Page 33 of Executive Privilege

"Oh—I didn't know. Sorry, Nick." Mr. Morrison claps him on the back. "Shoulda just said so."

As Morrison walks away to check on other team members, Nicholas turns to me with an expression that's part gratitude, part frustration.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "But I can handle Morrison."

"I know you can. I just thought you might appreciate backup."

"I don't need rescuing, Sadie."

"I wasn't rescuing you. I was supporting my professional partner." I pause. "There's a difference."

Something in his expression softens slightly. "Professional partner."

"That's what we are, isn't it? When we're working?"

"When we're working," he agrees, but there's something in his voice that suggests the line between professional and personal isn't as clear as either of us pretends.

Dinner is served in the main lodge, family-style at long tables that encourage conversation and bonding. I find myself seated between Morrison's marketing director and one of the younger executives, while Nicholas is positioned strategically at Morrison's table where he can continue building the client relationship.

The food is surprisingly good—barbecue and sides that feel authentically Texan rather than corporate retreat generic. The conversation flows easily, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the relaxed atmosphere.

"So Sadie," Sarah says during a lull in conversation, "Nicholas mentioned you paint. What kind of art do you create?"

"Nothing serious," I deflect. "Just hobby-level abstract stuff."

"Don't be modest," the young executive, Madison, beside me chimes in. "What inspires your work?"

I glance across the room toward Nicholas, who's deep in conversation with Morrison but somehow still aware of what's happening at my table. Our eyes meet briefly.

"Movement, mostly," I say, turning back to the conversation. "Color and energy and the way feelings translate into visual expression when words aren't enough."

"That sounds beautiful," Sarah says. "Very emotional."

"Art should be emotional," agrees another voice. "Otherwise it's just decoration."

The conversation continues around me, but my attention keeps drifting to Nicholas. He's performing flawlessly in his role as charming agency executive, but I can see the careful control underneath the professional facade. The way he maintains perfect posture, the slight tension around his eyes, the controlled gestures that never reveal more than he intends.

After dinner, the group gathers around a fire pit for what Morrison calls "informal networking and reflection." S'mores and wine and the kind of manufactured camaraderie that somehow manages to feel genuine despite its obvious corporate purpose.

I'm sitting on a log bench, roasting a marshmallow with probably too much focus, when Nicholas appears beside me.

"Room for one more?" he asks.

"Depends. Are you going to judge my marshmallow technique?"

"I'll reserve judgment until I see the results."

He settles beside me, close enough that I'm grateful for the warmth of his body in the cool evening air. Around us, conversations continue in small groups.

"How are you holding up?" I ask quietly.

"Fine. Morrison's pleased with the content we've gathered, and the executive interviews went well."

"That's not what I meant."

Nicholas is quiet for a moment, watching the flames dance in the fire pit. "I know what you meant."

"So?"