No but they crush the client meeting

The Atlanta skyline shimmered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the client’s penthouse office, sunlight catching on the champagne flutes as the client—a silver-haired man with a grip like a vise—clinked his glass against theirs. "To new beginnings," he boomed, his grin widening as Emily smoothly countered his last objection about market volatility. Kevin watched her from the corner of his eye, the way her fingers curled around her flute with quiet confidence, the way her blazer skimmed her waist just so. He’d seen junior associates fumble under this client’s scrutiny before, but Emily had met every barb with a razor-sharp smile.

Three hours later, the signed contract sat snug in Kevin’s briefcase, and an embossed envelope—thick, creamy paper—was pressed into Emily’s hands by the client’s assistant. "Mr. Holloway insists," the assistant murmured, nodding toward the spa logo embossed in gold. Emily’s fingers hesitated over the seal. "Couples’ package," she read aloud, her voice catching on the word. Kevin’s pulse stuttered, but he kept his face neutral as he reached for the envelope. "Very generous of him," he said, tucking it into his jacket pocket before Emily could see the way his fingers trembled.

The hotel elevator was too warm, too quiet. Emily leaned against the mirrored wall, her heels dangling from her fingertips. "We killed it," she said, half-laughing, half-breathless. Kevin watched the numbers climb, his reflection hovering just behind hers in the glass. "You killed it," he corrected. Her cheeks flushed—from the champagne or his words, he couldn’t tell—and she turned to face him, close enough that he caught the hint of her perfume beneath the crisp scent of her blazer. "Team effort," she insisted, tapping his tie with a fingertip. The contact lingered, a spark in the stagnant air.

Back in the suite, Kevin shrugged out of his jacket, the spa certificate fluttering onto the desk. Emily kicked off her shoes, padding barefoot to the minibar. "We should celebrate properly," she said, pulling out two mini bottles of whiskey with a grin that made his stomach flip. She tossed one to him, and he caught it on reflex, their fingers brushing through the plastic. For a heartbeat, neither moved—then Emily cracked open her bottle with a decisive twist, the sound loud in the thick silence.

Kevin exhaled, rolling up his sleeves as he crossed to the window. Atlanta sprawled below, alive with twilight. Behind him, Emily’s voice was soft, tentative. "About the spa…" He turned to find her holding the envelope, her thumb tracing the gold foil. "We could just regift it," he offered, though the thought of her in a robe, steam curling around her bare shoulders, sent heat pooling low in his gut. Emily shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. "That would be rude," she said, stepping closer. The whiskey burned sweet on his tongue as she added, "Besides, I’ve heard the hot stone massages are incredible."

His phone buzzed against the marble countertop—a familiar ringtone. Kevin's fingers tightened around his whiskey as his wife's name flashed across the screen. Emily pretended not to notice, turning to study the skyline with sudden interest, but her shoulders stiffened just enough for him to catch it. "I should take this," he said, already retreating toward the bathroom. The lock clicked behind him with a soft finality.

Emily counted the ice cubes melting in her glass. One. Two. Three. The muffled cadence of Kevin's voice seeped through the door—warm at first, then shifting into something clipped. "—no, it's not finalized yet... Might need another day to close the deal." A pause. Emily's fingers stilled on her whiskey bottle. "Yes, I'm alone in my room." The lie landed like a stone in her stomach.

When Kevin emerged, his sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, his wedding band catching the light as he ran a hand through his hair. Emily kept her gaze fixed on the city below, tracing the geometric patterns of office windows still lit at this hour. "Everything okay?" she asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

"Just logistics," Kevin said too quickly, reaching for his abandoned drink. The ice had melted into a sad pool at the bottom. Emily watched his throat work as he swallowed the watered-down whiskey in one go. She could almost taste the guilt on him—sharp and acrid beneath the bourbon sweetness.

The suite's minibar light flickered when she opened it again, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound between them. Emily grabbed two more bottles blindly, her fingers closing around vodka this time. "Round two," she announced, tossing one to Kevin. He caught it mid-air, the plastic crinkling in his grip. Their fingers brushed during the handoff—deliberately this time—and neither pulled away immediately.

{f} pretended not to notice the way Kevin's gaze flickered downward for the third time in as many minutes—just a fraction of a second too long, just enough to catch the way her blouse gaped slightly as she leaned forward to refill his glass. The ice cubes clinked mockingly as she poured, the vodka's sharp scent mingling with the citrus of her perfume. She could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch, burning a trail from her collarbone to the shadowed dip between her breasts.

Emily took a slow sip of her vodka, letting the cold liquid linger on her tongue just a beat too long before swallowing. She watched Kevin’s gaze flick down—not to the bottle in her hand, but to the way her throat moved, then lower still, to where her blouse gaped open. The look lasted barely a second before he jerked his eyes away, but it sent a thrill through her all the same. She stretched slightly, arching her back against the desk just enough to tighten the fabric across her chest. "Hot in here, isn’t it?" she murmured, plucking at her collar.

Kevin’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "AC’s working fine," he said gruffly, but his thumb rubbed along the condensation gathering on the plastic bottle—slow, distracted circles that made Emily wonder where else he touched things with that same absent-minded intensity.

She leaned forward to refill his drink, deliberately slower than necessary, watching as his breath hitched when her blouse dipped lower. The vodka sloshed slightly as she poured, a few drops splashing onto his wrist. "Oops," she breathed, reaching to dab at the spill with her fingertips. His skin was warm under her touch, the faint pulse in his wrist jumping at her contact. She lingered just a moment longer than necessary before pulling back, biting her lip to hide a smile when his eyes darkened.