Pre-Interview Flirt

The lobby of the recording studio smelled like cheap coffee and ambition. Derek Holt stood near the reception desk, straightening the cuffs of his blue button-down shirt, a habit he had carried from boardrooms into this unfamiliar territory. He was forty-four years old, a small business owner who had built his company from nothing, and now he was waiting to be interviewed by a girl half his age.

A girl with a reputation.

Sienna Blake. Twenty years old. Viral. Unfiltered. Her podcast had grown from a bedroom operation to a legitimate media presence in under eighteen months. Derek had listened to exactly two episodes before agreeing to appear. They had been uncomfortable listens. She asked questions that dug deeper than most journalists dared, and she did it with a smirk in her voice.

The receptionist pointed toward a lounge at the end of the hall. Derek walked, his dress shoes clicking on polished concrete floors. The lounge was modern, all dark furniture and exposed brick. A woman sat on a low leather couch, legs crossed, phone in hand.

She looked up when he entered.

Sienna Blake was smaller than he had expected. Petite. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders in waves. She wore a cropped black top that showed a sliver of stomach and a short plaid skirt that ended mid-thigh. Her features were sharp and pretty in a way that felt almost aggressive. Full lips. Dark eyes that seemed to take inventory of everything they saw.

She smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. It was a curious one.

"Mr. Holt." She stood and extended her hand. "I'm Sienna. Thanks for coming in."

Derek shook her hand. Her grip was firm. Her skin was warm.

"Thank you for having me. I have to admit I'm a little nervous."

She tilted her head. "Why? You've built a successful company. You've got a wife. A house. A whole life. What's there to be nervous about?"

She already knew the answers. He could tell. She wasn't asking to learn. She was asking to see how he would react.

"I guess I'm not used to being interviewed," he offered.

"You'll be fine." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit. Let me ask you some things before we start recording."

He sat. The leather creaked under his weight. She settled back onto the couch, one leg crossing over the other, her small foot dangling a black heel.

"So tell me about Megan," she said.

Derek blinked. "My wife?"

"Yes." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "What's she like? How long have you been married? Are you happy?"

Those questions came fast. They felt personal in a way that made him shift in his seat.

"We've been married for twelve years," he said. "She's wonderful. Supportive. She runs a lot of the household stuff while I focus on work. We're happy."

Sienna raised an eyebrow. "You said that like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm not."

"Okay." That curious sharp smile returned. "Then tell me about yourself. Not the business. You. What do you want that you don't have?"

The question hit him somewhere unexpected. He thought about it for a moment too long.

"I have everything I need," he replied.

"That's not what I asked."

He met her eyes. There was a challenge there. A dare.

"I think most people want things they don't say out loud," he offered.

She laughed. It was a bright sound that filled the small room.

"Now we're getting somewhere." She uncrossed her legs and stood. "Let's go to the booth. I want to do a mic check before we roll."

The recording booth was smaller than he had imagined. Soundproof panels covered the walls. Two microphones sat on the desk between padded chairs. Sienna closed the door behind them and the world outside the room vanished.

"Sit," she said.

He sat. She walked around to the other side of the desk but didn't sit. Instead she leaned over the mixing board and pressed a few buttons.

"I'm going to have you say a few things so I can adjust the levels," she explained. "Just talk naturally."

"What should I say?"

"Anything. Tell me about your morning."

Derek cleared his throat. "I woke up early. Had coffee. Went to the gym. Came here."

She frowned. "That was dry. Try again."

He felt like a student being corrected. He tried to think of something more interesting.

"I thought about this interview all week," he admitted. "I kept wondering what you'd ask me."

"Better. Now tell me something you wouldn't normally say out loud."

He hesitated. The booth felt smaller. He could smell her perfume. Something floral with a hint of vanilla.

"I'm not sure I have anything like that."

"Everyone does, Mr. Holt." She stepped closer to him. She reached for the microphone arm and adjusted it so the foam windscreen was an inch from his lips. She was leaning over him. Her top hung loose. He could see the curve of her small breast, the lace edge of something underneath.

He looked away.

She touched his chin and guided his face back toward the microphone.

"Keep your eyes forward," she murmured. Her voice was lower now. Almost a whisper. "I need to check the proximity."

Her fingers lingered on his jaw. They were warm. Soft. She traced a line down his neck to the collar of his shirt. His pulse jumped under her touch.

"This is a nice fabric," she observed. "Is this what you wear to work every day?"

He swallowed. "Usually. Yes."

She smoothed the collar against his skin. Her knuckles brushed his throat. He felt the pressure of her fingertips against his pulse point, and he wondered if she could feel how fast his heart was racing.

"The levels sound good," she said. "But I want to test your voice at different distances. Can you lean in closer?"

He did. His lips almost touched the foam. She leaned with him, her body pressing against the arm of his chair. He could feel the warmth of her through his shirt. The soft press of her hip against his arm.

"Say something," she breathed.

"What do you want me to say?"

She smiled. Her face was close. He could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes. The faint freckles across the bridge of her nose that the camera probably never caught.

"Say my name."

"Sienna."

She shivered. It was subtle but he saw it. A small tremor that moved through her shoulders and down her spine.

"Again."

"Sienna."

"Good." She straightened up slowly. Her hand slid from his collar to his shoulder. She squeezed once, a gesture that felt both professional and intimate. Then her fingers drifted lower, tracing down his arm through the cotton of his sleeve.

"You're in good shape," she noted. "For a guy who runs a company."

"I try to stay active."

"I can tell." Her hand rested on his forearm. She didn't move it. "I think we're ready to record. But first."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a phone. His phone. He had left it on the table in the lounge.

"How did you get that?"

"You left it." She held it up. "I put my number in it. In case you have follow-up questions before the episode airs."

She handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his palm and lingered there for a beat longer than necessary.

"I should go," he said. His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

"Yes." She opened the booth door. The sound of the hallway rushed in. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Holt. I'll see you next week for the recording."

He stood. His legs felt unsteady. He walked past her, out of the booth, down the hall, past the receptionist. He didn't stop until he reached his car.

He sat in the driver's seat for a long moment. His hands were on the steering wheel. His heart was beating too fast.

He looked at his phone.

She hadn't just added a contact. There was a voice memo. Recorded three minutes ago. He pressed play and held the phone to his ear.

Her voice came through. Low. Intimate. The same voice she had used in the booth.

"Hey Mr. Holt. It's Sienna. I recorded this while you were walking out. I wanted to tell you something I wouldn't say on the mic. You have a very nice voice. I think you have a lot of things you're not saying out loud. I'd like to hear them. All of them. When you're ready."

There was a pause. He heard her breath.

"Call me."

The recording ended.

Derek stared at the phone. He thought of Megan. Their house. The comfortable predictable rhythm of twelve years.

He thought of Sienna's fingers on his neck.

He saved the voice memo.

He told himself it was just being polite. He told himself he would never call her. He told himself it was harmless.

But as he drove home, he could still feel the ghost of her touch on his skin. And deep in his chest, something restless stirred awake.