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woman, but it costs a lot to keep her in Tiffany and Prada.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “But she knows that, and she loves me, too. It really does all even out. She enjoys the entertaining part a lot. So what’s the harm if she makes friends with a perspective client’s wife and we have them over for dinner?” He looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Not a damn thing. That’s what. She wins. I win. Sometimes even the business wins. We’re partners.”
    He turned and thanked the barman for his drink, then added, “You should think about finding a good woman, Warren. It’s a fine life. You can have it all, but it’s not worth anything alone.” He grinned as he walked away.
    I could have it all.
    He had me thinking.
    It was a booming laugh that knocked me from my thoughts. I refocused my gaze and found the cackle belonged to a woman talking to one of the gentlemen from InformaTrade . Her smile split her face, head tipped back as she laughed at whatever he’d said.
    He and his wife continued to chat with the slender woman. She continued to nod and grin, but I watched as she scanned the room at all times.
    Then, throughout the night, I noticed her more and more. Always that brilliant smile. Always that boisterous, bellowing laugh. It was enthusiastic—I’ll give her that—but it came off a little rehearsed.
    Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and it appeared she wasn’t there with anyone. Not anyone who paid her any attention, to be fair. Yet, she never came over to me, nor had I ventured in her direction.
    I was attracted to her. No doubt about that, but she was definitely not the type I usually gravitated toward. Some men like blondes, some brunettes. Some liked thin women or ones with a bit more to hold on to. Those trivial things didn’t matter much to me. I looked for a hint of shyness. Alluring to me was timid femininity.
    I know. It was a complex. A proclivity. A preference.
    I’m well aware of my tastes in the bedroom. The way I like to orchestrate my moves. Plan their pleasure, often postponing my own. Their willingness to give it over to me was a potent drug.
    The trust . That’s really what got me off.
    I wasn’t cruel or abusive. I wasn’t rude or into humiliation.
    No. I was fueled by control. Power. Patience. It seduced me when a woman put such a precious thing in my hands on her own free will because she believed I’d take care of her that way.
    And always I did.
    By all accounts, this loud woman didn’t look like someone who would be into that kind of thing. She was more assertive than most of the women I’d dated and half the men I worked with. I could tell that from her body language alone. However, the thought of a woman like her yielding to me unexplainably compelled me to count. Those thoughts surprisingly caused my well-tamed anxiety to flare, which was odd altogether.
    Ten .
    I’d always been comfortable around women. Anxiety usually only came for me during particularly stressful deals at work, which I’d learned to anticipate and manage. Before that, it had been brought on mostly by important papers or tests in college. I took medication for it, but only when I needed it. Only when symptoms started flaring. Like my go-to coping mechanism.
    Counting . Backward from ten. Repeatedly.
    As a child I’d used it to calm myself, never knowing what the compulsion was—just that I’d seen people count backward when they were freaking out in movies.
    Turns out, to an extent, it works.
    But if I’m honest, sometimes I ticked down the minutes on my watch, too. I never left my house without one on for that reason. Time somehow provided me a security that eased the panic when I felt the pressure in my head escalate. I’d count down minutes on my watch, or slow, steady seconds in my head, until I found composure.
    Sex, or being with a woman in general, was one place I’d always felt truly relaxed. I don’t think I’d ever felt anxiety around a woman. I’d certainly never been nervous