The View

The silk of my emerald-green dress felt like a second skin—one I had been wearing for far too long. I kicked off my heels the second the hotel room door clicked shut, the plush carpet of the Marriott feeling like a small mercy under my aching arches. I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, sprawling out like a starfish, the fancy lace of my ...

The silk of my emerald-green dress felt like a second skin—one I had been wearing for far too long. I kicked off my heels the second the hotel room door clicked shut, the plush carpet of the Marriott feeling like a small mercy under my aching arches. I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, sprawling out like a starfish, the fancy lace of my lingerie digging slightly into my ribs. I was exhausted, but my brain was vibrating. That’s the thing about jetlag; it’s a cruel trick of the body. My internal clock said it was early morning in Belgium, but the dark sky over the American skyline told a different story. I pulled my phone from my clutch and began to scroll, but the flickering images of people’s curated lives felt hollow. I’ve never been one for mindless scrolling. I sighed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wasn't coming. I needed to move, or I’d start overthinking the business dinner I’d just finished—analyzing if I’d been "professional" enough, or if my Belgian directness had rubbed the US directors the wrong way. "Screw it," I whispered to the empty room. I didn't bother changing. I touched up my lipstick, checked that my dark blonde waves weren't too chaotic, and headed back down to the lobby. The hotel bar was dimly lit, smelling of expensive bourbon and floor wax. It was quiet for a Sunday night, the kind of quiet that feels heavy. I hopped onto a high leather stool, my feet dangling, and caught the bartender’s eye. "Something sweet," I said, offering a small, tired smile. "Surprise me, but make it strong." He nodded and started working on something pink and frosted. I turned my attention to the television mounted above the bar. It was some reality dance competition—flashy costumes, strobe lights, and bodies moving in ways mine never could. It was hypnotic. I leaned my chin on my hand, lost in the saturated colors, sipping the sugary, potent drink the bartender placed in front of me. I didn't hear him sit down. I didn’t even see him out of the corner of my eye. But I felt him. It was a sudden shift in the air, a gravitational pull toward the stool to my right. I tried to stay focused on the TV, but the weight of a gaze is a hard thing to ignore. After a few minutes, the prickle on my skin became too much. I turned my head, and my breath hitched. He was... striking. Black hair, skin that looked like it spent a lot of time in the sun, and shoulders so broad they seemed to take up more than his fair share of the bar’s atmosphere. He was staring. Not a passing glance, but a deep, observant look that felt like he was trying to read the fine print of my soul. I didn't look away. I leaned in slightly, my hand flying to my cheek. "Is there something on my face?" I asked, my voice bolder than I felt. I rubbed at my chin, wondering if I’d managed to smear chocolate or sauce during dinner. "A smudge? A stray eyelash?" The man blinked, his composed expression fracturing for a split second. A faint flush of red crept up his neck—an endearing contrast to his rugged, almost dangerous appearance. "Oh, no," he stumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone. "I was just... I didn't mean to stare." I let out a soft laugh, the tension breaking. "Good. You almost made me feel embarrassed, thinking about how long I might have been walking around with a face full of dinner." He regained his footing, his dark brown eyes sweeping over my dress. "I think it would take a lot more than a smudge to make you look embarrassed. You look... prepared. Although, I did wonder if you were worried your date had stood you up." I sighed, looking down at my cocktail. "Is it that obvious? I knew I was overdressed for a Sunday. I just came from a business dinner with my colleagues. The American branch likes to go 'all out' for the first night." "You’re not from around here," he noted. It wasn't a question.

"Belgium," I said, feeling that familiar spark of pride. "I work in business support for a pharmaceutical company. They’ve flown us in for a team-building week. We’re here until Saturday morning." I took another sip of my drink, the alcohol starting to buzz pleasantly in my ears. "And what about you? Are you here to judge people’s outfits...

