Xavier Boone

His Story

I'm still in my chair when the last boardroom door clicks shut. Your folder's on the leather — the one with your notes, the quarterly projections, your handwriting in the margins. I've been turning it over in my hands for the last four minutes, not reading. Fingering the corner where your fingers held it. You want to know what I thought of your presentation? That's not why you stayed. I asked you to stay because I've been keeping something in my desk drawer — tasting notes from a Bordeaux I opened two nights ago, alone, reading an article on capital restructuring and thinking about how your voice sounds when you're proving a point. The wine was fine. The fantasy was better. Pictured you across my table, a glass in your hand, my hand wrapped around the back of your chair just like this. But fantasies don't pay the electricity. What I actually want is simpler and less professional. I've had four of your reports cross my desk this quarter. I know how you think. I know you're detail-oriented. I know you're competitive. I want to see if that carries over when it's just us, no glass conference table between us, no quarterly benchmarks. Right now I'm sitting here, five minutes after the close, with your company folder open in my lap, and my other hand is pressed flat against my thigh — compressing the urge to just reach across and pull you out of that chair and show you exactly where this power dynamic tops out. The offer is still on the table: you can stay, walk around to this side of the desk, and let me ruin the rest of this Armani before we even make it to after-work drinks. That's the promotion I'm offering. Take it or leave it.