Chapter 5
Bash
Mr. I remind myself as I grab my coat. Extremely pleasurable business, but business, nonetheless.
Davidson & Young occupies a converted mill building overlooking the river. I find Charlie in her corner office, surrounded by printouts of the Harborlight Resort's online engagement statistics.
"Our social mentions are up over two hundred percent," she says by way of greeting, not looking up from her tablet. "And the booking link clicks from our holiday Instagram posts have quadrupled."
"Hello to you too, wife," I say dryly, closing her office door.
She glances up, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Sorry. I got excited by the numbers."
"I prefer when you get excited by other things," I murmur, stepping closer.
Her blush deepens beautifully. "Bash, I'm at work."
"And I'm here for a business lunch with my agency's point person." I perch on the edge of her desk. "Perfectly professional."
"Is that so?" She leans back in her chair, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Then why did you close the door?"
"Privacy for sensitive discussions." I run a finger along the edge of her tablet case. "Such as how I can't stop thinking about you naked in our bed this morning."
A shiver runs through her, visible even through her tailored blazer. "That's hardly appropriate business conversation, Mr. Sinclair."
"I disagree, Mrs. Sinclair." The name rolls off my tongue with surprising ease. "Everything about our relationship is business."
Something flashes in her eyes, but it's gone before I can properly identify it.
"Of course," she says briskly, turning back to her tablet. "Speaking of which, the glass-blowing event tomorrow should generate excellent content for the resort's Valentine's packages. Couples' creative experiences are trending for romantic getaways."
I frown at her sudden pivot to professional mode. "Charlie."
"I've drafted some social posts for your approval," she continues, pulling up a document. "And we should discuss how to handle holiday party invitations. I've already received three from local businesses who obviously want the 'Sinclair’s' as their celebrity guests."
"Charlie," I repeat, taking the tablet from her hands and setting it aside. "Look at me."
She meets my eyes reluctantly, and I'm struck by the uncertainty I find there. This confident, capable woman suddenly seems vulnerable in a way that tugs at something deep in my chest.
"What's wrong?" I ask, genuinely concerned.
"Nothing." She attempts a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just focused on maximizing our publicity opportunities."
I study her for a moment, trying to decode the shift in her demeanor. "Did I say something wrong?"
She sighs, some of her professional facade crumbling. "No. It's just... never mind. It's stupid."
"Tell me anyway."
Charlie fidgets with a pen on her desk. "It's just strange, going from what we did last night to talking about Instagram metrics. The whiplash between personal and professional is disorienting."
Understanding dawns. "Ah."
"Like I said, it's stupid." She reaches for her tablet again. "We both know what this is."
I catch her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. "What if we don't?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "What do you mean?"
It's a good question. What do I mean? The words came out before I fully processed them, but now that they're hanging between us, I find myself wanting to explore them further.
"I mean," I say slowly, "that perhaps the boundaries aren't as clear as we initially thought."
"They seemed pretty clear in the forty-eight-page contract," she points out, though she doesn't withdraw her hand from mine.
I trace my thumb across her knuckles, watching goosebumps rise on her arm. "Contracts can be amended."
Charlie swallows visibly. "What kind of amendment did you have in mind?"
Before I can answer, before I can fully form the answer even in my own mind, her office door swings open.
"Charlie, I need the, oh!" Miranda, Charlie's boss, stops short at the sight of us holding hands across the desk. "Mr. Sinclair! I didn't realize you were here."
I rise smoothly, not releasing Charlie's hand. "Just having a working lunch with my wife."
Miranda's eyes dart between us, calculating. "Yes, of course. Congratulations again on your... surprise nuptials."
"Thank you," Charlie says, her professional mask sliding back into place. "Bash was just reviewing the engagement metrics for the Harborlight Resort's holiday campaign."
"Impressive numbers," I add, giving Charlie's hand a final squeeze before releasing it. "Your agency should be pleased."
"Oh, we are," Miranda assures me, though her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Charlie, when you have a moment, I'd like to discuss the transition plan for the account."
Charlie tenses beside me. "Transition plan?"
"Well, given your new… personal connection to the client," Miranda says delicately, "we'll need to establish appropriate professional boundaries."
My jaw tightens. "I specifically requested Charlie remain as lead on the account, regardless of our personal relationship."
"And we appreciate your confidence in her," Miranda says smoothly. "But agency policy regarding conflicts of interest...”
"Can be discussed at another time," Charlie interrupts, rising from her chair. "We were just about to head out for lunch, Miranda. I'll come find you when I return."
Miranda looks like she wants to object but nods stiffly. "Of course. Mr. Sinclair, always a pleasure."
The moment she's gone, Charlie drops back into her chair with a groan. "That's going to be a fun conversation."
"I'll talk to her," I offer. "Make it clear that removing you from the account is non-negotiable."
"It's not that simple," Charlie sighs. "She's not entirely wrong about the conflict of interest."
"We're adults. We can separate personal and professional." Even as I say it, I'm aware of the irony, given our earlier conversation.
Charlie looks up at me, a hint of her earlier vulnerability returning. "Can we, though?"
It's a fair question. Last night, I'd taken her against the window of our suite, her back pressed to the glass as she came apart in my arms. This morning, I'd woken her with my mouth between her thighs, her fingers twisted in my hair as she whispered my name like a prayer.
None of that felt like business.