Chapter 2 - Zara
Abram's fingers graze my arm as he guides me down a dimly lit hallway. "And this," he says while pointing at a door toward the end of the hall, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine, "is the bedroom."
My heart pounds against my ribcage, a frantic rhythm that echoes in my ears. I can't help but stare at him, taking in the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity in his perfect gray eyes, which remind me of rain clouds. Why does he affect me this way? I shouldn't be feeling this… whatever this is.
"Shall we?" Abram asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. I inhale sharply, willing my racing thoughts to calm. Just work, Zara. It's just work.
I reach with a trembling hand for the doorknob to the bedroom. Abram's tall frame looms behind me, his presence overwhelming in the narrow hallway. I can feel his eyes tracing the curve of my neck, the sway of my hips. A decade my senior, my client—and yet my entire body thrums for him.
The door sticks as I try to open it. I jiggle the handle, but it refuses to budge. I frown, trying again with more force, but the door remains stubbornly closed.
"Having trouble?" Abram's voice is tinged with amusement.
I feel a rush of embarrassment. "It seems to be stuck."
"Allow me," he says, stepping closer.
His chest presses against my back as he reaches around me, his large hand enveloping mine on the door handle. A jolt of electricity courses through me at the contact, and I have to stifle a gasp.
"Sometimes," Abram murmurs, his lips close to my ear, "it just needs a firmer touch."
With a swift motion, he turns the handle, and the door swings open. But he doesn't move away immediately, and for a moment, we stand there, bodies flush against each other, my hand still caught beneath his on the handle.
I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the intoxicating blend of his cologne and something uniquely him. It's addictive, and I find myself fighting the urge to lean back into his solid frame.
"There we go," he says softly. "After you, Zara."
I feel Abram's hand on my lower back momentarily, guiding me. The touch is light, barely there, but it sets my skin on fire. My breath catches in my throat, and I struggle to maintain my composure. Just as I'm getting used to the sensation, reveling in it even, he removes his hand, letting me pass through the doorway first.
The loss of contact is almost painful, and I have to resist the urge to lean back, to seek out his touch again. I clear my throat, trying to regain my professional demeanor.
"So, this is the bedroom," I say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.
"Indeed it is," Abram replies, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine.
I turn to face him, and for a moment, I'm struck anew by his presence. How is it possible that in the short time we've spent together, he's managed to affect me so deeply? I've never reacted this way to a client before, or any man for that matter. Never felt this instant, overwhelming attraction.
But… he’s so goddamn hot. I don’t think I’ve seen a man this hot before. Not to mention intelligent. This whole afternoon, he’s managed to blow me away by how much he knows about art. Usually, when I decorate homes, I deal with rich housewives who have more money than taste.
But Abram is one of a kind. He has the money and the taste—a rare, delicious combination at that.
Pushing aside these dangerous thoughts, I force myself to focus on the task at hand. "Will I be designing this room for one or two?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light and professional.
Abram's eyes lock with mine, and I feel as if I'm drowning in their intensity. "For one," he says, his lips curving into a slight smile.
My toes curl involuntarily in my shoes. Something dangerous awakens in me, primal and reckless. I force myself to look away, to speak of mundane things like convenience and functionality. But at the back of my mind, I feel myself almost shrieking with joy.
For one.
Not that it should matter. I can’t throw away years of hard work into building a solid professional reputation by hooking up with a client. It doesn’t matter if the room is for one, or two, or a dozen. All that matters is what I can do for the space in question.
And so, I force myself to get back to the purpose of my visit, ignoring the way my heart leaps at this information. "I see. Well, that certainly gives us more flexibility in terms of design."
The air between us seems to crackle with electricity, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for… something. Anything. Abram takes a step closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"More flexibility," he repeats, his voice low and husky. "I like the sound of that."
A blush creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks.
"Yes, well," I stammer, "we can focus on designing for your convenience. Perhaps a larger closet space or a more elaborate en-suite bathroom?"
I'm babbling now, but I can't seem to stop. I've worked too hard to build my career to jeopardize it all for a moment of weakness. No matter how tempting that moment might be.
"After all," I continue, forcing myself to meet his gaze, "the goal is to create a space that suits your needs perfectly."
Abram raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "My needs, Zara? And what do you think those might be?"
I find myself caught off guard by Abram's playful banter. His charm is disarming, and I struggle to maintain my composure. I pray he can’t see through it, but from how he teases, something tells me he’s intelligent enough to have caught on.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way his voice seems to caress my name. "I… I'm not sure I should assume anything about your needs,” I find my words faltering, my voice hitching in my throat.
“I hardly spend any time in here,” he murmurs. “But when I do, I want it to be my sanctuary. My days can be … stressful.”
