Reluctant Desires

Chapter2

Chapter 2

Dave's POV

The city stretched out before me, a dazzling maze of ambition and desperation. Through my floor-to-ceiling glass window, I watched it all—people scurrying about, some with purpose, others just drifting. The sight should have filled me with satisfaction, a reminder of how far I had risen. Instead, all I could think about was the utter incompetence I was surrounded by.

My secretary was the latest disappointment.

With slow, deliberate steps, I turned away from the window, walking back to my chair. My office was a statement of power—spacious, minimal, and intimidating, just like I preferred. I lowered myself into my leather chair, resting my elbows on my desk, fingers clasped together as I exhaled sharply.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

John had taught me this mantra. A ridiculous little trick meant to keep my temper in check. But honestly? It didn’t work. If anything, it gave the other person time to prepare for the storm I was about to unleash.

I lifted my gaze, meeting the terrified expression of my secretary, Maya. The girl was trembling, her wide, doe-like eyes brimming with unshed tears. She’d only been here for a month, yet sometimes I questioned whether I even had a secretary. I did most of the work myself. The only thing she excelled at was picking out my outfits for meetings and translating conversations in the five different languages she spoke. But aside from that? Useless.

And today was the final straw.

I held up the itinerary she had prepared, the pages crumpling slightly under my grip. My voice was cold, sharp as a blade.

“What the hell is this, Maya?”

She flinched, her lips parting, but no words came out.

“I asked for my itinerary to be sent by the end of yesterday. And yet, here I am, holding a document so riddled with incompetence it’s almost impressive. Two meetings. Same time. Same damn day. Are you stupid?”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, but I didn’t care.

“If you can’t handle anything else, at least an itinerary should be something even you can get right. But no, even the most basic task is beyond your comprehension.”

She let out a small, choked whimper, clutching her trembling hands together.

"I— I'm sorry, sir, it was a mistake—"

I let out a slow, humorless laugh, standing to my full height.

“A mistake?” I took a step closer, my presence looming over her. “Do you think mistakes are acceptable in my world, Maya? Do you think my clients excuse incompetence? Do you think I got to where I am today by making ‘mistakes’?”

She shook her head rapidly, her entire body now visibly shaking.

“Get out,” I ordered. “And before the hour is up, I expect the minutes from yesterday’s meeting. Try not to mess that up too.”

She bolted from my office like she was escaping a war zone. Good. At least she had the common sense to know when to retreat.

Sighing, I sat back down, rubbing my temple. The incompetence of people was exhausting. I turned my attention back to the documents on my desk, trying to push my frustration aside.

Then my phone rang.

I glanced at the caller ID. The orphanage.

The moment I answered, a chorus of cheerful voices flooded through the speaker.

"Thank you for taking care of us!" they chimed in unison. "We thought you would abandon us, but you never did!"

For a second, my chest tightened, something foreign stirring inside me.

"I'm not someone who forgets where he came from," I said, my voice noticeably softer.

John and I had left that orphanage years ago, clawing our way to the top. But we never truly left. We still sponsored it, making sure those kids had a chance—something we never had growing up.

After a few more exchanges, I ended the call, shaking off whatever sentimentality had crept in. Just as I was about to return to work, the door to my office opened, and John walked in.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed, giving me that look—the one he always gave me when he was about to shove some ‘wisdom’ down my throat.

"You really need to learn how to talk to people without ripping them apart," he said, shaking his head.

I smirked, leaning back. "I wasn’t ‘ripping’ anyone apart. I was stating facts. She screwed up, and I corrected her. Simple."

John let out a dry laugh. "Right. Because calling someone dumb and shallow is constructive criticism?"

I rolled my eyes. "She scheduled two meetings at the same time. An itinerary, John. That’s literally her most basic responsibility."

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, she messed up. But tearing into her won’t fix the mistake. You don’t have to be soft, but damn, at least be professional."

I scoffed. "I am professional."

John gave me a knowing look. "You’re feared, not respected. There’s a difference."

Silence stretched between us. I didn’t respond because, as much as I hated to admit it, John was usually right. He had always been my voice of reason, ever since we were kids. He knew me better than anyone.

I sighed.

John smirked. "That’s all I ask. Now, are we grabbing lunch, or are you too busy terrorizing employees?"

