Page 7 of Executive Privilege (Event Horizons Agency #1)

"They want to include their headquarters tour as part of the content strategy. Show potential clients and employees the company culture, the workspace, the team dynamic."

I nod. "That could work well with the rebrand message. Show them as established but innovative, traditional but forward-thinking."

"My thoughts exactly. But there's more. Morrison's CEO suggested we stay for their company retreat on Saturday. Team building, strategic planning session, the kind of informal interaction that could give us great content."

"That's..." I pause, trying to process the implications. "A long time to be away from the office."

"I know it's a lot to ask. Especially on short notice. If you're not comfortable with the extended time—"

"No, it's fine." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. "I mean, it makes sense strategically. The more time we spend observing their company culture, the better we can represent it."

Nicholas nods, but there's awareness in his expression that suggests he's as conscious as I am that we're talking about spending four or five days together, not just a quick business trip.

"Morrison mentioned that the retreat includes some outdoor team-building activities. Hiking, maybe some climbing exercises." He smiles, knowingly.

Climbing. My interest is piqued. "That sounds like a pretty cool retreat."

"Should I tell Morrison we're committed to the extended timeline?"

"Yes." The word comes out before I can second-guess myself. "Absolutely."

"Good." There's a weighted silence suddenly that I can't quite read. "Before you go, a friend of mine owns a gallery downtown, and he's opening a new show tomorrow night. Contemporary artists, some really innovative work. I thought you might be interested."

His friend owns an art gallery. That explains the unique art in Nicholas' office.

"Is this work-related?" I ask too fast. Stupid. What if it's not, and now he changes his mind about inviting me?

"No," he says simply. "It's not."

The honesty in his voice catches me by surprise, and my body responds before I do.

"I'd love to go," I hear myself saying.

"Good. It starts at seven. I could pick you up, or we could meet there, whatever you're more comfortable with."

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text. Emma, probably checking to see if I've made any progress on a plan I'm definitely not ready for.

"Actually," I say, then stop myself. Whatever I was about to say would probably be a terrible idea.

"Actually?" Nicholas asks, looking genuinely curious.

"Nothing. I was just thinking out loud." I stand up, needing to put some distance between us before I say the wrong thing.

"Meeting there might be easier," I say, proud of how level my voice sounds. "I'll probably be coming straight from the climbing gym anyway."

"Of course you will," he says, and there's an almost fond quality in his voice. "I'll text you the address."

After I leave his office, I walk back to my desk feeling both relieved and disappointed. The art gallery is a big enough step forward without throwing family dinners into the mix. Damn Emma for putting that in my head.

My phone buzzes with another text from Emma: "So? Any progress on the dinner situation?"

I text back: "Too soon for that. Please just drop it. But we're going to an art gallery tomorrow night."

Her response is immediate: "PROGRESS! That's basically a date. What are you going to wear?"

"It's not a date. It's... art appreciation."

"Uh-huh. Tell yourself that then."

I put my phone away.

I try to focus on work, but my mind keeps wandering to tomorrow night. Nicholas at an art gallery. Nicholas in a setting that has nothing to do with work or professional obligations.

This is either going to be the best idea I've ever had, or it's going to destroy any chance of maintaining professional distance.

Either way, there's no backing down now. I've committed to the move, and like any good climber, the only option is to trust the hold and keep going up.

Across the office, I catch Nicholas looking at me. When our eyes meet, he gives me that slight nod I'm learning to recognize—acknowledgment, approval, anticipation.

***

Nicholas is walking me to my car at the end of another late day. The parking garage feels different tonight, though. He feels different. There's an energy crackling between us, it's impossible to deny it now.

"Thanks," I say, stopping beside my car and fumbling for my keys.

Nicholas stops too, closer than usual.

"Sadie," he says, and there's a roughness in his voice I've never heard before, but have definitely fantasized about.

I look up at him, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is dangerous territory. Whatever's happening right now, whatever's building between us in this dimly lit parking garage, it's going to change everything.

"Nicholas," I whisper, and I'm not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.

He steps closer, eliminating the last inches of space between us. "I should let you go home."

"You should," I agree, but I don't move away.

"This is a bad idea."

"Probably the worst idea ever."

"We work together."

"You're my boss."

"I don't want to be your boss right now," he says, his voice rough with hunger.

And then his hands are in my hair, just like I imagined, and for a second I wonder if I am imagining this, but his mouth is on mine, and every professional boundary we've carefully maintained for the past month explodes into nothing.

The kiss is hungry and his lips are warm and demanding, and when I open my mouth to him, he groans against me like he's been dying for this.

I drop my keys, my purse, everything, and grab the front of his expensive suit jacket to pull him closer. He responds by backing me against my car, his body pressing against mine in a way that makes it very clear this attraction isn't one-sided.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, and the profanity from perfectly controlled Nicholas Blackwood is the hottest thing I've ever heard.

His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, tangling in my hair—and I can't get enough. I've been pretending this tension between us was professional chemistry, but this kiss is proving how much I've been lying to myself.

When he trails his mouth down my neck, I gasp and arch against him. "Nicholas..."

The sound of his name seems to break whatever spell we're under. He pulls back suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes wild.

"Christ," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Sadie, I—"

"Don't," I say quickly, because I can see him already trying to take it back, trying to find a way to make this professional again. "Don't apologize. Don't say it was a mistake."

He stares at me for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "It wasn't a mistake," he says finally. "But it can't happen again."

The words sting, but there's weight in his voice that suggests he's trying to convince himself, not me.

"Can't, or shouldn't?" I ask.

"Both."

I bend down to retrieve my keys, needing to do anything with my hands that isn't touching him. "So what happens now?"

"Now you go home," Nicholas says, his voice carefully controlled again. "And tomorrow we pretend this never happened."

"And the art gallery?"

He's quiet for so long I start to think he's going to cancel. Then: "The art gallery has nothing to do with this."

Which is complete bullshit, and we both know it.

"Drive safely, Sadie," he says, and there's almost desperation in the way he says my name.

I get in my car and sit there for a moment, watching him walk to his own vehicle. My lips still taste like him, my skin still burns where he touched me, and I know with absolute certainty that there's no going back to professional chemistry and careful boundaries.

Whatever just happened between us was too real, too intense, too completely inevitable.