The Colorado River
“I’m here to see Winston Donovan, please,” I said, keeping my voice even.
The assistant barely masked her disapproval, her gaze flicking over me like I was something she had just scraped off her designer heel. Her perfectly manicured fingers paused over the keyboard, as if debating whether I was worth the effort.
I resisted the urge to shift under her scrutiny, lifting my chin instead. Let her judge. I wasn’t going anywhere.
It was my first visit to Winston’s corporate office on Howard Hughes Parkway.
The casual demeanors and ambience I’d seen at the solar plant were replaced here by business-formal mannerisms and opulent sophistication.
I could tell I was severely underdressed for the occasion, wearing shorts and a moisture-wicking tank top over my one-piece swimsuit.
Everyone in the stylish office building wore business suits—men with neckties, and women with high-heeled black pumps and light-colored shirts in crisp linen or smooth silk.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t there for a meeting, and I wasn’t trying to blend in. If anyone noticed me, so much the better—they’d know exactly whose attention I already had.
The assistant was dressed sharply in a white suit and a light-gray blouse. About forty-five, she had short salt-and-pepper hair, almost military-style. I felt myself withering under her gaze.
“Mr. Donovan is in a meeting with the Department of Energy. Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I admitted, shifting my eyes for a split second. I’d been tempted to make one, but at the same time, I wanted to know where I stood. If I was important enough for him yet. “Could you please call or text him to let him know Olivia Taylor is here?”
“Ah, Ms. Taylor,” she replied, as if she’d heard my name before.
Her demeanor instantly changing, she picked up her phone and speed-dialed a number.
Then she whispered quietly, “I have Ms. Taylor for you.” A beat.
“No, she’s here.” She ended the call and smiled professionally, but her eyes stayed cold, inquisitive.
Judging me. “He’ll be right out. Please take a seat. ”
I thanked her with a nod, but continued to stand, looking out the window to hide a smile. He’d been waiting for me. He’d given his staff special instructions about me.
A couple of minutes later, Winston appeared, walking briskly toward me in a charcoal suit and white shirt, perfectly paired with a tie in gray metallic hues.
His eyes lit up when they met mine. “Ms. Taylor, let’s step into my office, shall we?” As he held the door open for me, he asked, “Do we have time for coffee?”
It was as if he could read my mind. “No, we don’t,” I replied. This wasn’t the first time he’d guessed my intentions.
“Hold my calls, Rose.”
“Yes, sir.” Her reply faded as the office door closed behind us.
A beat of silence. We were alone together in a sumptuous office decorated in burgundy leather and mahogany furniture. It smelled faintly of fresh lavender.
Winston smiled, his hands propped on his hips impatiently. “Well?”
“Do you feel like canceling your afternoon?” I asked, holding my breath.
“I could make that happen.” His smile widened into a boyish grin. “For the right reasons.”
“Then let’s take this off,” I said, drawing close and slowly loosening his tie.
I could sense him holding his breath. “This, too.” I tugged gently at the lapels of his jacket.
His eyes turned dark, smoldering. I stepped to the side and removed his jacket, then hung it on the back of a chair.
The tie landed on top of it. “This will do,” I added, undoing the top two buttons on his shirt. “Let’s go.”
I led the way, not stopping until I reached the elevators. I heard him say, “Rose, cancel my afternoon. I’ll be out of pocket.” Waiting for the elevator, he switched off his phone.
The elevator ride was short and shared with a couple of his employees. They seemed relaxed around him, engaging with him freely. Not fearful or stressed, as I’d witnessed with other powerful men like Winston.
“So, what’s the verdict on the South Henderson site?” one of them asked, leaning casually against the wall.
Winston gave a small, thoughtful nod. “Final approval came in this morning. We break ground next month.”
“Nice,” the employee said, grinning. “I owe Jen lunch. She bet me it wouldn’t clear before the weekend.”
Winston chuckled. “Then you better take her somewhere good.”
The exchange was easy. Familiar. The kind that shouldn’t have felt remarkable—but did.
Climbing into the passenger seat of my Beemer, he buckled up. “Where to?” He seemed excited, but a little nervous, with a trace of uneasiness. Probably because he was married, and he was about to spend the entire afternoon with me. Perhaps he was afraid someone would see us.
I shook my finger. “Uh-uh. This, we don’t discuss. Everything else is game.” I peeled off and turned on the music, set to the Pulse, my favorite satellite-radio channel. “What do you like?”