"Belgium," I said, feeling that familiar spark of pride. "I work in business support for a pharmaceutical company. They’ve flown us in for a team-building week. We’re here until Saturday morning." I took another sip of my drink, the alcohol starting to buzz pleasantly in my ears. "And what about you? Are you here to judge people’s outfits, or are you visiting for a reason?" "Work," he said shortly. He didn't elaborate. There was a wall there, one that looked very thick and very old. "Well, 'Work,' I’m Celia. But my friends call me Lia." "Dale," he replied. The conversation should have ended there, but it didn't. For the next two hours, the world outside the hotel bar ceased to exist. We talked about nothing and everything—the difference between Belgian chocolate and American candy, the silence of the countryside versus the noise of the city. Dale was a mystery. He didn't say much about himself, but he was an incredible listener. Every time I spoke, he leaned in, his broad frame creating a private alcove for us. As we talked, his hand found the top near mine. Occasionally, as if by accident, his fingers would brush against my arm or the back of my hand. The skin-to-skin contact sent a jolt through me that was far more potent than the alcohol. He was observant, noticing when I shivered or when I finished my drink, gesturing for another without me asking. He was the most attractive man I had ever seen, but it was more than that. He had a presence—a quiet, protective energy that made me feel, for the first time in a long time, like I didn't have to be the "strong one." Eventually, the clock behind the bar struck 1:00 AM. "I have to go," I said, my voice sounding a little breathless. "I have a 9:00 AM workshop, and I think the jetlag is finally winning." "I'll walk you to the elevators," Dale said, standing up. He was even taller than I’d realized. I felt tiny next to him, a feeling I surprisingly didn't hate. We walked in silence through the hushed lobby. When the elevator doors slid open, we stepped inside. As the doors closed, the space felt impossibly small. Dale didn't stay on his side of the lift. He moved into my personal space, his scent—something like sandalwood and desert rain—filling my lungs. He didn't touch me, but he leaned in, his eyes dropping to my lips. The intent was as clear as a physical touch. He wanted to kiss me. I wanted him to. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild bird in a cage. But then, that old voice whispered in the back of my head. He’s too much. You’re not ready for this. What if you’re not what he thinks you are? I chickened out. Just as he tilted his head, I gave a small, nervous laugh and stepped back, hitting the button for my floor again even though it was already lit. "Goodnight, Dale," I whispered as the bell dinged. I practically bolted out of the elevator. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes on me until the doors hissed shut, leaving me alone in the silent hallway with a racing heart and the lingering heat of a man I barely knew.

The door to my suite clicked shut with a clinical finality. I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need them. I stood in the dark for a moment, the silence of the room pressing against my ears, much louder than the hum of the hotel bar had been. My skin still felt charged, a lingering static from where my fingers had brushed hers. I shoul...

The door to my suite clicked shut with a clinical finality. I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need them. I stood in the dark for a moment, the silence of the room pressing against my ears, much louder than the hum of the hotel bar had been. My skin still felt charged, a lingering static from where my fingers had brushed hers. I should have been packing. My business here—the kind of business that involves silencers and untraceable handshakes—was supposed to be wrapped up by dawn. I was due back in the desert by Monday afternoon to give Ron the status report on our East Coast distribution. One night. That was the plan. I walked to the window, looking out at the city lights. I reached for my phone and pulled up the hotel’s guest portal. With a few taps, I bypassed the checkout screen and extended my stay through next Sunday. A week. I’d told her I was here until Sunday; now, I was making sure the lie was the truth. Ron wouldn't be happy about the delay, but Ron wasn't here. I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind looping back to the bar. I’ve seen a lot of women. Beautiful women, dangerous women, women who tried to use their bodies as a currency. But I’d never seen anything like Celia. It wasn't just the dress or the way her dark blonde hair caught the low light of the bar. It was the energy. She looked like a spark of electricity in a room full of damp wood. When I’d sat down, I hadn't intended to stare. It was a reflex. In my world, you identify the most interesting thing in the room and you watch it until you understand it. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I’d let my guard down enough to let her catch me. Most people flinch when I look at them too long. They see the predator in the eyes. But she? She’d leaned in. She’d challenged me. Is there something on my face? I felt a ghost of a smile tug at my mouth. She was bold. Outspoken. I liked the way her mind worked, the way she mirrored my movements without even realizing it. But I didn't know her. Not really. And in my line of work, what you don’t know is what kills you. I grabbed my laptop from the nightstand and flipped it open, the blue light cutting through the darkness of the room. "Celia," I muttered, tasting the name. "Lia." I started with the basics. Facebook was first. I found her easily enough—a profile picture of her laughing in front of an old stone building in what I assumed was Belgium. I clicked it. Private. I tried Instagram. Private. I felt a flash of annoyance, followed by a strange sense of pride. She was smart. She kept her life behind a curtain. Most people were desperate to be seen, but she was careful. I noted the birthday listed on a public "Happy Birthday" post from a friend three years ago. She was twenty-eight. Younger than me, but not a girl. A woman. She looked younger in person, something about the way she carried herself, but the fire in her eyes was all maturity. I needed more. She’d mentioned a pharmaceutical company. Belgium wasn't that big, but the industry was. I opened a terminal window, my fingers flying over the keys. I didn't just search; I hunted. I narrowed down the major players in Belgian pharma with US ties. I cross-referenced the names with the flight manifest from Brussels to this city on Saturday. There it was. Ten minutes later, I was staring at her internal company profile. I’d bypassed their firewall like it was made of wet paper. Celia Haden Position: Business Support Specialist. It was a corporate role—spreadsheets, logistics, legal jargon. The kind of life that existed in bright offices with fluorescent lights. I looked at her salary. It was decent—enough for that small apartment in the countryside she’d mentioned—but she wasn't rich. She worked for every cent she had.