“Oh. No. I haven’t been home in a few days.”
“But you will tomorrow night, right? We have the Dietrich thing.”
“Right.” I’d rather have a few days to myself, but I’ve already committed to the client dinner. Whether it’s Rich’s account or my dad’s, I’m still expected to show. Clients appreciate that we’re both a family business and a mid-size agency. The three of us are a package, Rich and I more show ponies at these dinners than valuable team members. “I’ll be here.”
After Rich leaves, I remove my towel and look myself over in the bathroom mirror. I still haven’t gotten used to this body, how my curves are still there, only slighter, or how my smaller waist makes my breasts look larger, even though they’ve shrunk a bit. My nipples are swollen, as pink as my lips, but Rich and I haven’t had sex in weeks. I hadn’t noticed until last night. Until golden-haired, tall, muscular, attentive Finn leaned in. Until the way his one hand engulfed my coffee cup when he passed it to me, or until his magnificently green eyes lit up when he asked me to read to him. And his lips—God, his lips. They’re unreal, so pouty they’re almost feminine, except that the rest of his facial features are strong, his jawline sharp. It’s the most inviting mouth I’ve ever had the pleasure of almost kissing.
I’m tempted to ease the ache between my legs, but there’s no time. I’m presenting data in a meeting this morning, and final touches still need to be added.
When I’m near work, I stop at Lait Noir. It’s crowded, but the black-and-white café is small enough that I can see every table from where I stand in line. People are working, creating, connecting, right in front of me. Three girls share a table, but despite their open laptops, they’re all on their phones. Probably checking social media.
My heart skips at the thought of them coming across my photo. They’d never know they were in the same room as the person they were looking at. The author of the words they were reading. That would never happen—what are the odds they’d ever come across such a small, obscure account? But the thought alone excites me.
I take my coffee to go, and two hours later, I’m sitting across from several chuckling men in suits. My dad is always making grown men chuckle, a skill I wasn’t blessed with and have made no effort to cultivate.
“Let’s move on to campaign idea number three,” I suggest, plastering on a smile that’d put a contractor to shame.
“In a minute, Halston,” Dad says, tapping the table. “We haven’t even gotten to last night’s game.”
Grayson Dietrich, a CEO client, groans. “What a disgrace.”
My assistant and I exchange a look. She knows how my dad’s interruptions irritate me. Right about now, steam usually starts billowing from my ears. I’d hoped a promotion to Agency Analyst would stop my dad’s routine condescension toward me in front of others, but he’s shown no signs of slowing. He doesn’t see himself as patronizing. The clients want face time with the founder of The Fox Agency, and that’s what he gives them, regardless of how it makes me look to have my daddy sit in on meetings.
I can’t say much more about it than I already have, though. When I graduated college and told him I wanted to help artists reach the masses, he created this position for me. Every time we verge on an argument, I remember that and surrender first. He cares about me—I know he does—but when he thinks his way is best, there’s no alternative. Even if I want something different, I end up giving in.
My frustration quickly runs cold and soon, my thoughts pick up where they left off earlier. With just his words, his commands, Finn touched me. Having his camera on me was no less intimate than if it’d been his hands. Which isn’t a claim I can make yet.
Yet?
I’m as attracted to Finn as I am curious. There’s no question. He listens. Watches. I think he even understands me, or else he would’ve just turned my journal in and walked away. I don’t worry that he’s at home, flipping through it, laughing at parts. He gives me confidence and at the same time, the thought of seeing him again tightens my insides. He has a distinct pull, and that’s dangerous, because I can’t do anything about my draw to him.
Can I?
I shudder. Noticeably. The table vibrates. I’m about to blame it on the weather, but nobody’s paying attention to me, not even my assistant Benny, who’s using her pen to turn Dietrich’s logo into a penis. The men are still talking basketball.
I wouldn’t normally get out my phone in a meeting, not even during one of my dad’s infamous steamrolls, but I’m having trouble following protocol today. Work seems less urgent. My dad is less threatening. I’m running out of meds, so I only took half my dosage. I even skipped my third cup of coffee.
Finn’s profile is already open. There’s been hardly any activity since I checked this morning. Did he not use enough hashtags? Were we wrong, and the photo sucks? Or the caption? That could be the problem. I tried to warn Finn. It’s not like I have any business writing anything. My hand sweats around my phone.
Those comments, though.
Fucking hottt
What’s this quote from?
I want more of that. More of Finn and his ideas and his attention—even though I know it’s risky. Orbecauseit’s risky. For so long, I’ve been moving through days, not rocking the boat, not taking too many chances. Anything more than that can result in mistakes, pain, loss. But maybe taking that photo last night woke up a side of me I put to sleep a long time ago. And maybe I want to do it again.
8
Less than forty-eight hours after I took her photograph, I wait for Halston under some trees on a park bench. Union Square was my suggestion. It’s not only close to her office and the job I had this morning, but it’s always busy here. There are crowds, but also privacy, and I think we need both. She seems to be acting out of character around me, and I’ve already gotten too close. I shouldn’t have admitted to jerking off. Between the light stalking, the photos, and that confession, she’ll think I’m obsessed. Even if we do have chemistry, I wouldn’t blame her for staying away. And if she doesn’t . . . she might be just as fucked up as me.
I spot her headed my way. She gnaws her bottom lip and surveys the crowd, holding two coffees and a shopping tote. She’s in black tights, a purple scarf, andclick-clackMary Janes. I only know what those are because my daughter wears them. When Halston spots me, she walks faster.
“I brought special coffee,” she says. She flings her stuff and herself onto the bench before handing me a cup and pastry bag. “Snacks too.”
“Thanks.” I set them on the other side of me. She takes in the bare branches over our heads, the skateboarders riding from one end of the square to another, the prep school teenagers nibbling on each other’s ears. At least, I think that’s what she’s seeing. I haven’t taken my eyes from her profile. Her soft, feminine features are only interrupted by a slight bump to her small nose. There’s a dusting of freckles by her hairline, and I get a better view of her tattoo—a small, multi-colored pastel feather that curves behind her ear. She crosses her legs. “This was a nice suggestion.”
“I love the parks in this city. I need them. Or rather, I need a break from all the chaos.”
