Chapter 25 I Play the Long Game
I PLAY THE LONG GAME
Morning beverage of choice?
Cole: I brew locally roasted Arabica coffee beans in my French press.
Bridget: If I have time, I make coffee at home. Folgers, nothing fancy. If I’m running late, I grab a cup from the independent coffee shop on my way to work. If I call ahead, they’ll have it waiting for me. I run late a lot.
COLE
This morning’s executive staff meeting was torture.
Meetings were Bridget’s happy place, so even before Costa Rica, we’d agreed she’d lead them.
Initially, I’d intended to have her do all the preparation so I could swoop in to rescue her when things got contentious.
I’d end up looking like a hero. Okay, I’ll admit, it was a dickish plan, but that was before I knew how capable she was. And how much I liked her.
Which meant that now, as she circled the table and I glimpsed the sweet curve of her ass in her black pencil skirt, my brain filled with visions of her lacy thongs.
I should’ve stolen one for use in my solo practice.
Though masturbation was going to be a pale imitation of sex with Bridget.
I’d miss the musical moans she made when she was close, and her hawk-like screeches when she came.
I’d stored up memories of her dreamy, unfocused eyes blinking their heavy lids.
I wished I’d gone down on her this morning.
Her flavor might still linger on my lips.
When she pointed at a figure on the screen, I felt those small hands wrap around my dick.
Her palms might be half the size of mine, but there was nothing weak about her grip as she wrung my climax out of me.
I’d said we’d relieved the tension between us, but it was a lie.
I’d never stop wanting more. Concealed by the table, I tugged at my pants to ease the tightness behind my zipper.
“Cole?” She said it like it wasn’t the first time. The team stared at me, expressions of mild surprise or irritation on their faces.
“Sorry, what?”
“Maybe we need to get you tested for malaria,” Bridget said. “I understand it can cause brain fog.”
My face burned, but I laughed. I’d happily cede the field to her today because I had a bigger battle to win: how to keep what we had in Costa Rica and our jobs too.
She stayed behind to talk to one of the staff, so I was already making coffee when she walked into our office.
I’d made our first cups at her place with the new beans I’d bought in Costa Rica and my travel pour-over system.
(Her drip machine was a travesty. I’d get her a French press and show her how to use it.) The timer went off, and I pushed the plunger down.
Then I set the strainer over her mug and poured.
I repeated the process for myself. It smelled like earthy rainforest and chocolate, and it brought back memories of Bridget’s skin on white hotel sheets.
When I turned around, she stood in front of the closed door, crossing her arms. “You can’t stare at me like that when we’re in meetings. Everyone will know what we did.”
“Try this.” I handed her the mug. She sipped, and her eyes fluttered closed, just like when I tapped her clit. I inhaled cool air through my nose. Not the time for a boner. “It’s excellent, right? Maybe better than my regular beans. I’ll have to ask my roaster if he can get them.”
Her eyes flew open. “Stop trying to distract me with your coffee snobbery.”
“No one will know what happened.” I wished I could brush back the lock of hair that had escaped her bun, but I was playing the long game, and that required building her trust. “But if you like, I’ll start saying mean things again and stop making you coffee.”
“Maybe you should.” She bit her lip, and I wanted to bite it too. “No, actually, I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I like being partners.” My heart skipped a beat, but then she said, “Professionally.”
“Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Cool your jets, Campion. Don’t appear too agreeable. “I mean, of course we’re only professional partners,” I said. “What else would we be?”
Ignoring my question, she said, “I had an idea in the shower this morning.”
I gritted my teeth to avoid picturing water running over her naked skin. “What’s your idea?”
“You know how you wanted to outsource our data center operations?”
“I said I was sorry about that.”
“I think we should move the call center operations offshore. Paula said they could easily find English-speaking people with customer service skills in San José, or even an entire operation we could purchase, but I’d be open to other locations.”
“Really?” I sipped the heavenly coffee. “Tell me more.”
As she explained her plan, I focused not on those tempting lips leaving a raspberry-colored stain on the white mug but on her ideas and arguments. Bridget was smart and had years of experience. I could learn a lot from her if I let go of my pride.
We could be excellent partners at work.
And maybe outside work too, if I executed perfectly on the dangerous plan forming in my mind. There was a reason I’d become a CEO at age thirty-four.