Desmond
The convention center smelled like coffee, carpet cleaner, and ambition.
I adjusted the strap of my laptop bag as I walked toward the ballroom, skimming my notes for the third time. The talk was solid. I knew it was. I’d given versions of it a dozen times before. Outcomes, funding, projections. Calm. Controlled.
My phone vibrated.
I did my best to ignore it, but two steps later, it vibrated again.
So I stopped walking, and against my better judgment, I glanced down.
Anya:
I miss you.
Something warm and sharp twisted low in my abdomen. I exhaled through my nose, steadying myself, already smiling despite my best efforts.
I typed back as I resumed walking.
Desmond:
I’m about to walk into a keynote.
But I miss you too.
Her response came almost instantly.
Anya:
I know.
My phone buzzed again before I had the chance to pocket it.
Anya:
Anya Volkov has sent you an image
I slowed. Stopped again, looking around as if I were about to commit a crime. Then I opened the message. And my fucking brain stalled.
Blood rushed south with absolutely no regard for professionalism. My jaw tightened. I straightened my shoulders as though posture alone might fix this.
She was lying on her bed, head thrown back somewhere, one hand groping her bare tit, with her other hand shoved down into a tiny pair of lacy panties. With her back arched and her socked feet crossed, it seemed very likely that she was trying to kill me.
Fuck.
I typed with my thumb, brisk and furious and not at all turned on.
Desmond:
Anya.
I need this phone for my talks. You can’t send these things to me.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and forced myself forward, counting my steps, focusing on anything except the sudden awareness of my own body.
Podium. Lights. Applause.
My phone buzzed again.
I did not check it. What I did do was clip the microphone to my collar, adjust it, and felt a flash of something unhelpful as I remembered exactly where my mind had gone just moments earlier.
I began my talk, pushing all thoughts of the gorgeous… and frustrating little wench out of my brain. Focused it all on the presentation.
Until about halfway through slide three, when the phone vibrated again against my thigh. I faltered for half a second, my mind instantly replaying that image of her. But I recovered. Kept going.
During the first question from the audience, I finally dared to glance down.
Anya:
I sent them because you’re far away.
And because I wanted you to think about me.
I can’t stop thinking about you, Doctor Vaughn.
My throat went dry.
I answered the poor soul’s question on autopilot, words flowing from muscle memory while my mind was entirely elsewhere.
With her.
Another vibration.
Anya:
Are you behaving?
I swallowed, shifted my stance, and let out a slow breath.
Desmond:
Define “behaving.”
I could feel her grin through the screen.
Anya:
No.
I closed my eyes for half a beat, then finished the session to polite applause, pulse still misbehaving, suit suddenly far too restrictive.
As the room emptied, my phone buzzed one last time.
Anya:
I’ll be here when you’re done.
Missing you.
Emergencies just aren’t the same without you, boss.
I stared at the message longer than necessary. Then, very carefully, I typed:
Desmond:
You are a menace.
And I cannot wait to see you on Saturday.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, rolled my shoulders, and prepared for the next talk. Focus was overrated anyway.