Chapter Seven—Ethan
Day nine. The private dining room is forty-two steps from the lobby.
I count without meaning to. An old habit.
The Harrington group has already claimed the table—eight of them angled toward each other with the ease of people who have been doing business together for decades. They size up new arrivals by instinct. Data is cleaner, but instinct can be managed.
Richard Harrington rises when we enter. Seventies, three full real estate cycles behind him, carrying the quiet authority of a man who no longer needs to prove anything.
His handshake is its own evaluation. I pass.
I introduce Liam and Andrew. I scan the table: two additional principals, their spouses, and a younger associate clearly brought along to remember every detail. One wife glances at the empty chair.
“Connor sends his regrets,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “His sister will be joining us shortly.”
Riley arrives twelve minutes later.
She wears a dark dress that fits cleanly through the shoulders—simple, nothing designed to draw eyes, yet it does anyway. She greets Harrington first, offers a comment that pulls an easy laugh from him, and claims the open seat beside me without hesitation. Liam settles to her left.
I let myself look once.
She read the room on contact. Made Harrington laugh without effort. I gave her no briefing. She didn’t need one. And that’s going to be a problem.
I open my menu and keep my eyes on it.
She opens her own menu and keeps her focus forward.
“Which one is going to ask where I went to school?” she murmurs, quiet enough that only I catch it.
“The associate. Second course.”
“Mm,” I answer.
I study the appetizer list.
Across the table Andrew engages on the third property acquisition, voice level and professional, the tone he uses when something sits just beneath the surface.
Riley mirrors the approach from her own angle—easy smile, genuine attention, nothing in her posture that reveals more than necessary.
Two people performing versions of themselves that cautiously exclude each other.
Dinner proceeds like a well-managed deposition.
Questions come. I answer. ROI projections, rezoning details, Eastside timelines. I keep my responses clear and spare. Andrew handles acquisition details with practiced fluency. Liam fields the relationship and vision questions with natural ease.
Riley speaks twice—gentle corrections on the Vegas hospitality corridor, offered as helpful footnotes rather than challenges. The associate writes something down. A principal nods in agreement.
A lull arrives around the second course as conversations splinter.
“—so I told him the view was non-negotiable,” Liam is saying, leaning in like he's letting the whole table in on a secret. “He said everything's negotiable. I said, 'Not the view, Richard. I've seen what you paid for the last one.'”
Harrington's wife laughs, delighted. Harrington himself shakes his head, caught out and enjoying it.
Riley joins in—quiet, head tilting back just slightly, the unguarded version she rarely releases. Then, under her breath, only for me: “He rehearsed that.”
“Twice,” I say. “In the car.”
Her mouth twitches. She doesn't look at me.
Under the table her knee rests approximately two inches from mine. I've been aware of that distance since she sat down. Neither of us has shifted away.
The shift arrives with dessert.
Conversation has loosened under the influence of good wine. I'm wrapping up an exchange with one principal when the comment drifts from three seats down: Patricia Harrington leaning toward Riley with the confident air of someone offering unsolicited wisdom.
“—such a lovely girl. Do you plan to settle down soon? Start a family of your own?”
The table continues its flow, but the question sits among the plates—cheerful, presumptuous, built on the assumption that Riley remains unfinished in that particular story.
Her smile holds steady.
“Pretty settled, actually,” she answers, tone even and bright. “I run my own design studio. It suits me.”
“Of course.” Patricia's nod carries generous understanding. “You still have time.”
I set my fork down. Not anger—anger is wasteful here. I run the calculation fast: she handled it cleanly, rescue is unnecessary, intervention would only create an incident.
I glance up. Liam is already moving, smooth as ever.
“Richard, you never did tell me how the Eastside parcel closed—I've been dying to know if you got the seller down.” The table swings toward Harrington, the moment redirected before it can settle.
Across the table Andrew has gone very still, jaw tight, eyes fixed on his plate.
Three men. One shared instinct. It rises, then retreats for the same reason, wordlessly.
Riley finishes her wine and turns back to Harrington's wife as though nothing occurred—posture straight, expression composed.
By the time dessert plates clear, the group moves toward the exit with the unhurried ceremony of people reluctant to be the first to leave. I wrap up a final exchange with one principal and turn to find Liam still engaged with the associate.
Riley drifts to my shoulder in the lobby. She glances over once, brief and undemanding. I'm forming a response when Harrington appears for a private word.
“Good to have family in the room.” His gaze sweeps the group and settles on Riley three feet ahead. “Connor's sister is a credit to you all.”
I give the correct response. We shake hands.
When I turn back, Riley is three feet ahead. Her profile stays unchanged, but her fingers press tight at her side—the same controlled tension she held through the dessert course.
I close the distance.
Liam continues talking. Andrew checks his phone.
I settle my hand over hers briefly, long enough to let her know I saw it.
She doesn't pull away.
I hold it a second longer than I planned. Noticing and acting before something breaks. It’s the reflex I kept when I left the ER. It’s what I have instead of the rest of it.
* * *
Back in my room, I open the Harrington file.
I read the same paragraph four times.
This deal closes and it’s the largest thing I’ve ever built. Larger than anything I walked away from in medicine. I need that to still mean something.
I close the file.
Keeping someone off-limits doesn't get easier with proximity. It erodes the boundary between what something is and what you’re starting to want it to be.
The decision is professional. Reasonable.
Connor's rule was stated clearly. The deal, the timeline, the penthouse dynamics—none survive if caution is abandoned.
I know all of this.
Her hand didn't pull away.
I should be thinking about the rezoning variance on the third property. Two points off. I know the exact figure.
What surfaces instead: the precise quality of her laugh when Liam spoke during the second course.
The straight-backed composure she maintained through Patricia Harrington's question.
The clean line of her jaw. The way the dress sat across her shoulders.
The three seconds in the lobby when her fingers stayed beneath mine.
Nine days of data on her, filed without meaning to.
She reads every appendix. She prepares more than she admits. She laughs less than she allows herself and pulls back the instant anything real threatens to surface.
Stopping should be simple.
I grip the bathroom sink. I stare at the mirror long enough to make a point to myself.
It fails.
I run a cold shower. It changes nothing.
The steam clears. I stop pretending the spreadsheet will get attention tonight.
I get in bed.
Caution is abandoned.
That dark dress fills my mind again. The way she entered the room like she already belonged. The small, satisfied curve of her mouth when Harrington reacted to her comment.
No slow approach this time.
I wrap my hand around my cock, grip firm. My thoughts go immediately filthy.
Her mouth sliding down the shaft—slow at first, lips stretching wide, tongue working the underside while those hazel eyes look up.
Cheeks hollowing as she takes more, saliva slick and warm, head bobbing deeper until she hits the back of my throat.
Perfect tits swaying with every stroke, nipples tight and flushed, as she works faster.
The image sharpens. Her straddling me, sinking down, tight wet heat gripping every inch while I pull her closer.
The sounds she'd make—soft gasps turning into broken moans as she rides harder, pussy clenching, hips rolling desperately.
My hands gripping her waist, holding her still just long enough to make her ask for it.
I stroke faster. Her riding hard, mouth open on a cry as she comes, inner walls tightening around me.
I come hard. Her name is the only thought left.
Afterward I stare at the ceiling. The problem hasn't changed.
The Harrington file remains open on the laptop.
It stays untouched.