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“At his house? He’s cooking? That’s foreplay for rich guys.”
Jessica smiled despite herself. “Maybe I want the foreplay.”
Marcy lobbed a marshmallow at her. “Jesus. This is how you end up crying in a bathroom at 3 a.m.”
“I’m not going to cry in a bathroom.”
“He could have a micro-penis.”
Jessica thought of his hands. Large, warm, the way they had rested lightly on her back guiding her through the restaurant. She felt goosebumps all over again. “I seriously doubt that.”
“You’re already dick-drunk and you haven’t even seen it yet. Classic Jess.”
A black Lincoln Town Car glided up to the curb outside, gleaming under the streetlight.
Marcy scrambled to the window. “Holy shit, is that him?”
The driver stepped out in a crisp suit and opened the back door.
Then Jessica’s date stepped out from the car with fluid grace. He wore a dark suit with no tie, the collar of his crisp white shirt open just enough to reveal a hint of skin. His hair was neatly styled, his jaw smooth and clean-shaven, and everything about his demeanor suggested wealth. He looked up at the window, then smiled and waved.
Marcy went quiet. “Okay. I get it now.”
Jessica grabbed her coat, grinning. “Told you.”
“You said hot. That man is criminally hot.”
“Do I look okay?”
“You look like a supermodel. What’s his name again?”
“Kincaid. Richard Kincaid.”
“Even his name sounds like money. Where’s he taking you?”
“His place in Brentwood.”
“Address?”
Jessica hesitated.
Marcy’s eyes narrowed. “Jess?”
“I don’t know. He sent a car. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Before wine.”
“Before wine. I promise.”
Marcy caught her wrist at the door. “If he has weird art, run.”
Jessica laughed. “Weird art?”
“Crazy rich guys always have weird fucking art.”
Jessica shook her head with a smile, then grabbed her small purse and headed out the door. She made her way down the narrow staircase of their apartment, her heels clicking against the worn wooden steps.
Outside, Richard stood waiting on the sidewalk, tall and composed under the streetlights. “Jessica.”
