Yes

The road stretched out like a sun-bleached ribbon ahead of them, dotted with vineyards and orange groves, the September heat shimmering off the pavement. Emily had kicked off her flats somewhere around the second hour and had curled one leg up beneath her, fingers playing absently with the hem of her hoodie.

Jason drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh. Not possessive. Not even overtly sexual. Just there. Warm. Steady. Every so often he’d squeeze gently, and she’d glance at him—his profile, the way his jaw flexed when he concentrated, the little smirk when they passed a slow driver.

It was… nice.

Not electric. Not cinematic. But something between them was humming again. Maybe it was the space. The quiet. The absence of tiny cries and breast pumps and five-minute showers. Emily found herself talking about things they hadn’t mentioned in months. Memories. Old vacations. Nights when they used to drink cheap wine and fuck against the bathroom sink.

By the time they reached the estate, the sun was sinking low. And the house—

No. Not a house.

A compound.

The wrought-iron gates opened without a sound, revealing a winding driveway lined with cypress trees and pale pink roses in full bloom. The mansion itself was stucco and stone, Mediterranean in style, sprawling across a hill with balconies, towers, terraces. Dozens of parked cars gleamed like beetles in the gravel lot near the main entrance. Staff waited to greet them—someone took their bags, another offered them flutes of prosecco on a silver tray.

Emily blinked. “This is where your boss lives?”

Jason let out a breath. “One of them.”

Inside was worse—or better, depending on your definition of luxury. Marble floors veined with gold. Ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Mirrors framed in carved wood taller than she was. The smell of eucalyptus and clean linen floated through the air, carried by soft music and cooler air than should be natural for a late summer evening in California.

A woman in a dark green dress approached them, tablet in hand. “Jason and Emily Davenport, yes? You’ll be in the east wing, third floor, Room 23. Dinner is at seven sharp. Cocktail hour begins in about an hour on the garden patio. You’re welcome to freshen up.”

Jason gave a polite nod. Emily was still trying not to gape.

They wandered through the halls toward the east wing, following subtle signage that still felt more like museum placards than directions. Emily passed a hallway lined with sculptures and somehow ended up in a sitting room twice the size of their entire first floor before Jason called her back.

“You’re gonna get lost in here,” he teased.

“I already did.”

-0-

Their suite was as extravagant as the rest of the place: king bed, double doors that opened to a balcony, bathroom bigger than their bedroom at home. A complimentary bottle of champagne waited in an ice bucket. Emily walked slowly to the window and looked out at the view—vineyards tumbling away into the hills, the setting sun washing everything in amber.

Jason had pulled out his suit and was adjusting the cuffs. She rummaged through her weekend bag and drew out two hangers, each with a dress protected by plastic.

She turned to face him, a little smirk on her lips. “Okay. I need your opinion.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

She unzipped the first—deep emerald green, cap sleeves, high neckline, mid-thigh hemline. Tasteful. Elegant. The kind of dress one might wear to a donor gala.

Then she slid that hanger aside and revealed the second: black, slinky, spaghetti straps, with a neckline that dared the world to look down and a hem that would flirt with her upper thighs the moment she moved.

“Which one do you prefer?” she asked, holding them up against her chest in turn.

Jason’s lips parted slightly. “The black one’s… a lot.”

She smiled. “That wasn’t a no.”

“You’ll look gorgeous in either.”

“But which would make you want to fuck me in a hallway?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, heat flickering in the way he looked at her now. “Then wear the black one.”