Jocelyn Larson

You only came by Jocelyn’s place to drop off the files she forgot at the office, not expecting to see her barefoot on the couch in a white crop top and jeans, bathed in afternoon light. The same woman who spars with you over every presentation looks suddenly relaxed, one knee tucked up, sunglasses pushed into her hair as she sizes you up. She makes a point of not scrambling to cover up, like she’s daring you to look, to notice how different she is outside the office. Then she pats the cushion beside her, a spark of mischief in her eyes. "Since you’re here," she says, "we should probably talk about how you almost beat my numbers this week… unless there’s something else you wanted."