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“Interesting,” I say, actually interested as I watch her closely. “Go on.”
She swallows hard, her delicate throat flexing in a way that pulls my attention downward. She’s wearing a blue shirt that somehow manages to be plain and exciting all at once. Her brown hair is loose in soft waves, and she’s wearing just a hint of makeup.
“It's... um, convenient. Reduces wait times, provides a unique experience, could be a point that pulls people in.” She seems to be defending her idea, but her words have the upward inflection of a question, as if she’s very unsure of herself.
“I love it. What else do you have?” I ask, meaning every word.
She inhales, her eyes wide on mine as if searching for the truth and finding nothing but conviction in my expression. Her gaze drops to her phone.
“Unique events?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I tease gently, and she lets out a breathy laugh.
“Sorry, I’m nervous.”
I want to reach out and put a hand on her knee, but I know better. “You have nothing to be nervous about. This affects nothing with your job and is just you doing me a favor.”
She nods. “I just worry my ideas aren’t the best.”
“So, what do you mean, unique events?” I ask, hoping my interest will help ease her worries. I want her to feel comfortable coming to me with anything. Anything.
“Right, like trivia nights, themed parties, charades, or other games on specific nights of the week…” Her hands move as she speaks as if drawing me a picture of her thoughts in the air between us. Her passion for the project makes her even more alluring.
“Those are bold moves for our crowd,” I say, playing devil's advocate just to see how she'll respond.
Her brows scrunch together. “Why ask for my opinion if you only want what's already happening?” Her words have a surprising edge, a zest that has me holding back a smile. For a second, there's fire in her, and I'm drawn to it like a moth to flame.
“Hey, I didn't say I didn't like them,” I say with a half-grin, genuinely amused and turned on by her feistiness.
Her shoulders slump as she remembers who I am and who she is. “I’m sorry, that was out of line—”
“Don't be sorry,” I interrupt, my tone firm but warm. “I like it when you speak your mind.” I watch her shift in her seat as if nervous, the way she clears her throat and looks down, clearly affected by my words and my approval.
“Thanks,” she whispers before pressing on with the determination of someone who won't let their boss see them rattled. But I do see, and it's damn tempting to push further, to test the waters and see just how deep we could dive. But not yet; I don’t want to rush.
“Picture this,” Isla says, her voice threaded with excitement that makes the air in my cramped office feel charged, “a cocktail of the day to draw people in—something unique that changes daily. We price it low enough that it's irresistible.”
I sit forward in my chair - bringing our bodies mouthwateringly close - contemplating her suggestion, our knees brushing once again. I see her catch her breath, that innocent reaction sending a hot surge through me. “I like it,” I say, and I do, but it’s not just the idea I like.
“If you don’t love it, how about a happy hour?” Her gaze meets mine again before darting away, her chest rising as she takes a deep breath.
“Why settle for one good plan? Let's do both—a cocktail of the day and happy hour specials.”
She looks up, her expression excited as her attention locks on me. The moment is electric; her lips part slightly as if she has something to say as the hollow at the base of her throat bottoms out. With another subtle shift, my leg presses against hers, maintaining that small, thrilling contact.
Her fingers twist together in her lap, betraying a nervous energy that tempts me to reach out, to tilt her chin up so she has nowhere to hide from my gaze. But I hold back, because touching her now might unleash all the desire I'm struggling to contain.
“Okay,” she says, her voice betraying that she’s trying to get back on track because her mind has drifted away from the conversation at hand. “How about cross promotions?” The words leave her lips in a breathless whisper that I feel rather than hear. “We team up with local restaurants. Diners get a discount here after their meal. It's a win-win.”
“Explain,” I say, intrigued by the direction of her thoughts.
“Imagine someone finishing dinner and then deciding to continue their evening with us because they have an incentive—a discount on a cocktail that’ll impress their date, or beers with their buddies.” She's animated now, her passion for the idea lighting her up from within.
I’m impressed.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely, impressed by the depth of her creativity and the time she’d put into my request. I mean it; her ideas are gold, and they deserve recognition.
“You're welcome.” There’s a hint of surprise lacing her tone as if my gratitude is unexpected. That tells me she doesn't expect anything in return for her contributions. Her generosity is as genuine as her talent and intelligence. I won’t let her dedication go unrewarded; I'll find a way to show her that her brilliance and cooperation don't go unnoticed, especially not by me.
