The Conference Hookup

I'm going to tell you about the night that broke every rule I'd ever set for myself. The one-night stand at a work conference. The thing that wasn't supposed to happen, the thing I never told my coworkers about, the thing I still think about when I'm supposed to be sleeping.

I'm Vanessa Okonkwo. I was thirty-four when this happened, senior manager at a consulting firm, the woman everyone knew was going places. I had a five-year plan and a ten-year plan and a strict policy about mixing work and pleasure: don't.

Then I met him at the Las Vegas Annual Leadership Summit, and that policy went out the window along with every other rational thought I'd ever had.

His name was James Callahan. He ran the Chicago office of a competitor firm, which meant we were technically rivals, which should have made him off-limits in about seventeen different ways.

None of that mattered when he sat down next to me at the hotel bar after the first day's sessions.

"I'm going to be honest with you."

"Please."

"I noticed you during the panel on emerging markets. Not because of what you said, though that was impressive, but because you were the only person who looked as bored as I felt."

I laughed despite myself. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who was equally checked out."

He ordered us both whiskeys without asking.

"James Callahan. Callahan Consulting."

"Vanessa Okonkwo. Sterling Partners."

"Ah. The competition."

He smiled.

"All the more reason to commiserate together. Nobody else here understands how tedious these things are."

He wasn't wrong. Conferences were a particular kind of torture, mandatory networking, forced enthusiasm, the same conversations with different faces year after year. Finding someone who saw through the performance was unexpectedly refreshing.

We talked for three hours. About the industry, about our careers, about the gap between how people presented themselves and who they actually were. He was smart, not just book-smart, but perceptive, picking up on nuances other people missed.

And he was attractive. Forty, silver-streaked dark hair, the kind of blue eyes that made you forget what you were saying. The kind of man you noticed across a room but assumed was married or otherwise complicated.

"I should probably head up,"

I said eventually, glancing at the time.

"Early morning panel."

"Me too."

He stood when I did, old-fashioned in a way that shouldn't have charmed me but did.

"Walk you to your room?"

"That's not necessary."

"I know. I'm offering anyway."

I should have said no. I should have made a polite excuse and retreated to my room alone, maintained the professional distance that had served me well for a decade in this industry.

Instead, I said yes.

The elevator was empty. Just the two of us, the soft jazz of the hotel muzak, and an electricity I couldn't ignore.