air. Around us, conversations continue in small groups.

"How are you holding up?" I ask quietly.

"Fine. Morrison's pleased with the content we've gathered, and the executive interviews went well."

"That's not what I meant."

Nicholas is quiet for a moment, watching the flames dance in the fire pit. "I know what you meant."

"So?"

"So I'm fine, Sadie. A little altitude anxiety isn't going to derail a client campaign."

"Is that all it is? Altitude anxiety?"

He turns to look at me, and in the firelight, his expression is more open than usual. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

Because I'm falling for you , I think. Because I want to know what shaped you, what scares you, what makes you human underneath all that careful control.

"Because we're friends," I say instead. "I care about you."

"Friends," Nicholas repeats, and there's something almost amused in his voice.

"What's funny about that?"

"Nothing. Just... I don't usually have friends who've seen me naked."

The comment sends heat through my core despite the casual delivery. "Maybe you should get better friends."

"Maybe I should."