CLOSE PROXIMITY
1246 Words
Talia’s POV
The meeting room feels like a place designed for intimidation—glass walls, dark wood, tall-backed chairs that swallow you whole. I follow Aiden inside, clutching my notebook as if it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
He walks ahead of me, sleeves rolled, a phone in one hand, purpose in every step. People straighten the second he enters—as if the air shifts to accommodate him.
“Talia,” he says without looking back, “sit beside me.”
Of course.
Not across the room.
Not at the wall.
Beside him.
I take the seat he pulls out, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body or the faint brush of his sleeve against my arm.
Ten people file in. Each throws curious glances at me, some subtle, some not at all. I keep my eyes on my notebook, drawing tiny circles on the page to distract myself.
Then the meeting begins, and it becomes painfully clear that Aiden Wolfe is a different species altogether. His mind moves fast—unbelievably fast. He switches strategies mid-sentence. He catches numbers before they finish presenting. He dismantles proposals and rebuilds them in minutes.
He is terrifying.
He is brilliant.
And he is completely in control.
At one point, he leans close enough that his breath warms my ear.
“Write this down,” he murmurs. “Not for them—just for me.”
I feel a tremor run through me.
I nod quickly, focusing on his words as he outlines a restructuring plan in a low voice. The closeness is too much—his scent, his calm intensity, the way his shoulder brushes mine every time he shifts.
I can barely hear the other executives anymore.
I only hear him.
An hour later, the meeting ended. People rush out as if they can’t breathe until they’re out of his orbit.
Aiden stays seated.
He flips through the notes I took—quiet, composed, unreadable. My stomach tightens with every page he turns.
Finally, he closes the notebook.
“These are good,” he says.
Relief floods me—too fast, too intense. “Thank you.”
He watches me for a long moment. “You absorb quickly. That’s rare.”
My breath stutters at the compliment.
“Come on,” he says, pushing back his chair. “We have calls. A lot of them.”
Calls. Meetings. More shadowing. More… him.
We return to his office, and he immediately shrugs off his suit jacket. The movement draws my eyes to the line of muscle beneath his shirt, the way it stretches across his shoulders.
He catches me looking.
Our eyes meet.
Heat flares low in my stomach.
“Sit,” he says quietly, a little too aware. “We’ll start.”
I drop into my chair, cheeks on fire.
He begins a conference call, his voice clipped and calm as he handles three problems at once. I take notes, my hand moving fast, trying to keep up. At one point, he steps behind me, leaning down to read over my shoulder.
His hand rests lightly on the back of my chair.
My entire body reacts.
I freeze.
My heart trips.
My breath hiccups.
He lowers his voice. “Relax, Talia.”
Relax?
How?
He’s close enough that the world feels small again—just him and me and the quiet weight of his hand inches from my spine.
“Your notes are accurate,” he murmurs. “Good.”
The word good in his voice feels like something else. Something heavier. Something dangerous.
When he finally steps away, I almost sag in relief.
Almost.
Because the space between us suddenly feels colder without his warmth.
Hours pass. Meetings, calls, documents. I move when he moves. Sit when he sits. Follow, listen, learn.
And every time our eyes meet—even for a second—it sends a tiny shock through me.
By the time lunch rolls around, my brain is fried.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says without looking up from his screen.
Neither has he. “I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re not.” He stands, pushing his chair back. “Come with me.”
He leads me through a private hallway into a quiet dining room with panoramic windows. A small table is set for two.
This isn’t the staff cafeteria.
This is something else.
Something reserved.
“You eat here?” I ask softly.
“When I’m working.” He sits across from me, loosening his tie slightly. The movement is almost indecent in its subtlety.
A server appears with plates—salmon, vegetables, something light but elegant. My stomach growls quietly.
Aiden’s lips twitch. “Eat, Talia.”
I take a bite, and he watches me. Really watches. Not with arrogance or possession, but… curiosity. Awareness.
It makes me squirm.
He lifts his fork slowly. “You’re uncomfortable.”
I choke on a breath. “I’m not—”
“You are.” His voice is unrelenting but not unkind. “Why?”
I stare at my plate. “It’s just a lot. Everything today.”
“Me,” he says quietly. “It’s me.”
My pulse slams.
He doesn’t say it with pride.
He says it like a confession.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “You’re… intense.”
He laughs softly—a rare, low sound that sparks something in my chest. “You’re not the first to say that.”
“But…” I swallow, unsure how honest to be. “You don’t intimidate me the way you think.”
His gaze sharpens. “How do I intimidate you, then?”
I freeze. “I didn’t say—”
“You don’t have to.” He leans forward, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops to a dangerous softness. “I can feel it.”
My breath stutters again.
“I don’t want you afraid of me,” he says.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then what are you?”
I tremble.
Because I don’t know.
Because I do.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
His jaw tics. He looks away—just for a second—like he’s fighting something inside him.
Then he stands abruptly.
“Come,” he says. “There’s one more thing I want you to see today.”
He leads me down another hallway, up a set of private stairs, and into a glass-walled room overlooking the entire resort.
“The strategy room,” he explains quietly.
It’s beautiful, powerful, and slightly intimidating.
But not as intimidating as the way he turns toward me.
“You’ll spend a lot of time here,” he says. “With me.”
Something catches in his voice.
A hint of warning.
A hint of promise.
“You need to be prepared for that,” he finishes.
Prepared for him.
I nod slowly, pulse still racing. “I’ll do my best.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Just for a second.
Barely a breath.
Then he steps back.
“That’s enough for today,” he says, voice tight. “Go rest, Talia.”
I leave the room with shaky legs, his gaze still burning along my skin.
And even though he dismissed me…
I know this isn’t distance.
It’s tension.
Growing.
Tightening.
Pulling.
One step away from something neither of us is supposed to want—
And both of us are losing control of.
- Writer
