Chapter 20 The Space Between Yes and No
The Space Between Yes and No
August
Harlee and I crossed the line.
Not just in a flirtatious, late-night texting kind of way. Not even in the let-me-walk-you-to-your-door kind of way.
No. We obliterated it.
Had sex against my office door. The cardinal sin I’d swore to avoid— the boss-employee boundary, drawn in permanent ink.
And now I’m standing here watching Kelley hold up a pair of neon orange panties like he’s about to bag them for evidence.
God help me.
Guilt hits me before I can even catch my breath. Not remorse—hell, I’d do it all again in a second—but panic. Because my best friend and co-founder is about to gleefully tear into me over this. And whatever’s happening between Ms. Prince and me refuses any neat label.
Fifteen minutes, that’s how long it’s been since she was in my office. And now Kelley appears in my doorway, orange lace dangling from his finger like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Want to explain this?” he asks. I blink.
“Explain what?” “These.” He wiggles the underwear as if it might snap at him. “Didn’t you tell me last week you weren’t seeing anyone?”
Before I can answer, he presses in. “So what changed? Or better yet, who?” His gaze pins me. Every possible reply feels like stepping into quicksand.
Kelley’s been translating my silences for years, reading my expressions like they come with captions.
“You’ve been walking around like someone rewired your brain,” he says, moving closer. “Moody. Distracted. Checking out during meetings like you’re somewhere else entirely. Now I find these in your office and I’m supposed to believe it’s nothing? Plus, your face has that distinct post-nut glow.”
He studies me more intently now. His smirk sharpens.
“Electric Orange—bold choice,” he says, thumb brushing the lace. “Never pegged you for a thong guy, but hey, more power to you.”
“Do you ever hear yourself?” I fire back.
“All the time. My wit’s an acquired taste.” He grins, then steps back and lets me snatch the panties from his hand. Fold once, twice, shove them into my pocket—and for a moment, I forget who I’m up against.
Kelley’s mouth twitches. “I guess some rules are made to be broken.”
Instead, I grab my jacket. Ignore him and start straightening papers on my desk. He watches, waiting.
I zip my blazer. “This conversation is over. Let’s go.” Walking out of my office
The doors slide open and we stepped in once we arrive at the elevator. The mirror catches us both, suits crisp, faces controlled, like this is just another day. Like my pocket isn’t full of neon lace and bad timing.
The doors close and we make it 45 seconds before Kelley reaches over and hits the emergency stop.
The elevator lurches to a halt.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Pausing the plot,” he says. “Because we’re not moving until you talk.”
“This is not a hostage situation.”
“It is now.”
I don’t flinch—I just wait.
Kelley exhales sharply, the kind of breath that says he’s restraining himself from going nuclear.
“Help me out here,” he growls, voice low, “why are there panties in your office?”
I hold his gaze.
“In the best case,” he continues, “you’ve invited someone into your office. Worst case…” He lets the sentence hang.
I say nothing.
Kelley paces once, his stride tight and measured. “You know I need the details. But first, let’s talk risk.”
“There’s no risk,” I reply quickly.
“No risk?” He half-laughs, humorless. “So the board is supposed to believe those panties are yours.”
We haven’t gone public yet, and being an owner doesn’t mean absolute control. With over 300 employees, someone’s always watching when investors get involved. They don’t scream. They don’t leak. They don’t care about intent. They care about exposure.
Kelley taps the mirrored wall as if headlines are projected on it. “First the board, then legal, then the press, then the narrative. That’s the order, my guy. That’s how this works.”
I drag a hand over my face. “It wasn’t planned.”
“That’s even worse,” he says at once. “You never do anything without documentation, printed reports, a full audit trail. Acting on impulse isn’t just reckless—it’s completely out of character.” He pauses. “That’s one of my cornerstones.”
I clamp my jaw shut.
He leans in, eyes razor sharp. “You spent years making sure I didn’t stick my dick anywhere, and now you’re screwing someone in your own office.
I mean, congratulations—I’m impressed—but I’m not about to pretend I’m not concerned.
So I’ll ask you once: if this blows up, is there any chance the owner of those panties might come after us? ” He sweeps his hand around.
My pocket bulges heavier.
His tone tightens. “And the kicker? I thought we were boys, and here you are hiring call girls after hours. Shame on you.”
“Kelley. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, our perfect little Augustito finally got some action and didn’t bother to loop me in.”
I don’t respond quickly enough.
His voice changes—less condescension, more disbelief. “Do you understand what this could become?”
“I do,” I say, softer.
