“Thatsounds like an apology that’s lost its efficacy,” I try to joke. “But lucky for you, you didn’t hurt anything.”
He tilts my chin up with his finger, forcing me to look at him, burnt-sugar eyes swallowing me. “Okay. If you say so.”
“I do,” I insist.
“Okay,”he says again.
I head for the door, but there’s a yank on my wrist, and then we’re lip-locked.
It’s wildly different from our first kiss at Sleight of Hand, twice as intense as the one in the restaurant. This one’s hungry, an act of pure relish. Alex’s teeth scrape against my bottom lip as I wrap my hands behind his neck. One of his arms brackets my hips, pulling me up, up,upoff the floor, and my toes settle on top of his. He wraps his free hand around my hair and lets the kisses get softer, tugging on my bottom lip, tugging on my hair. I steal gulps of breath in between each one, flushed and undone.
His touches reignite something I could’ve sworn was supposed to be dimmer now, less mystical. But it isn’t. If anything, every press of his lips to mine leaves me just slightly more addicted to the sensation than the last.
Eventually, he lifts me off him and presses one more kiss to my jaw. I stumble back, lashes batting so ferociously they could induce a small tornado. When my eyes refocus, Alex is watching me with his hands loosely fisted at his hips, biting the inside of his cheek.His boxers are decorated with corgis in Christmas sweaters, and yet he still manages to look like sex got dressed up for a night of revelry.
“Goodbye.” His voice is so scratchy, I want to ask if he needs a cough drop.
I jerk out two nods like a marionette. “Goodbye,” I repeat.
The door shuts between us, and at eight thirty on a Tuesday evening, I do my first ever hangover-free walk of shame.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A week passes in a haze of pumpkin spice lattes, Oktoberfest beers, and a pumpkin-carving contest that leaves me with a bandaged thumb. I find out over the stretch of it that Alex has an absurdly busy social calendar, made even more so thanks to (a) his three-year absence from the US and (b) his personality getting him an automatic yes whenever people are curating guest lists. It’s disgusting and obnoxious, and honestly, extroverts should be studied in a lab.
The weekend after our hookup, he flies to California, where a friend from college is launching a start-up and hosting an extravagant party to celebrate. (But of course.) The Tuesday after that, he attends a notable alumni dinner at the Harvard Club in midtown (Dougie apparently declined the invitation, but only after inquiring who’d be in attendance). Alex tells me he’s positive he’s never done anything notable besidesexistingas the whispered-about bastard child of fabled businessman Robert Harrison—neither hidden away and kept secret nor bandied about like Robert’s pride and joy.Alex is just sort of there, always has been, and people know who he is, but nobody talks about it much to his face.
The day after the Harvard dinner, Alex recaps it for me in a slew of texts we exchange between meetings.
Casey:I have to agree I can’t fathom a single notable thing about you
Alex:In between blood rituals, we went around the circle and bragged about our most notable contribution to high society. The best I could come up with was “ability to infuriate”
Casey:and how are the pagan gods of ivy league education
Alex:up to their usual. Ruminations on northeastern weather, Stanford smack talk, organizing a protest against student loan forgiveness
Casey:that last one sounds like something you wouldn’t know a thing about
Alex:point taken. Do you have loans?
Casey:yes, but v manageable. Dad was in tight spot for a while after mom’s uninsured cancer treatments, but I got a couple of scholarships, plus I was a waitress for like seven years
Alex:thanks, now I’m sweating in front of gus while he drones on about SEO
Casey:a waitress kink?
Alex:it’s news to me too.
I smile at my phone screen as I wait in line at Pret to order my sandwich.
Casey:tonight’s the book event, right?
Alex:Right.
From what I’ve gathered about Harvard grads, they all like to havesomethinggoing on—a new business venture, a book debut, a humanitarian fundraiser for a nonprofit they’re chairing. They always invite each other, too. Alex says it’s veiled in camaraderie, but he thinks it’s mostly a flex.
His social calendar doesn’t surprise me, considering I’ve long been aware he’s the type of person that’s good to have in any room. But italsomeans we haven’t gotten another chance to see each other outside of work, and neither of us has been brave enough to fire off a late-night booty call. Meanwhile, Alex’s texts are getting more quietly randy—vaguely disguised behind his growing concern over the chocolate cosmos or a casual mention that he’s craving Diet Coke. He’s even starting to explain his obligations as though they’re sandwiched between unspoken apologies. And almost by accident, the less we see each other, the more we talk.
