After Hours with the Boss

I'd been working at Sterling & Associates for three years before Daniel Hayes became my boss. He transferred in from the London office to head our department, tall, sharp-featured, with steel-gray eyes that seemed to see right through you, and the kind of British accent that made even mundane quarterly reports sound important. At forty-two, he was ten years my senior, and he carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that came from years of closing deals worth millions.

He was also openly gay, which was refreshing in the conservative world of corporate finance. And he was exactly my type, which was decidedly less refreshing.

The first time we met, he'd called me into his corner office on the forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, and his desk was positioned to command both the room and the skyline beyond. Everything about the space spoke of power, control, precision. He'd stood when I entered, old-fashioned manners, I'd learn, were very much his style, and shook my hand with a grip that was firm without being aggressive.

"Michael Bennett," he'd said, not a question. "I've been reviewing your work on the Hastings account. Impressive."

Those two words had sent an absurd thrill through me. I was thirty-two years old, a senior analyst with a stellar track record, and I'd felt like a schoolboy praised by his teacher. It should have been my first warning sign.

For six months, I maintained perfect professionalism. I attended meetings where I absolutely did not notice the way his suit jacket stretched across his shoulders when he reached to write on the whiteboard. I delivered reports where I absolutely did not let my eyes linger on his hands as he turned pages, long fingers, elegant, with a silver ring on his right hand that he'd spin when he was thinking. I worked late when needed, traveled for client meetings, and absolutely did not replay his rare words of praise on repeat in my mind like some kind of pathetic soundtrack.

I was a model employee. A model of repressed desire, maybe, but a model nonetheless.

But God, it was torture. The stolen glances across conference rooms during presentations. The brush of his hand against mine when we both reached for the same document. The way he'd lean over my desk to look at my computer screen, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and understated, with notes of sandalwood and citrus. The casual "well done, Michael" that made my name sound like something precious.

I told myself it was one-sided. He was my boss. He was professional. The fact that he happened to be gay and devastatingly attractive was irrelevant. I was projecting, seeing what I wanted to see in his occasional lingering looks, the way his eyes would track me when I moved around the office.

Then there was the incident at the company dinner three months into his tenure. A major client had just signed, and Daniel had taken the team out to celebrate at an upscale steakhouse downtown. Wine had flowed freely, and I'd found myself seated next to him at the end of the table. Our thighs had pressed together in the crowded booth, and neither of us had moved away.

"You did excellent work on this one, Michael," he'd said quietly, leaning close so I could hear him over the noise of the restaurant. His breath had ghosted across my ear, raising goosebumps on my neck. "I know Martinez took credit in the presentation, but I know it was your analysis that sealed the deal."

"Just doing my job," I'd managed to say, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touched.

"You're very good at your job." His hand had landed on my knee under the table, just for a moment, fingers pressing through the fabric of my trousers. Then it was gone, and he was turning to respond to someone else's comment, leaving me breathless and confused.

After that, the tension became unbearable. Every interaction felt charged. Every meeting was an exercise in restraint. I'd catch him watching me, and when our eyes met, there was something there, heat, want, frustration. But he never crossed the line. He was the consummate professional, always proper, always appropriate.

It was driving me insane.

The night everything changed started like any other late evening at the office. We had a major pitch the next morning, the kind that could make or break the quarter, a potential thirty-million-dollar account that would put us ahead of our rivals. The presentation had to be perfect. The entire team had stayed until eight, but by nine, most had drifted home to their families, their lives outside these glass and steel walls. By ten, it was just Daniel and me, the glow of computer screens, and the distant hum of the cleaning crew several floors down.

I'd loosened my tie and rolled up my sleeves, my jacket draped over my chair. My eyes burned from staring at financial projections, and I'd lost count of how many coffees I'd consumed. I was deep in a spreadsheet when I sensed rather than heard him in my doorway.

"Bennett," Daniel said, and I looked up to find him leaning against the frame. He'd shed his jacket too, and loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves to reveal surprisingly muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. His usually perfectly combed hair was slightly disheveled, as though he'd been running his hands through it. He looked... human. Accessible. Dangerously attractive.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Not since lunch," I admitted, realizing suddenly that my stomach was growling.

"Neither have I. I've ordered Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes. Join me in my office when it arrives?"

It wasn't unusual, we'd shared working dinners before, always professional, always focused on the task at hand. But something about the way he said it tonight, something about the weight of his gaze and the late hour and the empty office, made my pulse quicken.

"Sure," I said, proud that my voice came out steady.

When the food arrived, I gathered my notes and headed to his corner office. The city sprawled below us, all glittering lights and distant traffic, alive and pulsing even at this hour. Daniel had set up the food on his small conference table and was pouring wine, actual wine, from a bottle of very expensive-looking Merlot that he apparently kept in his credenza for occasions like this.

"Merlot okay?" he asked, holding up a glass.

"Perfect."

We ate and worked, going over the pitch one more time, refining arguments and anticipating objections. The wine relaxed us both, smoothing the edges of the professional distance we usually maintained. Soon the conversation drifted from work to other things. His time in London, the culture shock of moving to New York. My disastrous attempt at learning to golf to fit in with the partners. The shared experience of being gay in an industry that wasn't always welcoming, the careful calculations about what to reveal and what to keep private.