I glance at his chest, then swiftly move my eyes down to my hands, examining the clay still residing under my fingernails. “It was a statue of you. I thought it was pretty realistic.”
“Of course. Who am I to misinterpret a master?” He smirks at me, eyes weary. “Was this statue for worshipping purposes or are you planning to put a curse on me? Because if it’s the latter, I’d love to know in advance.”
I laugh through my nose. “I was hoping it would be like that movieLife-Sizeand I would have an enchanted version of you to do stuff for me.”
“You weren’t concerned about this turning into aPygmalionscenario?”
I fake an excited gasp, raising my hands in revelation. “Maybe that’s the solution to my dating dilemma: creating the perfect man out of stone!”
Iris shuffles in her seat, her face pressing against the fogging glass as she falls fully back to sleep.
“And that perfect man would be me... minus the personality?” He throws me a theatrically offended look, pushing his hand across his chest as if he’s been shot in the heart.
I lower my chin. “Maybeeee... I would be willing to take afewtraits into consideration...” I lightly tap his shin with my foot.
The passing streetlights cast Bancroft back and forth from gold to black. “Like what?”
“Well...” I pretend to ponder. “The part that felt compelled to order us expensive sushi during late nights at the office?” I point to him for emphasis. “Thatpart of your brain could stay.”
“Ahhh,” he says, nodding. “The tempura lobe.”
I snort a laugh and he leans forward, hands clasped between his thighs. “Want to know what part of your brain I would keep?”
I raise my eyebrows in question, signaling my willingness to play ball. His eyes gleam in the dark. “Whatever part turned you into a fucking badass in there.”
As he moves closer I catch the soft scent of his cologne; it wraps around me like a warm duvet on a rainy day.
Instead of immediately reacting, I run through the script of my entire life to check, but... “I think that’s the first time anyone has ever called me a badass.”
He grips me in an icy stare. “Maybe you should be like that more often, then.”
Iris grunts softly in her alcohol-laced slumber as the taxi lurches over a pothole.
I let out a quiet laugh at the advice I know is 100 percent correct. “Want to know a secret?”
“Always.”
I lean forward, meeting him in the middle of the cab, my chest pressing against the seat belt. “I was channelingyou.” His eyebrows raise to match mine as I continue, “How you are in meetings and with your team. It was like I could feel you inside me and I—” I snap my mouth shut, thanking the moon for masking my red cheeks in darkness. The sound of the whirring engine and beeping traffic permeates around us, as though the fabric-lined walls of the cab are slowly pushing us in toward each other.
He licks his lips and then purses them, trying to suppress a smirk. His voice lowers an octave, making me shiver despite the hot night: “You know, a much lesser man would respond to that statement in a very undignified manner.”
My stomach feels heavy as his eyes squint at me; they look almost black in the shadowed cab. I have to actively remind myself that we are not alone in this tiny taxi. Actively stop myself from sayingI wish you wouldand askingWhat would you say?
My seat belt digs into the side of my neck as my body is drawn toward him like a magnet; for a brief second I imagine the pinch against my skin is the drag of his teeth. The feel of the nylon strap against my waist is his hands pinning me down as his tongue glides up my legs.
I blink back to reality as the car rolls over another bump. “We’re soooo past the point of dignity.”
When I can make his smirk turn into a full-fledged grin I feel like a master chef successfully cooking deadly puffer fish: turning something that could kill you into something delicious.
“I think we are too,” he agrees, scanning my cheeks, my jaw, my lips and then back up to my eyes, making me feel as if I’ve swallowed a cannonball. We sit in a comfortable silence punctuated by laughter flowing from passing restaurants and our seat belts creaking as we lean further forward in the center of the cab. Two planets slowly drawn into each other’s orbit.
If you vomit onto a fire, would it put out the flames? Because in this scenario it does, as Iris, woken up by a wave of hot nausea, violently upchucks into her bag. The heated air building between Bancroft and me turns into regurgitated champagne ash.
13
I arrive at my desk on Monday morning slightly later than usual (9:06 a.m. instead of 8:45 a.m.) to find a pile of contracts from Susie corresponding to the four emails she sent me at 5:30 a.m. and three neon Post-it notes from various marketing assistants with questions about today’s meetings. All expected and fairly standard for me to receive within the first six minutes of official office hours. What isn’t usual is a gleaming black coffee cup and a grease-spotted brown bag holding a flaky almond croissant. I bring the bag to my nose, sniff and sigh as though I’m a mole man and this is my first fresh air in months. Based on the Wilfred’s label splayed across the cup, I’m pretty sure who it’s from. Twisting the coffee around, my suspicion is confirmed by the note stuck to the back.
“For my Pyg.”