I chuckled, standing up. "Depends. Is the restaurant competent?"

He groaned, shaking his head as we walked out.

Stepping out of my office behind John, my cold, impassive demeanor settled back in place, a shield against the world. The moment I entered the open space, the air around me seemed to shift. Employees straightened, their gazes skirting away, as if the mere act of making eye contact with me might be their downfall.

Not that I blamed them.

I wasn’t just their boss—I was their nightmare wrapped in an expensive suit. But despite that, I knew women would kill to be in my arms. Not to sound narcissistic, but I was aware of my appeal. However, hookups weren’t on my agenda. Not now. Not until the current deal was signed, sealed, and locked in place.

As we stepped into the elevator, I glanced at John. "Where are we eating?"

He smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "A new spot. Just opened three weeks ago, down the street."

I frowned slightly. "New? Since when?"

John let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Knew you wouldn’t have heard of it. You barely go out. Everything you need comes to you, so why bother exploring, right?"

He wasn’t wrong. Convenience was a luxury I had earned, and I saw no reason to chase after things that naturally gravitated toward me.

The ride to the restaurant was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound. Upon arrival, I took in the modest exterior. Small, but tastefully done. The interior, however, was what caught my attention. Warm lighting. Intimate seating. The kind of place that felt like home, even if you never had one.

And then, there was the decor.

A knitted "Welcome" sign, glowing with neon lights, hung at the entrance. Something I’d never seen before. Unique. Intriguing. I stepped inside, and the scent of freshly baked bread and something sweet—vanilla? cinnamon?—wrapped around me like a slow-burning temptation.

As I walked ahead of John, I instinctively searched for a blind spot to sit, somewhere away from prying eyes. Settling into a booth, I noticed the table mats—again, knitted. Small flower vases placed delicately on top. The entire restaurant seemed to be a showcase of handcrafted art, each piece meticulously woven into the ambiance.

I ran my fingers over the textured fabric, my mind flashing to the artisan behind it. Someone with skill. Patience. Precision.

I barely had time to analyze further when a scent hit me—floral, delicate, with a hint of warmth.

And then, a voice.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome. What can I get for you?"

I looked up.

And for the first time in years, I was caught off guard.

She stood there, a dimpled smile softening her face, though there was something sharp in her eyes—intelligent, assessing. Her jeans hugged her curves in ways that should be illegal, her cropped top revealing just enough to make any man’s mind wander. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was captivating.

My gaze swept over her—slowly, deliberately—from the way her hair framed her face to the confident yet effortless way she held herself.

A sharp pain shot through my shin.

"Order your damn food before you start drooling," John muttered, barely holding back his amusement.

I shot him a glare before shifting my gaze back to the woman. Her smile had faded slightly. Was she uncomfortable? Had my expression given her the wrong impression?

Whatever. Not my concern.

"Steak. Medium-rare. No sides. Just water." My voice was clipped, detached.

She nodded, turning to John, who placed his order with a grin that lingered far too long. She left, but there was a shift in her demeanor—her smile wasn’t as bright, her shoulders a little stiffer.

I frowned.

John chuckled, taking a sip of his water. "You do realize you were staring at her like she was a business deal you were about to acquire, right?"

I leaned back, unimpressed. "I did no such thing."

He smirked. "You did. And let me guess—she probably took it as judgment, not...whatever the hell that was."

I scoffed. "She misunderstood, then. Not my problem."

John shrugged. "Maybe. But I saw the look in your eyes, my friend. Lust. You can act all stoic and cold, but that girl? She got under your skin for a second."

I smirked, shutting that conversation down immediately. "You're mistaken."

But as I sipped my water, the image of her lingered—too stubborn to be ignored.

When she returned with our food, I didn’t look at her again. Not because I wasn’t tempted, but because I refused to give John the satisfaction of seeing me react.

But even as we left, my mind refused to let go of the way she had looked, moved, smelled.

Who was she?

A waitress? Or someone simply helping out?

Why did she—of all people—make an impression?

Back at the office, I buried myself in work. But no matter how deep I dove into contracts and numbers, one thing remained constant.

She was still there. Run

ning through my mind like she had taken up residence.

And I wasn’t sure I liked that.