Chapter Nine
Walker
All I can smell is her sweet perfume as the warmth of her seeps into the small space between our legs. We’re sitting in my cramped little office, and I’m focused on her.
“So, Isla, hit me with your ideas,” I say, leaning back in my chair and putting my hands behind my head, still intent on her face with a sense of both curiosity and something darker, more primal.
She lifts her phone, unlocking the screen, and I have the strangest feeling she’s trying really hard not to look at me.
“Okay, well,” she says, eyes darting up to meet mine before flitting away and confirming my thoughts. I can only wonder why she’s being evasive, because that’s not a question I could ask in this professional setting. Her voice is lyrical, a sound I’ve come to crave, even when the edges wobble with nerves like they are now. “I was thinking about a self-pour beer station.”
She hesitates, biting down on her lower lip like she’s expecting me to tell her that her idea is garbage. But it’s not.
I swivel my chair, a casual move that brings my leg into contact with her knee. It's electric, the momentary brush, and I can't help but notice the blush that rises up her neck to her cheeks. The pulse in her throat picks up speed, a delicate fluttering heartbeat I can almost feel against my skin.
“Interesting,” I say, actually interested as I watch her closely. “Go on.”
She swallows hard, her delicate throat flexing in a way that pulls my attention downward. She’s wearing a blue shirt that somehow manages to be plain and exciting all at once. Her brown hair is loose in soft waves, and she’s wearing just a hint of makeup.
“It's... um, convenient. Reduces wait times, provides a unique experience, could be a point that pulls people in.” She seems to be defending her idea, but her words have the upward inflection of a question, as if she’s very unsure of herself.
“I love it. What else do you have?” I ask, meaning every word.
She inhales, her eyes wide on mine as if searching for the truth and finding nothing but conviction in my expression. Her gaze drops to her phone.
“Unique events?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I tease gently, and she lets out a breathy laugh.
“Sorry, I’m nervous.”
I want to reach out and put a hand on her knee, but I know better. “You have nothing to be nervous about. This affects nothing with your job and is just you doing me a favor.”
She nods. “I just worry my ideas aren’t the best.”
“So, what do you mean, unique events?” I ask, hoping my interest will help ease her worries. I want her to feel comfortable coming to me with anything. Anything .
“Right, like trivia nights, themed parties, charades, or other games on specific nights of the week…” Her hands move as she speaks as if drawing me a picture of her thoughts in the air between us. Her passion for the project makes her even more alluring.
“Those are bold moves for our crowd,” I say, playing devil's advocate just to see how she'll respond.
Her brows scrunch together. “Why ask for my opinion if you only want what's already happening?” Her words have a surprising edge, a zest that has me holding back a smile. For a second, there's fire in her, and I'm drawn to it like a moth to flame.
“Hey, I didn't say I didn't like them,” I say with a half-grin, genuinely amused and turned on by her feistiness.
Her shoulders slump as she remembers who I am and who she is. “I’m sorry, that was out of line—”
“Don't be sorry,” I interrupt, my tone firm but warm. “I like it when you speak your mind.” I watch her shift in her seat as if nervous, the way she clears her throat and looks down, clearly affected by my words and my approval.
“Thanks,” she whispers before pressing on with the determination of someone who won't let their boss see them rattled. But I do see, and it's damn tempting to push further, to test the waters and see just how deep we could dive. But not yet; I don’t want to rush.
“Picture this,” Isla says, her voice threaded with excitement that makes the air in my cramped office feel charged, “a cocktail of the day to draw people in—something unique that changes daily. We price it low enough that it's irresistible.”
I sit forward in my chair - bringing our bodies mouthwateringly close - contemplating her suggestion, our knees brushing once again. I see her catch her breath, that innocent reaction sending a hot surge through me. “I like it,” I say, and I do, but it’s not just the idea I like.
“If you don’t love it, how about a happy hour?” Her gaze meets mine again before darting away, her chest rising as she takes a deep breath.
“Why settle for one good plan? Let's do both—a cocktail of the day and happy hour specials.”
She looks up, her expression excited as her attention locks on me. The moment is electric; her lips part slightly as if she has something to say as the hollow at the base of her throat bottoms out. With another subtle shift, my leg presses against hers, maintaining that small, thrilling contact.
Her fingers twist together in her lap, betraying a nervous energy that tempts me to reach out, to tilt her chin up so she has nowhere to hide from my gaze. But I hold back, because touching her now might unleash all the desire I'm struggling to contain.
“Okay,” she says, her voice betraying that she’s trying to get back on track because her mind has drifted away from the conversation at hand. “How about cross promotions?” The words leave her lips in a breathless whisper that I feel rather than hear. “We team up with local restaurants. Diners get a discount here after their meal. It's a win-win.”