“A jacuzzi, perhaps,” I suggest. “And a reading corner right there,” I point toward the window. “A small desk for if you need to work late into the night. And no television.”
“No television?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I find it a distraction for busy people, which I assume you are one of,” I say, a little more confident in my tone now.
“That I am.” He nods. “I like that idea. No television. But what if… I have company?”
The blood rushes to my ears, the question suddenly jarring me to my core. So, he does have company sometimes. A beautiful, rotating bevy of beauties, I assume. “Well, your excellent company should suffice,” I retort rather snarkily.
He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine, but I notice the amusement in them. "What if she doesn’t share your excellent opinion?” he asks.
I pause, focusing on ensuring my mouth doesn’t hang open. Is he flirting with me? Not knowing what to say, all I can come up with is, “We can put a TV in the living room.”
He laughs rather generously. “Well, now that that’s settled, let's discuss art, shall we? What kind of pieces do you think would suit me, Zara?"
The way he says my name makes my breath catch. I know I should keep things professional, but I can't resist the challenge in his voice.
"Art that suits you?" I muse, my heart racing. "I imagine something… bold. Striking. Perhaps with hidden depths that reveal themselves slowly."
Abram's lips curve into an almost predatory smile. "Go on," he urges, his voice low and intimate.
I swallow hard, knowing I'm treading dangerous waters. "Something that demands attention," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "Impossible to ignore, even if you wanted to."
The tension between us crackles, electric and undeniable. I've never felt so off-balance, so utterly captivated by someone before. It's thrilling and terrifying all at once.
My mind races, searching for artists whose work embodies the essence I see in Abram. "I'm thinking of someone like Jackson Pollock," I breathe, my voice husky. "His work is chaotic yet controlled. Aggressive, but with an underlying sensuality."
Abram's eyes darken, and he takes another step closer. "Aggressive and sensual? Is that how you see me now?"
I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and it takes all my willpower not to lean into him. "I… yes," I admit, my cheeks flushing. "But there's more. Maybe a touch of Rodin's sculptures. Powerful, masculine forms carved from unyielding stone."
"You have quite the eye," Abram murmurs, his gaze trailing down my body. "What else? A Helmut Newton, perhaps?"
The air between us feels thick, charged with an energy I can't explain. My toes curl in my shoes as I struggle to maintain my composure. "Perhaps some Helmut Newton photography could do the trick," I say, my voice barely audible. "Provocative, daring. Pushing boundaries. I see what you mean.”
Abram's hand accidentally brushes my arm as he points at a wall, sending sparks across my skin. "I like the thought of pushing boundaries. The Newton should go right there."
I'm drowning in his presence, every logical thought evaporating under the intensity of his gaze. This conversation has become dangerous, irresistible, and I know I should stop. I need to find the will to pull away because if I don’t, I know we’re going to find ourselves slamming straight into dangerous territory.
My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matches the chaos in my mind. I take a shaky step back, nearly stumbling over my own feet. "I… I just remembered," I stammer, fumbling for my phone. "I have an urgent call scheduled with another client. I completely forgot."
Abram's brow furrows, concern etching lines across his forehead. "An urgent call?"
"Yes, of course," I lie, avoiding his penetrating gaze. "It's just… very important. I'm so sorry, but I really need to go. I’ll send over a pitch deck with all we’ve discussed."
I grab my bag, my fingers trembling as I struggle with the clasp. "I'll email you some preliminary ideas for the space," I say, my words tumbling out in a rush. "We can schedule another meeting to discuss them in more detail once you go through them.”
As I hurry toward the door, Abram's hand catches my elbow. "Zara, wait," he says, his voice low and intense. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I freeze, electricity coursing through me at his touch. "I'm fine," I whisper, finally meeting his eyes. "Really. I just… I need to go."
He releases me slowly, reluctantly. "Alright. Drive safely."
I nod, unable to form words, and practically flee from the room. It's not until I'm in my car, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, that I allow myself to breathe.
What just happened? I close my eyes, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. Desire, confusion, fear—they all battle for dominance. I've never felt this way about a client before. Never felt this way about anyone, if I'm being honest with myself.
But Abram is different. Older, more experienced, with an air of danger that both thrills and terrifies me. And the way he looked at me… like he could devour me whole. Not to mention, his conversation keeps me interested. Usually, I’d be bored halfway through a meeting, but he’s the perfect client, pushing me to be better, to think bigger.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of attraction. This is madness. I've worked too hard to build up my career and to establish myself as a respected designer. I can't throw it all away for… what? A fling with a client? A man who's probably used to getting whatever—and whoever—he wants?
No. I can’t let a moment’s joy forever cast a shadow of doubt on my reputation. If anything happened and word got out, rumors would spread—and that is something I can’t allow.