Chapter 7 Orla #2
He's wearing the same ill-fitting suit from yesterday, the one that strains across his shoulders and stops two inches above his wrists. His hair is slightly less wild, like he attempted to comb it and gave up halfway through.
He catches my eye across the room and winks.
I immediately look down at my spreadsheet, heat flooding my cheeks. Professional boundaries. Professional boundaries. Professional—
"Morning, Orla." His voice rumbles across the table as he takes the seat directly across from me. Of course he does. "You look very... buttoned up today."
Janet snickers. I pretend to be fascinated by cell D7 of my expense report.
"Shall we begin?" I clear my throat, channeling every ounce of corporate authority I possess. "First item on the agenda is the Q3 marketing budget allocation—"
"Boring," Thraka announces, his voice cutting through my carefully rehearsed opening like an axe through parchment.
The room goes utterly, completely silent. Janet's pen stops mid-scribble. Steve freezes halfway through opening his laptop. Even Chad stops adjusting his unnecessarily expensive tie.
My jaw tightens. My fingers grip the edge of my presentation remote with enough force that I'm mildly concerned about the structural integrity of the plastic casing.
"Excuse me?" I ask, each syllable precisely enunciated, my tone sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel.
"Boring." He leans back in his chair, which creaks ominously under his weight. "All numbers. No passion. No glory."
"This is a budget meeting, not a battle."
"Every meeting is a battle, Little Manager. You're just fighting with different weapons."
Chad laughs, sharp and mocking. "The orc's got a point. Your presentations could cure insomnia, Peace."
My fingers tighten on my pen. Thraka's eyes narrow, fixing on Chad with an intensity that makes the VP of Sales shift uncomfortably.
"I didn't mean..." Chad backpedals. "Just saying, maybe we could make it more engaging?"
"I think Orla's presentations are very thorough," Janet offers weakly.
Thraka hasn't stopped staring at Chad. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"It's fine." I force my voice to remain level, professional. "Let's continue. Q3 marketing budget—"
"Your tie is crooked," Thraka interrupts, still looking at Chad. "And your cologne smells like desperation."
Chad's face flushes an unflattering shade of crimson that clashes violently with his overpriced burgundy tie. "My cologne costs two hundred dollars a bottle," he snaps, his voice rising half an octave in a way that absolutely undermines whatever authority he's attempting to project.
Thraka's expression doesn't change. He simply continues staring at Chad with that unnerving, predatory focus that I've seen him use when he's identified what he calls a "worthy opponent"—though in this case, Chad is decidedly not worthy of anything except perhaps a strongly worded email about professional conduct.
"Wasted money," Thraka says, his voice a low rumble that somehow carries more weight than Chad's indignant sputtering. "You still smell desperate."
I should intervene. I should redirect the conversation back to the budget. I should be the professional mediator who prevents workplace conflicts.
Instead, I watch Thraka's hands where they rest on the conference table. Those hands that yesterday mapped every inch of my skin, that knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure, what rhythm would make me forget everything except the pleasure building inside me.
Professional boundaries.
I'm failing spectacularly at professional boundaries.
That's what I should be thinking about. That's what any rational, competent executive would be focused on right now—maintaining appropriate workplace conduct, keeping personal entanglements separate from professional obligations, ensuring that nothing compromises the integrity of quarterly budget reviews.
Instead, all I can think about is Thraka's foot against mine, the deliberate pressure that seems to communicate an entire conversation without a single word.
My carefully constructed walls, built over years of corporate discipline and rigid self-control, are crumbling faster than a poorly structured merger agreement.
This is a disaster. This is exactly the kind of complication I've spent my entire career avoiding. Variables I cannot account for. Emotions I cannot quantify. Risk factors that don't appear on any spreadsheet.
And yet I don't move my foot away.
"Moving on." I flip to the next page of my presentation with more force than necessary. "Department expenditures show a significant increase in office supplies—"
Thraka's foot finds mine under the table, the contact so unexpected and deliberate that it sends a jolt straight up my spine.
I freeze mid-sentence, the words dying in my throat. My brain, which had been running through calculations about cost-per-unit and vendor contracts, suddenly goes completely blank. Empty. A spreadsheet with all the cells deleted.
He's not looking at me. He's studying the projected spreadsheet on the screen with apparent interest, nodding along like he understands what EBITDA means.
But his foot is definitely pressing against mine, warm even through the barrier of our professional footwear. The pressure is deliberate, unmistakable, a secret communication in a room full of people who have no idea what happened between us less than twenty-four hours ago.
My pulse kicks up. I can feel it in my wrists, a rhythm that has nothing to do with quarterly reports or budget allocations.
Focus. Focus on the spreadsheet. Focus on the data.
"Office supplies?" Janet prompts gently when I've been silent for what feels like an eternity but is probably only five seconds.
Her fingers hover over her laptop keyboard, waiting for me to continue, to explain the variance in departmental spending that she's highlighted in yellow on the projected screen.
