16. The Summit of All Fears
16
THE SUMMIT OF ALL FEARS
ALEX
Twenty years of running Drake Enterprises had taught me many things, but nothing had prepared me for watching Mackenzie Gallo destroy my senior VPs at charades during the first night of the Winter Strategy Summit.
"Time's up!" Emma calls, just as Mac's team correctly guesses "disruptive innovation paradigm."
"How," Gerald Matthews wheezes from the losing team's couch, "did you act out 'paradigm'?"
Mac grins, still slightly flushed from her performance. "Twenty years in tech. You learn to speak fluent buzzword."
The great room at Cascade Lodge glows with firelight, snow falling heavily outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. We're only three hours into the first evening of the three-day retreat, and already I'm questioning my sanity in inviting her.
Not because she doesn't belong here – the past week of watching her prep for this summit proved she's more qualified than half my leadership team. No, I'm questioning my ability to maintain professional distance when she keeps doing things like demolishing corporate barriers through party games .
"Another round?" Dave Phillips from Engineering suggests, clearly smitten with Mac's charades prowess.
"Actually," Emma intervenes with perfect timing, "the evening activity schedule shows we're due for the traditional first-night bonding exercise."
Various groans echo around the room. The "bonding exercise" is infamous – every year, leadership shares their biggest professional mistake and what they learned from it. It's meant to encourage vulnerability and trust.
Usually, it just encourages drinking.
"Mr. Drake starts," Emma announces, because some traditions refuse to die. "As always."
I stand, whiskey in hand, trying not to notice how Mac leans forward slightly in her armchair by the fire. She's traded her usual power suits for a cashmere sweater and dark jeans, and the effect is... distracting.
"My biggest mistake," I begin the familiar script, "was?—"
"Letting Keith order the revolutionary berets in bulk?" Mac interrupts, eyes twinkling.
"That's next year's story." I find myself smiling despite the formal nature of the exercise. "No, my biggest mistake was believing that corporate culture was something that happened to other companies. That if we focused on results, on innovation, on being the best, the culture would take care of itself."
The room goes quiet. This isn't my usual story about a failed acquisition or a missed market opportunity.
"I built Drake Enterprises to be unbreakable," I continue, aware of Mac's steady gaze. "After watching my father's company collapse, I swore I'd never let that happen to mine. But in making it strong, I made it rigid. In making it successful, I made it... cold."
Gerald shifts uncomfortably. Barbara Cho studies her wine glass .
"And then someone threw champagne at me at a charity gala."
Laughter breaks the tension. Mac raises her glass in mock salute.
"Sometimes," I meet her eyes directly, "the best lessons come from unexpected places. Or people."
The moment stretches, charged with something more than professional respect.
"Well," Emma clears her throat, "who's next?"
The stories flow, fueled by premium whiskey and the intimacy of firelight. Barbara admits to almost tanking a merger because she wouldn't listen to junior developers. Dave confesses to a coding mistake that accidentally sent everyone's salary information to the company printer.
"Ms. Gallo?" Emma prompts. "Would you like to share?"
Mac stands, firelight casting shadows on her face. "My biggest mistake was staying too long in situations I knew weren't working. Whether it was a marriage or a job... I kept trying to fix things that weren't mine to fix."
Her honesty catches me off guard. From the corner of my eye, I see Gerald frowning thoughtfully.
"But sometimes," she continues, "what looks like a mistake turns out to be a course correction. Sometimes getting fired on your birthday leads to..." she gestures around the room, "unexpected opportunities."
"Like leading the corporate revolution?" Dave jokes.
"Like learning that change can come from within the system." Her eyes find mine. "If the system is willing to change."
The grandfather clock chimes ten, breaking the spell. Emma starts herding people toward their rooms, citing tomorrow's early strategy sessions.
I hang back, watching Mac gather her things. In the firelight, with snow falling outside and holiday decorations twinkling, it's easy to forget she might be the anonymous blogger who's been challenging my company for months.
Easy to forget everything except how right she looks here.
"The system is willing," I say quietly when we're almost alone. "To change, I mean."
She turns, and for a moment, I see something like guilt flash across her face. "Alex..."
"Join me for a drink?" I gesture to the bar cart. "We should discuss tomorrow's diversity initiatives presentation."
"At ten PM?"
"Best time for strategic planning." I pour two whiskies. "Unless you're worried about fraternizing with the corporate overlord?"
"Please." She accepts the glass, fingers brushing mine. "Keith's the only one still using that term. Though I did catch him trying to teach the resort staff revolutionary carols at dinner."
We settle into the armchairs by the fire, close enough that I can smell her perfume – that same subtle and floral scent that makes me think of spring despite the winter storm outside.
"The board's impressed," I tell her. "With your changes. Your initiatives. Everything."
"Even Gerald?"
"Especially Gerald. Though he'd rather drink Keith's ‘communist coffee’ than admit it."
She laughs, then sobers. "Alex, there's something I should?—"
A crash from the hallway interrupts her. We rush out to find Keith, still in his signature beret (now with added snow cleats), tangled in what appears to be climbing gear.
