"Nothing special," James replied. "Gym in the morning, then catching up on some reading. You?"
"There's an opening at Galerie Lumière tomorrow night. My friend Elise has three pieces in the show."
"That sounds nice," James said politely.
"You should come," Sophia suggested, trying to keep her tone casual. "There'll be free champagne. Mediocre, but free."
James smiled apologetically. "I'd like to, but I've got a full day tomorrow. Maybe next time."
Of course. Even on weekends, his life seemed meticulously scheduled, every hour accounted for.
"The infamous weekend prep," Sophia nodded. "One day you'll have to explain to me why Ms. Sharp can't prepare her own materials."
"It's not that she can't," James corrected gently. "It's about efficiency. I know what she needs before she asks for it."
Sophia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She'd never met Victoria Sharp, but she'd heard enough to form a vivid picture: beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely ruthless. The kind of woman who inspired equal parts admiration and resentment in other women. The kind who expected perfection because she herself was perfect.
And here was James, defending her demands as if they were reasonable. As if spending his weekends anticipating her needs was a normal part of employment rather than borderline obsession.
"You know," she said carefully, "most executive assistants don't work weekends unless there's an emergency."
James's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something—defensiveness? Embarrassment?—crossing his features before his polite mask returned. "Ms. Sharp isn't most executives."
"And you're not most assistants," Sophia countered, bolder now. "You're overqualified and underutilized. Everyone knows it."
James took another sip of wine, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I'm where I need to be right now."
Sophia decided to change tactics. "Fine, fine. No more career advice. Tell me about the gym instead. You must have a serious routine to maintain those shoulders."
James laughed, the tension dissolving. "Nothing special. Just basic weight training and cardio."
Nothing special, Sophia thought incredulously, taking in the broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, visible even through his perfectly tailored suit. James Mitchell was built like a Greek statue come to life—all proportion and controlled power. Nothing special, indeed.
"Well, whatever you're doing is working," she said, a hint of flirtation entering her voice. "Some of us have to make do with yoga and prayer."
James glanced down at his wine glass, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. That was another thing about him that Sophia found endlessly charming—for all his physical perfection, he seemed genuinely embarrassed by compliments about his appearance.
"I just try to stay healthy," he said simply. "Helps with the stress."
Sophia leaned forward to refill their glasses, using the movement as an excuse to study him more closely. The perfect three-day stubble that framed his jaw wasn't an accident, nor was the precise cut of his hair or the subtle cologne that she could just barely detect when she moved closer. James Mitchell might project an air of casual indifference to his appearance, but Sophia recognized the signs of careful grooming.
"So, any exciting plans for your rare free evening?" she asked, settling back into her corner of the couch.
James shook his head. "Nothing exciting. Might actually cook something instead of ordering takeout for once."
"You cook?" Sophia raised an eyebrow, trying not to imagine him moving around a kitchen, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that had featured in more than one of her private fantasies.
"I can follow a recipe," he clarified with a self-deprecating smile. "Nothing Instagram worthy, but edible."
"That puts you ahead of half the population," Sophia said. "I burn water."
"Hard to believe an artist would struggle with creativity in the kitchen."
Sophia shrugged. "Different mediums. I can tell you everything about color theory but ask me to boil pasta and suddenly I'm helpless."
James laughed again, and Sophia felt a flutter of triumph. She loved drawing that sound from him—warm and genuine, so different from the careful, professional tone he used most of the time.
"What about you?" he asked. "Beyond work and art galleries, what does Sophia Reyes do for fun?"
"Oh, you know," she gestured vaguely with her wine glass. "The usual. Netflix binges. Occasional pottery classes when I want to feel like a Renaissance woman. Dancing badly at clubs with friends."
"Dancing?" James looked surprised. "I wouldn't have guessed that."
"Because I seem too serious?" Sophia challenged playfully.
"Because you seem too coordinated," James countered. "People who claim they dance 'badly' are usually fishing for compliments."
Sophia laughed. "No fishing here. I am genuinely terrible. Zero rhythm. My friends only bring me along because I make them look good by comparison."
As they continued talking, Sophia found herself cataloging James like one of her subjects: the way his hand dwarfed the wine glass, strong fingers holding it with unexpected delicacy; how his laughter transformed his entire face, erasing the careful reserve he typically maintained; the particular shade of his eyes—not quite brown, not quite green, but something in between that shifted with the light.
What would it be like to be the focus of that intense attention? To have those careful, competent hands on her body instead of wrapped around a wine glass?
Sophia took another sip of wine, hoping the flush she felt rising was not visible on her cheeks. A year of living across the hall from him, and her crush had only intensified. Initially attracted by his obvious physical appeal, she'd grown to appreciate the quiet intelligence behind his carefully measured words, the dry humor that emerged when he relaxed, the fundamental decency that seemed rare in men as attractive as James Mitchell.
"Actually, I've been meaning to ask," Sophia said, setting down her wine glass. "I'm working on this new series of portraits, and I'm looking for different faces. Would you ever consider modeling for me? Nothing weird, just a few reference photos and maybe a quick sitting."
James looked surprised, and for a moment Sophia worried she'd overstepped. But then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Me?" he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "I'm not exactly model material."
Sophia nearly choked on her wine. Was he serious? Did James Mitchell truly not see what she—what every woman with functioning eyesight—saw when they looked at him?
"You're kidding, right?" she said before she could stop herself. "You have incredible bone structure. The kind painters dream about."
A faint blush touched James's cheeks, and he glanced down at his wine glass. "I, uh, that's... flattering."