He turned a little sideways to face me. “If I remember correctly, today is about what you like.”
“All right, then,” I said, cranking up the volume as “It’s My Life” blasted through the speakers. I sang along—off key, shameless, drawing out the high notes just to make myself laugh.
By the time we crossed the Colorado River at the Hoover Dam, he was singing along with me, his voice deep, but just off enough to make me grin.
“Dancing with my eyes closed . . . in the dark . . . something, something heart.”
I burst out laughing. “What? That’s not even close.”
“Sure, it is,” he argued. “That’s the line. It’s ‘Dancing with My Eyes Closed,’ right?”
I shook my head, barely holding back a smirk. “Nope. The artist should sue you.”
He scoffed. “Why? It’s close enough. It’s about dancing and feelings. Give me half a point.”
“No chance.” I grinned. “But I’ll let you redeem yourself. Name the next artist before the chorus.”
A new song started, and he leaned forward, listening intently. “Oh, I got this. Sabrina Carpenter.”
I arched a brow. “And how exactly do you know that?”
He shot me a sideways glance, all mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
We both laughed as the next song queued up, the game continuing, the miles slipping away like they didn’t matter.
I found myself wishing the trip were longer.
But after about an hour, we arrived. Two WaveRunners were waiting at the Temple Bar Marina, just as I’d arranged.
His face lit up when he realized what I had planned for us.
I pulled the Beemer into a parking spot close to the ramp and reached into the back seat.
“This is for you,” I said, giving him a small shopping bag. “You’ll probably need some privacy to put them on,” I added, laughing at his reaction. He pulled the swim shorts from the bag slowly, his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly gaping. “I think you’re a large, right?”
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
Getting out of the car, I looked at him over my shoulder, flipping my hair and laughing. “Yeah, I know.” And you haven’t seen anything yet, I said to myself.
My back turned to him, I took off my shorts and top, slowly, giving him a first-row view of my slender body wearing a cutout one-piece in black and white, stretching my arms above my head and running my fingers through my hair.
Then, pretending I wasn’t noticing the expression on his face, I went on ahead to have the WaveRunners put on the water.
While he changed, I loaded a cooler, blanket, and some towels into one of the WaveRunners with some help from the owner, and then advised him we might be late coming back. He smiled, showing off tobacco-stained crooked teeth, and grunted something I didn’t quite catch.
Winston and I got onto our WaveRunners at the dock.
The engines roared to life, disturbing the serene peace of the Colorado River as they glided away smoothly, catching speed.
The water was a brilliant blue, reflecting the clear sky above.
I felt the wind in my hair and the spray of the river on my face, a sense of freedom and exhilaration washing over me.
Why had I stopped doing this for myself?
I’d had to read online that Winston liked being on the water and had a forty-foot yacht on Lake Mead somewhere to remember how much I loved wave running.
For a while, we rode side by side, laughter and windblown shouts cutting through the roar of the engines.
The initial thrill of the ride settled into an easy rhythm, stolen glances and playful splashes weaving between the rush of water beneath us.
Even without words, the connection between us deepened, carried in the exhilaration of the ride.
“Race you to the next bend?” Winston called out.
“You’re on!” I laughed, pushing my WaveRunner to its limit. It went crazy fast, and my hair whipped in the wind, water spraying on my face. I squealed with joy.
We sped ahead, laughter and gleeful shouts mingling with the sound of rushing water. Winston won by a small margin, and I splashed him in mock frustration, veering my WaveRunner too close to his and squeezing the throttle. The turning jet sent a curtain of water over him.
“Just a lucky break!” I teased, pulling alongside him.
“Or maybe I’m just that good,” Winston replied with a wink, wiping water off his face and running his fingers through his wet hair.
“Yes, maybe you are,” I replied, my voice dropping slightly, each word drawn out just enough to linger between us.
We continued our ride up the Colorado, occasionally slowing down to enjoy the serene beauty of the canyon walls and the clear, cool water.
The walls narrowed around us, giving me a sense of claustrophobia as it felt more and more like a maze.
We reduced speed when the water level became too low, going upriver. I could see rocks at the bottom.
Eventually, we reached a quiet, secluded spot along the shore. I guided my WaveRunner to the edge and stopped. “I thought we could enjoy the scenery for a while,” I said, cutting the engine.