Chapter 14 Thraka #2
"Legal already did." She swipes again. "I sent it to them before we came up. They responded three minutes ago. It's airtight."
I feel my eyebrows rise. She sent it to legal while we were in the elevator? While she was also drafting the proposal? How many things does this woman do simultaneously?
The CEO picks up his desk phone. Dials an extension. "Marjorie, pull the fraternization policy. I want an amendment on my desk by tomorrow morning."
He hangs up. Looks at us. "You have one quarter to prove this works. If productivity drops, if there's even one HR complaint, this whole thing shuts down. Understood?"
"Understood." Orla's voice is steady, but I can see her hand shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.
We did it. She did it.
The CEO waves us away. "Now get out of my office. And for God's sake, change your clothes before you come in tomorrow. You both look like you went swimming in the gutter."
We leave the office, and the elevator doors slide shut with a decisive metallic clang that seems to seal our fate.
Orla immediately sags against the polished steel wall, her entire body going slack as if someone has cut the strings holding her upright.
All the adrenaline that has been coursing through her veins for the past hour—sharpening her voice, straightening her spine, keeping her perfectly composed through that negotiation, drains out of her in one massive, shuddering exhale.
Her shoulders drop. Her breathing becomes ragged.
"That was absolutely terrifying," she whispers, and there's something almost vulnerable in her voice now, stripped of its usual corporate armor.
Her hand trembles as she reaches up to smooth her already-immaculate bob, a nervous gesture I've learned means her carefully constructed composure is hanging by a thread.
I can't help myself. I reach for her, pulling her against my front with enough force that she lets out a small, startled sound. She fits against me like she's been designed for this exact purpose, my broad frame a shelter for her sharp, tightly-wound intensity.
"You were incredible," I murmur into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of rain-dampened silk and her expensive shampoo and something else entirely—the sharp, metallic tang of pure victory. "My fierce warrior. You conquered the Chieftain's lair and emerged victorious."
"I can't believe that worked." She's laughing now, the hysterical edge of relief making her shake. "I made up half of those statistics. Productivity isn't up two hundred percent."
"It's not?"
"It's up one hundred and eighty-seven percent.
I rounded up for impact," she admits, her voice small and sheepish against my chest. I can feel her shoulders tensing, waiting for me to be angry, to call her out on the lie.
But all I feel is a surge of pride so fierce it nearly knocks the wind out of me.
My Orla, my perfectly controlled, by-the-book ice queen, just committed corporate fraud in front of the Chieftain himself.
And she did it with such confidence that even I almost believed her.
I kiss her, hard and possessive, claiming her mouth in the middle of the elevator because I can. Because we don't have to hide anymore. Because she just negotiated our entire future with nothing but a cracked phone and sheer audacity.
The elevator dings with mechanical precision, announcing our arrival at the ground floor.
The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the sterile marble lobby that suddenly feels like the finish line of a marathon.
Without hesitation, I scoop Orla up into my arms, hoisting her against me like she's the spoils of a hard-won battle.
She lets out a surprised yelp, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against my jacket, but she doesn't protest. I carry her out of the building with the swagger of a warrior claiming his prize, my footsteps echoing across the polished floors.
The security guard stationed behind his desk freezes mid-sip of his coffee, his eyes going wide as saucers as he watches us pass by.
His mouth opens and closes like a confused fish.
I can practically hear his thoughts, this is either a very public display of affection or a very public display of insanity. Possibly both.
"Congratulations on your promotion," I announce to him with absolute sincerity, not breaking stride as we barrel toward the exit.
Orla's head snaps up. "I didn't get promoted," she hisses, her cheeks flushing crimson.
I grin down at her, unable to contain my pride. "Not you, Spreadsheet Face. Me."
Outside, the rain has completely stopped. The streetlights reflect off puddles, turning the concrete into fractured mirrors. Orla wraps her arms around my neck, tucking her face against my shoulder.
"Where exactly are we headed?" she asks, with an edge of uncertainty that rarely cracks through her corporate composure. Her damp hair brushes against my jaw as she shifts in my arms, trying to get a better view of my face.
"Somewhere proper for celebrating," I announce, my voice booming with the kind of enthusiasm that makes fluorescent lights jealous.
"Your apartment?" She's already running through the logistics in her head, I can tell. Calculating drive time, factoring in traffic patterns, probably drafting a mental timeline.
"Too far away," I shake my head decisively, adjusting my grip on her as I pivot toward the concrete ramp leading down. "My truck is right here in the garage. We can start now. Right this very moment."
She pushes back, her eyes going wide with alarm, those sharp features sharpening even more as her professional instincts kick into overdrive.
"Absolutely not. We are categorically not doing this here.
In your vehicle. In the company parking garage.
During business hours—well, technically after business hours, but still on company property. "
"But we've already done it in the supply closet on the third floor," I counter, unable to suppress my grin. "And remember that shed during the thunderstorm? The one with the broken door? And your apartment, what was that, maybe twenty minutes ago?"
"Those were all completely different circumstances," she insists, though her protest sounds increasingly hollow even to her own ears. "Each one was an extenuating situation that required immediate action."
"This is an extenuating circumstance. I need to celebrate my promotion." I set her down next to my beat-up truck, the one that barely fits in standard parking spaces. "And you negotiated it. You should be rewarded."
Her professional mask cracks completely. That sharp, controlled exterior melts into something softer, something real. She bites her lip, a tell that gives away everything she's thinking, and I feel triumphant.
"The windows are tinted," I offer, spreading my hands in what I hope is a persuasive gesture. "Complete privacy. Nobody can see a thing from outside."
"That's your selling point? Tinted windows?" She crosses her arms, her sharp features skeptical, though I can see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "What else do you have? Please tell me you have more than tinted windows."
"Also, the back seat is very spacious," I add, gesturing toward the truck bed's extended cabin with obvious pride. "Plenty of room to move around. More legroom than your sensible little sedan, that's for sure."
She glances around the parking garage, her sharp eyes scanning the concrete expanse with someone conducting a security audit.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow.
Row after row of sensible sedans and practical hybrids stretch out before us, the vehicles of people who've already gone home hours ago, who've returned to their normal lives and their normal evenings.
It's just us here now, suspended in this strange after-hours limbo where the rules of the daytime seem to dissolve.
"This is incredibly unprofessional," she says finally, though her voice lacks its usual conviction.
"You just created an entire department called Aggressive Negotiations," I counter, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. "You literally institutionalized chaos. Professional went out the window the moment you greenlit that initiative."
She considers this for a long moment, her jaw working as she processes the logic of my argument.
Then, with what appears to be a deliberate act of willful abandon, she reaches down and opens the back door herself.
She climbs in with as much dignity as someone in a wet suit and thoroughly ruined heels can possibly manage, her movements careful and controlled even as she surrenders to the moment.
I follow, pulling the door shut behind us. The interior light fades, leaving us in shadow. She's already unbuttoning her blouse again, the one she buttoned wrong earlier.
"Now," she whispers, pulling me down on top of her. "Let's go celebrate the promotion."
And we do.