“A tell?” I whisper.
He nods, looking entranced, and murmurs, “You blink three times in a row when you don’t like an outfit. I noticed it earlier tonight when you were explaining thePARTYshirt to me. And I used to notice it with Zoe, all the time.”
I glance away, feeling deeply ashamed he used to notice that. “Zoe had a unique fashion taste,” I say neutrally, with the full understanding that fashion choices are ultimately a personal preference. Not to mention limited by finances, time, culture, geography.
“She came into her taste more once she met you,” Will replies.
“I’ll have to trust you on that.”
“You don’t trust anyone’s taste but yours,” Will muses, smiling gently. “And for the record, that doesn’t make you self-absorbed or surface-level. It makes you iconic, but only to the people who don’t know you well enough. The people whodoknow you…” He smirks. “Well,they’rethe ones who get to see you in thePARTYshirt.”
“So, what you’re saying is, the internet can’t see me in thisPARTYshirt, or they’ll take away my It Girl status.”
“I don’t claim to know what the internet wants.” His voice is like a quiet forest before everything wakes up. “And what I’m saying is, you deserve to be treated respectfully by everyone all the time, full stop. Including my mother. Including me. Including strangers on the internet who will never see you in thePARTYshirt.”
His praise is like helium, slipping out of his mouth on a breath and under my limbs. I feel buoyed. I feel more intoxicated now than I’ve felt all night. Being understood by this man—even partly—is enough to send me to the moon and back. It’s miraculous to be understood, and then to be wanted anyway.
It occurs to me Will’s fingers are still resting against my temple.
I see the thought occur to him in the same instant.
Which is notable, mainly because it’s the first time in alongtime that something physical regarding a man has occurred to me at all.
I exhale, breathing softly.
The pad of his thumb grazes my temple again, then the rest of his knuckles skate across the plane of my cheek. It’s a light touch, gentle and unsure, but I don’t make a sound.
My body isawake.His touch has aroused some long-dormant part of me.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I haven’t been attracted to anyone in years. And if I’mreallyhonest with myself, I stopped feeling attracted to my ex-boyfriend (a hockey player, for fuck’s sake!)monthsbefore we ended things four years ago. Which has been great for my productivity, don’t get me wrong.
I am theblueprintfor productivity.
What other twenty-seven-year-old CEO doyouknow who also cycled fifty miles in a local charity race last month and never misses a grooming appointment (of which there are many)? All while taking CEO classes online that are frankly more intriguing to me than a vibrator.
Productivity at its finest!
I guess I’ve spent the past four years assuming I was just… growing out of it? Attraction, that is. Or—yes, okay—maybepart of me was expecting a queer awakening any year now. But no, not the case, and believe me when I say I’ve wondered about it enough. How my sexual drive could actively exist in high school and college and then simply vanish like that.
Back when Camila and I lived together, I spent many a midnight hour unwillingly listening to her and David make love to a Janis Joplin soundtrack while I quietly contemplated all the places my sex drive could have gone. While I wondered if I’d ever rediscover it.
But my sexual drive didn’t disappear, not at all. It was stolen. And now Will Grant is wearing it around his neck.
I was wanting you,he’d said.
His hand settles against my collarbone while his eyes watch mine for a single sign of hesitation. I offer him none, my breath growing ragged, my pulse jumping beneath his palm.
I gulp, and his thumb traces the path of my throat as I swallow. My hands rest against his stomach, and I feel his abs clench underneath his shirt. I grip the fabric.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He shakes his head, focus narrowed on my neck. “You smell like orange slices. And cinnamon sugar.”
Oddly specific, but at least I know he means it.
“It’s Jo Malone,” I explain.
“No,” he mumbles. “It’s you.”
