“No.”
“But you are a high roller.”
I hold out my hand, and she hooks her fingers over mine. I tug her close. “How much does the real world matter to how the rest of the night goes?”
She rolls her head, her blond waves tumbling down her back. “It doesn’t.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. I’m curious about you, too.”
“I just said it doesn’t matter!” She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “You’re curious about me?”
“Very.”
“Oh.” She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and surges up to kiss me. “Sixteen.”
The elevator slides open, revealing music, people, and the excited hum of an imminent countdown.
“Come on.” She surges into the party, bright and glittering.
She clocked me as wealthy, but there’s something about this girl, too. She fits into this world just as easily as I do.
At the bar, I order a nice bottle of Armand de Brignac champagne, since she’s figured out that I have money. If she recognizes the brand name, she doesn’t let on.
Interesting.
“I no longer think my birthday sucks,” I tell her as I pour her a glass of champagne.
Her eyes dance. “I should hope not. We got you the most legendary present ever.”
“And cake.”
“Andcake.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Cake. Imminent fireworks. A souvenir wedding license. What more could a man want?”
I don’t hesitate. “Fourteen more kisses.”
“Fifteen minutes until midnight, we better get on that.” She winks and twirls away from me, her skirt flaring high enough to show the top of her solid thighs.
They’re such nice thighs, too.
I’d like at least one birthday kiss right there, at the top of her legs. But that’s probably not going to happen before midnight.
The bottle in one hand, my flute in the other, I follow her through the party. String lights crisscross overhead, and heat lamps create pockets of cozy warmth where people cluster, but Francesca keeps moving, drawing attention as she searches for the right place to watch the countdown from. Even here, even in this refuge of privilege, people notice how pretty she is, how bright and glittering.
I’m used to people looking atme. I’m not familiar with this feeling of wanting to be possessive, to protest strangers looking at someone else.
Mine, I want to say.
I have a piece of paper in my jacket pocket that says she could be, too.
And I have a vibrator that I’m going to send her home with at the end of the night so in a small way, I will be hers, too, even after we part.
I like the thought of that a lot.
Francesca finds us a spot near the railing, away from the loudest clusters of people, where there’s a ledge for the wine. She sets both her rose and champagne flute down, then leans against the glass barrier, looking out at the city.
Closing the gap between us, I put the bottle and my glass next to hers, then slide my arm around her waist.
“Do you have anyone you’ll want to call at midnight?” she asks.
