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He answers, “I’m LA based now.”
“You’re Al’s groupie.”
“He’s a bit of a consultant, if you will. He’s served quite the clientele; you should be flattered to have that kind of experience pouring your hooch.”
I say, “I am now. His Sazerac was wonderful, but I had no idea it was legendary.”
“Quite.”
We continue chatting about the weather or the lack of recognizable fall or over the top Halloween holiday decor in this too hip hotel way too early. I make him laugh, and he honestly makes me laugh too. Usually, it’s just a polite titter from me. Still, I almost snorted as he ranted about the absurdity of adult Halloween without children. He declares he’s going as nothing for Halloween until the end of time. I agree that’s the best costume. He orders another drink, and I nurse mine. We speak about leaf colors and why DC seems to be so gray, even in the midst of fall.
I chatter about the paintings I’d seen in the Hirschhorn Gallery yesterday, on a rare occasion with time on my hands. He talks about the Tate being his favorite museum and missing the time to simply look at art. I just did a couple of months in Europe on tour and barely saw anything. When I go back to England, I might just check out the Tate. It’s alluded me so far. We periodically check our phones and answer emails and texts.
After an hour or so, he moves a stool closer to mine, and I switch to white wine. I love a Willamette Valley Chardonnay and am thrilled there’s one on the menu. Also, he needs to stop being so enticing. My skin is tingling with every look from him. It’s like he’s cataloging me or can’t believe I’m real. I could say the same about him. It’s like we’re in a cone of silence. The world simply fell away as we engaged with each other more.
We forget to check our phones as we get animated about what’s the best TV to binge on a plane. He agrees that binging television at home is a waste of an evening, but on a plane, you’re locked in and can justify filling the time. That while you’re flying, you can make the valid excuse that there’s no Wi-Fi, so there can be no work. I explain I find flying gloriously indulgent because I don’t usually work on a plane.
Al approaches him and says, “Do you need a menu? Are you eating? Have you been eating?”
He replies, “No menu. I might eat, but not here.”
Al turns to me. “And you?”
“Oh. I’m. No.” I wave him away and explain. “I’m going to grab a room service burger soon. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He tops off both of our glasses with a bit more and walks away.
“That’s a sad, soggy overdone burger story just waiting to be delivered.” Al rolls his eyes at him.
“Yes, but I’ll be snug under the covers and feeling decadent with a glass of wine in bed,” I say.
“Just you and the wine in bed. Romantic.”
I sluff him off. Where else could the flirting lead? I’ve got to change the subject then make an excuse to head upstairs. “Al’s your consultant on what? Nutrition?”
‘“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” I smile and stand up. But before I go, I desperately need to run to the bathroom. He’s intriguing, and I’m not done with my drink. I hope he doesn’t leave, but I should tell him I know who he is.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need the ladies’ room. Will you be here when I get back?” I stand and touch his arm. I’m a little taken aback at the unrelenting spark I feel down to my toes as I touch him.
He grins slyly at me. “I will be right here, Ms. McGuire.” My breath catches. He knows who I am as well. How? I never pegged him for a romance reader.
“Perfect. Then I’ll see you in a moment, Mr. Bishop.” I watch his breath catch as he realizes I knew too.
“Alex.” He nods.
“Tess.” I nod at him.
He worked in the White House in the State Department as a foreign policy advisor and writer for sixish years. He’s brilliant, and remarkably he worked under both a Republican President and a Democrat. He now hosts a podcast about politics and is an avid fan and a wicked critic of both sides. They tend to focus on what’s best pragmatically and the facts of a situation rather than the cult of personality or vanity policymakers. His brand is built on optimism that the solutions are out there if you listen for them. And no one knows where they’re coming from. I love the podcast because it makes you question your own Stallworth beliefs. He and his other ex-White House friends started the media company together. They’re currently everywhere in the lead up to the midterm elections. I never dreamed he’d know a pulpy fiction writer like me. I run my fingers around my lips to sharpen my lip line and fix my lipstick's feathering. I reapply and hope he’s still out there.
He’s finishing his drink as I return. It’s a half-hour past my self-imposed curfew of 7 p.m. It’s time to let this moment go. We’ve been talking for close to two hours, but it feels more like a couple of minutes.
2
Alex
I can’t stop myself. This is ridiculous, but I’m going to invite this woman out. I desperately want to keep talking to her. Hell, I masturbated to her this morning, which is the strangest coincidence of my life. And here she is like some kind of wish fulfillment. I didn’t even know she existed until this morning, and now she’s in front of me. And knows who I am, which sounds egotistical, but it’s fucking hot she listens to the podcast.
I nod to Al, scoop up my coat, and lean against the bar waiting for this lithe and gorgeous woman to return to me. Her hair is something I’ve been thinking about all day. Her long, rich, wavy mahogany hair. Long enough that I might be able to fist it and then softly run my fingers through it. Hair that would look best splayed out on my pillowcase. And she’s smart and quick. And she’s funny. This is all too good to be true, and I need to know if it’s real. She steps back into the room, and it’s like everything smells better. The lighting improves, and everything has a soft, perfect glow around it.
