The Offer on the Table and the Heat Underneath

(Iris’s POV)

Joe stepped lively, like the sidewalk itself had given him a bounce. When he was on fire creatively, he came alive in a way that was almost unfair to look at; eyes sharper, shoulders looser, that quiet intensity turned all the way up. We loved working for the agency. These last three years he’d made some of the best work of his career, and the industry had noticed.

He’d never admit it, but I knew the last few months had left him in a rut. Projects came and went. He delivered. He always delivered. But the spark had been banked.

This new project was the tip of the iceberg, and it was like watching his first week all over again.

He opened the door for me and we stepped into Guantanamera. The smells hit us in a warm wave, Joe breathed it in like it was a gift and I wondered what he was actually tasting in the air that I couldn’t.

The hostess led us to a private corner. “Welcome to Guantanamera’s. Ms. Zaldana is waiting for you.”

The waitress was young and cute and trying very hard to look professional, but she was clearly starstruck by Zoe. I couldn’t blame her.

Zoe looked camera-ready even sitting down. Hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, cream blouse, jeans that hugged her hips like they’d been tailored to the exact curve of her ass. She stood and hugged us both. Joe pulled out my chair, then hers, and only sat once we were settled. Always the gentleman. It did things to me.

“I’ve got some good news,” Zoe said as a waiter filled our glasses. “But first I have to say those storyboards were amazing. They looked so lifelike I swore I had already shot the movie.”

Joe blushed. He never knew what to do with praise, even when he deserved every ounce of it.

“Thank you. I was… inspired.” Sly. Modest on the surface. Proud underneath. Maybe a little smug.

“I honestly can’t wait to shoot,” he added. “You know the resort in the script was the first project Irie and I booked when we joined the agency.”

Irie.

The name landed low and hot. My pussy clenched around nothing. I pressed my bare thighs together under the table and told myself to breathe. No panties had been a stupid, reckless choice. I felt myself slick against the seat and prayed the tablecloth hid everything.

“Well,” Zoe continued, “the other partners thought the boards were so great they actually upped the budget. I can’t imagine any hurdles now.”

Joe and I exchanged a look. I hadn’t expected that.

“But that’s not the good news.”

“Oh?” we said at the same time, then laughed. Zoe put a hand on the menus.

“First… let’s eat. I’m starving.”

We kept the small talk light. Joe didn’t push, but his heel bounced under the table the whole time. We ate like we were celebrating something we hadn’t been told yet.

Papas rellenas. Shrimp in garlic wine sauce. Ceviche… Joe chuckled to himself when it landed, some private joke I didn’t have the context for. I watched his mouth. I shouldn’t have.

For mains, Joe went after a seared skirt steak with spicy chimichurri, Zoe, a hearty cubano. I ordered tilapia in garlic and white wine and barely tasted it. Every time Joe said something low and pleased about the food, my mind dragged the sound somewhere else; that kitchen wall, that bedroom, my name in his mouth when he was inside me.

We finished with flan for the table. Even Zoe could see he was done waiting. “Okay. I think he’s ready, Iris. What about you?”

I looked at him. The man I worked beside. The man I had loved in secret and out loud and then boxed up for three years.

“I think he can handle it.”

Joe’s brow lifted. “What are you ladies hiding?”

Zoe reached into her bag and slid a bound screenplay across the table.

Columbiana 2.

“I was hoping you’d like to direct not just the proof of concept,” she said. “But the feature as well.”

The script sat between his hands like a live wire. I watched his face change; and saw a determination stronger than before; and felt my own hunger answer it in a place that had nothing to do with film.