“Because whatever this is,” he says, quieter, steadier, “it’s not random. Random I can handle.”
A beat.
“This?” He shakes his head. “This has the potential to fuck everything up.”
“I can vouch for her,” I say, steady. “She’s not a liability.”
Kelley holds my stare, unblinking.
“No,” he says at last. “But you might be.”
Another pause. Then his gaze sharpens—not just at me, but beyond me, at something bigger.
“You’re lucky I found them,” he mutters. “Sloppy. You know you gotta snatch and grab—you never drop.”
His thumb jabs the button, and the elevator resumes its glide down all forty-three floors toward the marble expanse of Kaplan’s main entrance.
I show up early Saturday, not by much — just enough to not have her waiting on me. I lean against the hood of my car, bomber zipped halfway up, pretending I’m not checking my reflection in the side mirror like I didn’t spend a whole ten minutes choosing this damn jacket.
She opens the door, pauses, and just stares. Eyes tracking from my sneakers, up my legs, over my chest, all the way to my face like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or keep walking. I know that look.
But then—
Dios mío.
She steps out in leather and denim like she’s about to break hearts and bowl strikes.
Black pants painted on, cropped jean jacket cinched at the waist, and that white bodysuit clinging like it’s auditioning for sin.
Kicks? Those are probably the best part of her outfit.
She’s not dressed up for me. She’s dressed like herself—and that’s somehow worse.
I forget how to breathe.
“You look nice,” she says, casual. But her eyes are still doing that thing—dragging over me like she’s trying to memorize the way I showed up.
“So do you,” I add. “Breathtaking.”
She smirks, brushes past me like it’s nothing. But we both know it’s something.
Split is alive tonight—black lights glowing, the scent of pizza and lane wax hanging in the air. A DJ spins throwback R&B and hip hop near the back bar, all smooth transitions and low-end bass. She’s beside me before I can even lace my shoes, already lining up a shot.
We haven’t talked about what happened in my office. She hasn’t brought it up. I haven’t pushed. It just... hangs between us. Unspoken. Simmering.
She nails a strike on her first frame and spins around with a grin that could drop jaws from across the parking lot. “You sure you wanna make this a competition, Mr. James?”
I grin. “Confidence is cute.”
“And losing is humbling.”
She bowls again. Nails it.
I’m already in trouble.
By the third game, she’s dancing between shots—little rolls of her hips, biting her bottom lip like the music’s pulling her instead of the ball. That’s when the DJ drops Brandy’s “Best Friend”—a remix, mixed with Jodeci’s Come and Talk To Me, the bass line thick and sticky.
“Oh, this is my shit,” she murmurs.
She starts swaying, hips moving like she’s somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Somewhere private.
I step in behind her—slow, steady, just a breath away—and place my hands gently on her waist. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop. Just leans into me like she’s been waiting for it.
“You always dancing.” she asks.
“Mami,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear, “I’m Dominican. I was dancing before I could walk.”
Her laugh is low, dangerous, sexy as hell.
I guide her hips, matching her rhythm, not rushing it. Her body moves against mine like she belongs there, like she’s not thinking about who’s watching. Neither am I.
It’s not just a grind—it’s a slow declaration. Her back on my chest, fingers grazing my hands, her perfume swirling in my nose, her curls brushing my jaw. My heart’s beating in my throat.
I could stay like this all night.
But she turns suddenly, facing me with a smirk, those eyes flicking down to my mouth and back up again.
Boom. Whole vibe shifted—she’s walking away. Back to the lane. Like, we didn’t just damn near dry hump to 90s R&B in front of a crowd of strangers.
I laugh under my breath, adjusting my stance.
She’s gonna kill me.
We settle into a groove after that—trading wins, trash talk, and not-so-subtle touches. She keeps her hand on my wrist a little longer when she laughs. I don’t let go first.
I’m watching her sip her drink, still glowing from the dance, when I say it:
“Let’s make it interesting.”
She cocks her head. “Interesting how?”
“You win, you get your wish. Anything you want. I win, you’re my date to the gala. Dress and all.”
She cackles. A short burst of a sound. “Yeah sure.” She raises a brow. “Any wish?”
“Any wish,” I reassure her with a big smile.
She leans back, lips twisting. “Okay... I want an all-expenses-paid trip to New York. Flights. Hotel. Black car service. All of it.”
I smirk. “New York? Why New York?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, sipping her drink. “It’s my wish, and you gotta do it because I am about to clean the floor with your ass.”
I chuckle. “You’re cocky.”
She shrugs. “Just confident.”
“Deal.”