"I can explain," he says from his position on the floor.
"Please do." Mac crosses her arms. "Keeping in mind that I saw you googling 'how to organize a mountain revolution' earlier. "
"The people's voices must be heard! Even at eight thousand feet!"
"Keith." I use my CEO voice. "Were you planning to scale the lodge's facade to hang protest banners?"
"...maybe?"
"In a snowstorm?"
"The revolution waits for no weather!"
"The revolution," Mac helps him up, "can wait until after the strategy sessions. And maybe invest in some basic climbing lessons first."
We escort Keith back to his room, confiscating both the climbing gear and what appears to be a manifesto written on resort stationery.
"Still think inviting him was a good idea?" Mac asks as we head back to the great room.
"You're the one who said we needed all voices represented."
"I meant in meetings, not mountaineering."
Back by the great room’s fire, our drinks waiting and twinkling in the light, the moment from earlier tries to rebuild itself. Mac sinks into her armchair with a sigh that sounds like unwinding.
"You were about to tell me something," I prompt.
She stares into her whiskey like it holds secrets. "Just... thank you. For including me in this. For listening. For..." she waves her free hand, encompassing the lodge, the summit, everything.
"Thank you for making me listen." The words come easier in firelight. "For making me see what needed to change."
"Even if the method involved expensive drinks?”
"Especially then." I study her face in the flickering light. "Though maybe next time just send a memo?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
We talk. About the company, about changes still needed, about everything and nothing. The fire burns lower, the snow falls harder, and somewhere around midnight, I realize I've never felt more at peace than here in my corporation’s rented lodge.
"We should probably..." Mac gestures upward, to where our rooms wait on separate floors.
"Probably," I agree, not moving.
She stands, stretching slightly. "Early meeting tomorrow."
"Mac."
She pauses, looking down at me, and suddenly every carefully maintained barrier seems paper-thin.
"Yes?"
"I—"
A muffled thud and cursing from outside interrupts whatever insanity I was about to voice.
We rush to the window to find Keith, apparently attempting Plan B of his revolutionary mountaineering, now stuck halfway up a decorative pillar.
"I regret everything!" he calls down, beret askew. "The revolution may have been slightly ambitious about its climbing abilities!"
Mac turns to me, eyes dancing. "Still glad you invited all voices?"
"Let's review that policy tomorrow." I reach for the house phone to call resort security. "Preferably after we get our makeshift mountaineer down from there."
"At least he's festive about it," she points out. "The beret still has tinsel."
And maybe it's the whiskey, or the firelight, or the absurdity of watching resort staff rescue a revolutionary developer from a snowy pillar at midnight, but suddenly we're both laughing.
Real laughter, the kind that breaks down walls.
The kind that makes me forget about anonymous bloggers and corporate politics and everything except how right this feels .
How right she feels.
After ensuring Keith is safely down and appropriately chastised about revolutionary climbing techniques, the lodge settles into snow-muffled silence.
"I should head up," Mac says softly, though she makes no move to leave the firelight.
"I'll walk you." The words come automatically, decades of ingrained manners covering something much less controlled.
“Hmm, interesting. Afraid I'll stage my own climbing protest?"
"More concerned about Keith inspiring copycats." I gesture toward the grand staircase. "After you."
The walk to her third-floor room feels both eternal and too short. Mac's heels click softly on the hardwood, the sound mixing with the crackle of radiators and the distant howl of wind. Outside the windows, snow falls in thick curtains, turning the mountain night into something out of a snow globe.
"Well," she stops at her door, key in hand, "this has been an interesting first evening of strategic planning."
"Is that what we're calling Keith's alpine revolution attempt?"
"I'm calling it material for my next... never mind." She catches herself, and something passes across her face – guilt? Regret?
"Mac."
She looks up at me, and suddenly the hallway feels very small. The cashmere of her sweater catches the low light, making her look softer than her usual corporate armor allows. A curl has escaped her updo, brushing her neck in a way that makes my fingers itch to?—
"Alex." Her voice is barely a whisper. "We shouldn't..."
"Shouldn't what?" I step closer, giving her plenty of time to retreat. She doesn't. "Discuss strategic planning in hallways? "
"You know what I mean." But she doesn't step back. If anything, she sways slightly forward. "This is..."
“Against employee policy.”
“Amongst others.”
"Because of the blog?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "What?"
"We both know you're—" I start, then stop, because I suddenly realize I don't care. Don't care if she's the anonymous blogger, don't care about corporate politics or public relations or anything except how right this feels.
"I'm what?" She tilts her face up, challenge in her eyes even as she draws closer.
Instead of answering, I kiss her.
For a moment, she freezes, and I think I've miscalculated everything. Then her hands curl into my shirt, and she's kissing me back with an intensity that makes me forget about bloggers and businesses and everything except this.
The key to her room drops with a dull thud—forgotten as I back her against her door, one hand cradling her head while the other finds her waist. She tastes like whiskey and possibility, and the small sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly undoes me completely.
