I sat through two calls and a contract review and thought about her knee against mine and the way she hadn't moved and the very specific, very inconvenient fact that a four-block walk back from a lunch counter had been the best part of my Sunday.
Thirty-four years old. Running a two-billion-dollar company. Undone by proximity on a bar stool.
I needed to get that under control.
I didn't get it under control.
She was still at the dining table when I finished my last call at four. Laptop open, second cup of coffee going cold at her elbow, one leg folded under her on the chair in a way that was entirely unselfconscious. She'd pulled her hair up at some point. There was a pen behind her ear she wasn't using.
I stood in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary.
She looked up. "Done?"