“Explain,” I say, intrigued by the direction of her thoughts.
“Imagine someone finishing dinner and then deciding to continue their evening with us because they have an incentive—a discount on a cocktail that’ll impress their date, or beers with their buddies.” She's animated now, her passion for the idea lighting her up from within.
I’m impressed.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely, impressed by the depth of her creativity and the time she’d put into my request. I mean it; her ideas are gold, and they deserve recognition.
“You're welcome.” There’s a hint of surprise lacing her tone as if my gratitude is unexpected. That tells me she doesn't expect anything in return for her contributions. Her generosity is as genuine as her talent and intelligence. I won’t let her dedication go unrewarded; I'll find a way to show her that her brilliance and cooperation don't go unnoticed, especially not by me.
A knock at the office door yanks me from my thoughts and we jolt apart as if suddenly realizing we’re sharing a far too intimate moment.
The door opens with a soft, feminine, “Hello?”
“I’m in here,” I say, acknowledging her greeting.
A woman stands, framed in the doorway, and I feel Isla stiffen up beside me. I glance at my phone, surprised that it’s already one. Cara’s presence is like a cold splash of water, sobering my senses that were drunk on Isla's little breaths, blushes, and touches.
“Excuse me, Mr. Stone, am I interrupting?” Cara's voice is smooth as silk, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders like a midnight waterfall.
“Not at all,” I say, my gaze flickering to Isla, who’s still seated across from me. “We were just wrapping up.”
Isla’s eyes dart toward Cara, taking in the graceful figure clad in a form-fitting dress that accentuates all the right curves before looking down at her more modest attire. Then she looks at me, a hint of something flickering behind those doe eyes before she masks it with indifference. Jealousy? It's a new shade on her, one that fits surprisingly well, and I make a mental note to revisit it later.
“Thank you for your ideas, Isla,” I say to her, standing to signal the end of our meeting. My tone is appreciative, but there's an undertone of something else—something meant for only her to hear, a whisper of the stirring she's caused within me.
“Of course, Mr. Stone.” Isla rises, her movements stiff as she avoids eye contact with Cara and skirts around the woman.
Cara walks into the room with the sway and confidence of a woman used to getting whatever she wants. The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I find myself wishing Isla was still here and Cara wasn’t. She perches on the chair Isla vacated; a tad too close to seem professional. Her leg brushes against mine, an intentional move brushed off as a coincidence. It’s a test.
I immediately shift away, creating a respectful distance. “Let's get started.” My focus narrows to the interview, determined to keep things strictly business. My mind, however, betrays me with fleeting images of flushed cheeks and shy smiles that belong to another.
“Of course, Mr. Stone. I’m really excited about this opportunity,” Cara says, her smile warm, her posture exuding confidence.
“Call me Walker,” I say.
“Will do, Walker,” she says, my name rolling off her tongue a bit too sensually.
“Let's talk about your experience.” I steer the conversation to safer grounds. But even as we discuss her qualifications, my thoughts stray to Isla —the nervous energy, the way she trembles when I come close, how she affects me without even trying.
Cara answers my questions with practiced ease, but there's no denying the flirtatious undertones in her responses. Maybe that’s just who she is and how she behaves with everyone, or maybe she's playing the game she thinks will win her favor. Either way, her actions and beauty don’t hold a candle to the genuine intensity that surrounds Isla.
“Thanks for coming in, Cara,” I say, wrapping up the interview quicker than usual. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She stands with that same confident set to her slim shoulders, adjusting her black hair to fall down her back. Her blue eyes give me a quick up and down look that I pretend not to notice. After she leaves, I sit back and exhale, unsure whether it's relief or worry that weighs heavier on my chest.
In the silence of the office, I'm left with the echo of Isla's laughter, the ghost of her warmth, and the undeniable truth that my world has tilted on its axis—and she is at the center of the shift.
*
The next day…
“Alright, Cara, welcome to the team,” I say with a nod that feels more like a formality than anything else. A flicker of excitement lights up her blue eyes as she rises from her seat, her movements all grace and perfectly practiced seduction.
“Thank you… boss .” The title rolls off her tongue in a way that's meant to tease. “I can't wait to get started.”
“Go on then, introduce yourself to the others,” I say, ready to shift my focus away from the unwanted attention she’s leveling at me. As she walks out, my mind instinctively circles back to Isla, her genuine smile bringing me relief from Cara's polished charm.
Sinking into my chair with a heavy sigh, I pull out my phone, craving a dose of something real. There it is—a notification for Isla's latest video. My thumb hovers, then presses play, and suddenly, I'm transported from my little office to the cozy warmth of her kitchen.