"Wait," she breaks away, breathing hard. "We can't?—"
"We can." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, watching her eyes flutter. "Unless you don't want?—"
She cuts me off with another kiss, this one harder, almost desperate. Like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
“We’re crossing all the lines,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Only the ones that don’t matter anymore.” I trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse race. “Unless I’m crossing a line you don’t want…”
"No." Her hands clench in my shirt. "Yes. Maybe. I?— "
She leans against the door, her breath hitching slightly as I step closer, my eyes locked onto hers.
"Mac," I murmur, my voice low and husky, "you drive me crazy, you know that?"
She swallows hard, her gaze never leaving mine. "Alex, I’m not sure that we?—“
"Shh," I whisper, my fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "Let me take care of you tonight."
I lean in, my lips brushing against hers softly, then more insistently. She melts into the kiss, her hands reaching up to tangle in my hair, and I dive right into it, taking her with me, letting my tongue explore her mouth as my hands roam her body, feeling every curve through her cashmere sweater.
Breaking away, my breath is strangled—strained. Almost as strained as my slacks have become with each passing second that Mackenzie is in my arms. "You're so beautiful, Mac. So strong and so damn beautiful."
She blushes, making my cock harden almost to the point of pain. And despite the delicious hurt, I smile, my thumb brushing her cheekbone before my hand trails down her neck, her collarbone, and finally rests on the waistband of her jeans.
My jaw ticks as my dick nearly grows numb.
Probably, because I can’t remember the last time I wanted something so much. In fact…I don’t think I’ve wanted anything—any one —as much as I want the woman in front of me.
My thumb brushes across the button her jeans, and she releases a long sigh.
“Fuck. I need to touch you, Mac.” I breathe out, the words scraped raw. “Can I touch you, Mac? Can I make you feel good?"
She nods, her small throat working as she swallows. "Yes, Alex. Please."
I unbutton her jeans, my fingers slipping inside her soft cotton underwear. She's already wet, her body ready for my touch. I find her clit, circling it gently with my fingers, and Mackenzie moans softly, her head falling back against the door.
"That's it, sweetheart,” I murmur, my lips against her ear. "Let me hear you. Let me know how good it feels."
I slide two fingers inside her, my thumb continuing to work her clit. With every second that passes, the beautiful brunette in my hands grows bolder.
Her hips buck against my hand, her tiny fists clawing into my shirt.
I hear a whimper. A sigh. A whine.
And then I felt it. The pressure of teeth digging into my shoulder.
Hers.
And I keep circling, sucking in a sharp shot of air.
“Holy fuck, sweetheart. You're so tight, Mac," I whisper, my voice hoarse, each syllable dry. "So wet. You feel incredible."
I begin to move my fingers in and out of her, my thumb keeping a steady rhythm on her clit. Her moans grow louder, her body tensing as she nears her climax.
"Come for me, Mac," I urge, my voice low and commanding. "Let me feel you come undone."
With a final cry, she comes, her body convulsing around my fingers. I hold her tightly, my lips pressed against her neck as she rides out her orgasm.
And I could live in this moment forever.
Except the moment is shattered, interrupted by a crash from downstairs, followed by what sounds suspiciously like Keith's voice starting a protest chant.
With the world’s greatest patience, I gently withdraw my hand.
Mac lets her head fall back against the door with a laugh that sounds almost pained. Her dark-brown eyes are glazed, her pink lips puffy from where they’ve been kissed.
She sighs. “Saved by the revolution. "
I rest my forehead against hers, trying to regain some semblance of control. "We should probably..."
"Make sure he's not building barricades in the lobby?"
"I was going to say continue this discussion later, but yes, that too."
She bends to retrieve her key to the room, and I definitely don't take advantage of the moment to admire how her jeans?—
"Alex." Her voice brings my eyes back to her face. "This is?—"
“Likely ill-advised. If I were my lawyer, I’d be having a conniption right about now.” I bring my fingers to my lips to taste the evidence of her arousal, and she watches me, eyes wide. “But it might just be right.”
I lean in, my lips brushing against a dark curl that’s escaped her neatly-made bun.
"You know what’s even more right, Ms. Gallo? How amazing you taste,” I murmur, enjoying how she shivers slightly. “Next time, I plan on tasting you more properly.”
Her skin turns the color of pastel cotton candy. And for a moment, I think she'll argue. Instead, she rises on tiptoe and presses one more kiss to my lips, swift and soft and full of promise.
"Goodnight, Ms. Gallo," I whisper, stepping back.
Mackenzie smiles, her dark lashes sweeping slowly towards the sky. "Goodnight, Mr. Drake."
I wait until her door closes before heading downstairs to deal with whatever revolution Keith's staging now.
My phone buzzes, probably with a text or email about whatever CEO duty I’m failing to fulfill right now.
I ignore it, touching my fingers to my lips where I can still taste Mackenzie Gallo and whiskey and the anticipation of tomorrow still on my tongue.