"Yes. Office supplies. There's been a... " His foot slides up my calf. "...a notable increase in paper consumption."
"Probably Thraka eating all the printer manuals," Chad mutters.
Thraka's foot retreats. He sits forward, and I see his jaw tighten, hands flexing against the table edge.
"Chad." My voice is sharper than my usual carefully-modulated professional tone. "That's inappropriate."
The temperature in the conference room drops several degrees. Even Janet stops typing.
Chad blinks at me, clearly taken aback by the sudden ice in my voice. "Jesus, Orla. I was just joking."
"It wasn't funny." I hold his gaze steadily, my expression perfectly neutral despite the anger simmering beneath my corporate veneer. "Making comments about colleagues' dietary habits, or implying they're intellectually deficient, violates Section 4.2 of our workplace conduct policy."
The room shifts uncomfortably. I've never defended Thraka before. Never defended anyone before. I stick to facts, to data, to objective analysis that doesn't require taking sides.
But something about the casual mockery, the easy dismissal, makes my spine straighten with protective anger.
Thraka looks at me, surprise flickering across his features before transforming into something warmer. Possessive.
I look away quickly, back to my spreadsheet, but I can feel his gaze on me for the rest of the presentation.
The meeting drags on for ninety minutes. I present my analysis with mechanical precision, refusing to look at Thraka, refusing to acknowledge the way my body is hyperaware of his presence across the table.
Finally, mercifully, we reach the last agenda item.
"One more thing." Chad stands, smoothing his expensive tie. "The Annual Company Retreat. It's in three weeks, and we need project leads."
Collective groaning around the table. The Annual Company Retreat is notorious. Three days of forced team-building exercises and trust falls in some remote location designed to "foster corporate synergy."
I've successfully avoided it for five years running by volunteering for every conflicting project available.
"I'm taking volunteers for retreat coordinators," Chad continues. "Two people to handle logistics, activities, accommodations."
Silence. Everyone suddenly fascinated by their phones, their notes, the ceiling tiles.
"No volunteers?" Chad's smile turns predatory. "Then I'll assign. Peace, you're always organized. You'll do great."
My stomach sinks. "I have the Q4 projections due—"
"Delegate them. And you'll need a partner." His gaze sweeps the room, landing on Thraka with malicious glee. "Our newest team member should get the full company experience. Thraka, you're with Peace."
No.
Absolutely not.
Three days in close quarters with Thraka, away from the office, away from professional boundaries and HR policies and the thin veneer of civilization that keeps me from completely losing control.
"I don't think that's the best pairing," I manage. "Thraka is still adjusting to corporate culture. Perhaps someone with more retreat experience—"
"It's decided." Chad closes his portfolio with smug finality. "You two make a great team. This'll be perfect."
The meeting adjourns. Everyone files out quickly, grateful to escape before they get assigned additional responsibilities.
Thraka remains seated, watching me with barely contained amusement.
"The woods," he says once we're alone. "Your people send you to the woods for team building?"
"It's a remote campground facility," I clarify, trying to sound professional despite the way my pulse is racing. "They have rustic cabins available for team accommodations. Sort of. They're more like glorified wooden boxes with questionable heating and communal bathrooms."
"Cabins." His grin widens, showing far too much teeth for my comfort. The gleam in his eyes suggests he's already imagining scenarios that have nothing to do with team-building exercises. "And tents? Do your corporate warriors also sleep under the stars in animal skins?"
"Some people prefer the tent camping experience, yes." I shuffle my papers unnecessarily, avoiding his gaze. "There's a designated camping area for the more... outdoorsy types. With proper permits and safety protocols, naturally."
"I prefer tents." He stands, moving around the table toward me. "More... intimate."
I gather my papers quickly, creating a barrier between us. "This is a work retreat. Professional development. There will be absolutely nothing intimate about it."
"Three days. Three nights." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne, feel his warmth. "Away from this metal box building. Away from fluorescent lights and cubicles."
"Away from witnesses and accountability," I counter, backing toward the door. "Which is exactly why we need to establish ground rules before—"
"I will teach you the way of the woods, Little Manager. How to build a fire. How to track prey. How to survive in nature."
"I can Google survival tips."
"And the tent." He continues like I haven't spoken, eyes gleaming with promise. "I will teach you many things about tents."
My back hits the door. He cages me in, one hand braced against the frame above my head, not touching but every cell in my body screams for contact.
"Professional boundaries," I remind him. Remind myself.
"During work hours," he agrees. "But a retreat in the woods? That's not work hours, Orla. That's survival. Team building. Corporate synergy."
He's using my own corporate terminology against me, and the worst part is the spark of anticipation igniting low in my belly at the thought of three days away from this office, from the rules and protocols that keep me locked in place.
Three days in the woods with Thraka.
I'm either going to kill him or completely abandon every principle I've ever held.
Possibly both.
"I hate nature," I inform him.
His grin is pure wickedness. "You'll learn to love it."