Zahir tapped a pen against his desk, trying for the millionth time to focus. Two executives had been at each other’s throats for weeks now, and today, of all days, it had finally escalated to him.

On the exact day when Zahir couldn’t use his brain for anything except recalling images from his sexy night before.

Layla flashed across his mind’s eye again—the tousled strawberry blonde hair he’d tugged from that chignon, letting it spill over lightly freckled shoulders. Her skin had been creamy, like a pudding dessert. He’d certainly licked her all up—not just once, but almost six times. They’d had to abandon the sixth attempt due to exhaustion and his impending work day, but they hadn’t lacked the willingness.

He hadn’t had that many orgasms in one day since his college years.

“Zahir?” The voice on his phone’s speaker brought him back to reality. Zahir blinked guiltily at the executive sitting in front of his desk, then squinted at the telephone.

“Yes. Excuse me. I was thinking.” About Layla. “These issues have been getting worse, haven’t they?”

The executive director in front of him widened his eyes. “He refuses to follow the etiquette guidelines I’ve emailed to him.”

Zahir looked toward the phone. The American counterpart was on the line; these two employees had similar roles on either end of the world and frequently had to work together. But social—and cultural—clashes continued to erupt between them. And as Zahir poked around in other departments, he found similar clashes erupting on a smaller scale.

“I can’t be expected to change my approach just because he sends me an email,” the American colleague complained. “That’s not policy. That’s not protocol.”

“But it’s reasonable,” insisted the Parsian counterpart.

Zahir sighed. He could see a long future of these sorts of conflicts, but how to resolve them? It seemed both sides were equally staunch in continuing their own status quo. “As you both know, there is no other option beyond working together on this.”

“I know—” began the American colleague.

“But he’s been so—” started the other.

“And I think the best way to formally address this issue, which will continue to crop up, is through policy.” He paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He’d been catching whiffs of Layla all day. How was that even possible? It threw him off balance. “And I think we’ll need to bring in someone who can help train, educate, and mediate precisely these types of issues.”

His mind kicked into overdrive as he felt the pieces of a solution clicking into place. “For now, however, put aside your frustrations and find a way to work together. You’re both going to have to give a little. I’ll let you know when we have a formal next step in place.”

He dismissed the Parsian colleague and said a curt goodbye to the American on the phone. And then he headed straight for his father’s office to present a plan that seemed more and more like the inevitable solution.

“Father.” Zahir burst into the large, dimly-lit office, his father barely looking up at him. Omar sat in a chair in front of the desk and turned with raised eyebrows. “I have an idea that I need you to approve.”

“Hardly much choice, is there?” His father removed his glasses, rubbing at his face before appraising his eldest son.

Inwardly, Zahir scoffed at the comment. His entire life had been one big lack of choice. His future had been eternally prescribed by the man in front of him. As the eldest Almasi son, Zahir’s destiny was firm: take over the business, be the head Almasi once their father passed. And while his brothers had different weights to bear with their own stations inside the family, Zahir was unequivocally the only one who was trapped by the expectations.

And he’d shouldered this responsibility because it was expected of him. Because it was the right thing to do. Because he valued his family more than anything else in the entire world.

“This must be a good idea.” Omar sat up straighter, crossing an ankle over a knee. “Do share.”

“These repeated and incessant culture clashes cropping up, on both sides of the ocean,” Zahir began, leveling his family members with his gaze. “It’s gotten to the point where productivity is being impacted. We have to curtail it and solve it.”

“Agreed,” their father rumbled.

“I think what we need more than anything is a bridge between the two companies. Parsian or American—it doesn’t matter. Just someone trained in Human Resources with enough sensitivity to help us combat these issues and develop policies to handle them,” Zahir said.

Omar nodded slowly. Their father glared at Zahir as he spoke, but it was just his thinking face.

“It can be a temporary position or long-term. Let’s think of them as a cultural sensitivity trainer, someone experienced in reacting to the needs of our company straddling two very different social realities.” The words flowed easier for him the more that he spoke. “But more than that, they will be the point person for handling these issues. It frees us up from dealing with these quarrels like elementary school teachers. We can all focus on our tasks, remain productive.”

“Brilliant,” Omar murmured.

“Hmmm, yes.” Father replaced his glasses. “Have you looked at budget?”

“We have enough,” Zahir said. “It would be a salaried job, yes, but simply one additional spot.”

“I know someone who might fit the bill,” Omar said.

“Yes?” Zahir steepled his fingers, pleased by the reception, but more than that, his spot-on delivery. When he was on, he was on.

“Marian has a friend with a spectacular HR history. A stellar resume overall. Plus she travels; she’d be a perfect fit for the job.”

Zahir shrugged. “Get her in here. Is she New York-based?”

“Normally. But she’s actually in town now, here for the wedding. I bet we could get her in for an interview.”

Zahir nodded, Layla flashing through his mind’s eye. She was the only American he cared to think about after last night. That hook-up had practically burned their clothes right off.

“She has preference, then,” Zahir said, pushing to standing. “Seems like she’s part of Marian’s chosen family, if she’s traveled here for the wedding, and that works perfectly for our family business model. I’ll inform Mr. Thomas of our plan, as well, since it affects both divisions.”

Zahir squeezed his brother’s shoulder on his way out of the office. Some days—moments like these—he was okay with the task of leading the Almasi family, of steering the business eventually. Even though he hadn’t chosen it.

Back in his own office, Zahir slid back into his chair, mind wandering immediately to Layla. He hadn’t felt such a visceral lack from not being around someone before. They’d been together a total of six hours before he’d snuck out of her hotel and back to his own penthouse early that morning, but today every cell in him screamed for her, like a petulant child seeking candy.

It wasn’t fair. Especially since he hadn’t gotten her number or any other form of contact.

The only ideas that came to him were visiting the club again…or showing up at her suite. Though a surprise visit sounded a bit intrusive. He could call the hotel, leave a message for her with his number. Something simple, seductive, and easy.

He was dialing the hotel’s number before he could even register the fact that he’d made the decision. The phone rang twice before a receptionist answered.

“Hello, I would like to leave a message for suite number 903.” Zahir paused as the receptionist readied to take his message. “Please write, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I need to see you again. Yours, Z.’” He relayed his phone number to her, and then hung up the phone, satisfied.

This way, the ball was in her court, but she knew exactly where he stood.

Now all he had to do was wait. His eyes drifted to his phone, as if maybe a call would come through instantly. The anticipation would be nearly too great to bear.