“Today, we're making the lightest, fluffiest buttercream frosting you've ever tasted.” Isla 's voice soothes the beast within me. She's dressed casually, but every movement is captivating, but not in the same calculated manner as Cara’s had been. Mixing the ingredients together, her hands work with a practiced ease that speaks of countless hours refining her craft.
But it's not just her expertise that has me entranced; it's the way she looks directly into the camera, as if she's speaking only to me. Her cheeks are tinted with a natural blush, and her eyes sparkle with the joy of sharing her passion. The corners of her lips turn up in a sweet smile that leaves me wanting to taste her mouth.
“Perfect for topping cupcakes, cakes, or just eating with a spoon,” she says with a giggle. “I mean, if you spend your Tuesday nights like I do, anyway.” Her refreshing humor and ability to poke fun at herself warms me up inside, and I can almost taste the sugary goodness.
I imagine myself there, standing behind her, arms encircling her waist as I lower my lips to the tender skin of her neck. The fantasy sends a jolt of heat through me. The thought alone is enough to stir a primal desire deep within my core.
A low grunt escapes my throat, unintended, and I lean forward abruptly, elbows on my desk, head bowed to conceal the evidence of my body's reaction. The cool surface beneath my palms does little to quench the heat that Isla kindles within me.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath, turning the screen off. For a brief second, I question the control I've always taken pride in, now teetering dangerously close to the edge because of one woman. One incredible woman who doesn't even realize the hold and power she has over me.
“Get it together,” I say to myself, knowing full well that this dangerous game of attraction and need was one I planned on playing, but that seems to be backfiring on me somehow. As the image of Isla's pretty face glowing with enthusiasm lingers in my mind, I can't help but wonder if this game will be worth the risk.
I'm still bent forward with my elbows on the desk when the knock comes, a sharp sound that pulls me from the brink of fantasies of Isla. I straighten up, adopting the composed mask I've mastered over the years. The door opens and Alex strides in, confidence rolling off him in waves, the very image of a man who's conquered his world just as I have mine.
“Alex!” My voice is steady, betraying none of the concerns or doubts lingering in my thoughts. I rise to my feet, feeling the power of my own presence as I meet him halfway.
“Man, it's been too long!” His grin is infectious, even to me, and I can't help but return the expression with a brief flash of warmth.
“It sure has,” I say, gripping his hand in a firm shake that speaks of mutual respect between two men. His grip is solid, grounding, a reminder of the life I've built from the shadows of my past—a past he knows all too well.
“Look at this place,” he says, gesturing around my office with a whistle of appreciation. “You've really done something here, haven't you?”
I glance around, wondering if he’s making fun of me. He seems to catch my thoughts and he gives a wide smile. “I mean, the office sucks, but the rest of the place is amazing.”
That sounds more honest, and I nod. “I’m trying to.” I allow a hint of pride to seep into my voice. It's not often I allow myself a pat on my own back, but Alex has always had the knack of peeling back my layers.
“Still got the magic touch with the ladies, I see,” he teases, a knowing look in his eye that suggests he knows more about the business and isn’t fooled.
“Business is business,” I say smoothly, brushing off his words while my mind refuses to stray far from Isla. There's a heat there, a need that's been awakened, one that's got nothing to do with the usual games I play or my typical type of encounter.
“Always about the business.” Alex claps me on the shoulder as he takes a seat. “But don't forget to live a little, eh?”
“Living's what I do best.” Even as I say the words, the hollowness of them doesn't escape me—not when every cell in my body screams for a taste of something genuine, something... Isla. I want Isla.
“Good to hear. So, what's new?” Alex leans back, comfortable and at ease, the complete opposite of the tension winding up tighter and tighter within me.
“New bartender started today,” I say, watching his reaction closely. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question hanging between us. But when I don’t respond, he gives a safe answer.
“Ah, business expanding then? That’s a good sign.” He nods, content with the surface details, unaware or uncaring of the undercurrents running beneath. But he’s never been one to pry, and I like that about him.
“Expansion's always the goal,” I say, my mind flickering back to Isla, her bright ideas offering a way for me to change things up and maybe keep growing this place. “Always.”
“Speaking of which,” Alex says, leaning forward, his demeanor shifting, “heard any interesting proposals lately?”
“Actually, yes.” I find myself eager to discuss anything that ties back to Isla, which is something I need to get under wraps sooner rather than later. “I’ve got some fresh ideas that could change the game.”
“Is that so?” Interest piques in his eyes, and I realize that despite everything, talking shop with Alex grounds me, brings me back to the core of who I am—the businessman, the strategist, the man who turned nothing into an empire.
“Tell me more,” he says, and I do.
As we dive into discussions of strategy and innovation, Isla continues to haunt my thoughts. She’s a constant reminder of the game I'm playing—and the stakes that are getting higher by the minute.