32 Days in May

Wednesday, May 10

My phone rings in the middle of the night, and it actually wakes me up—something a tornado siren couldn’t even do. I answer with a grunting “Hello?” and a familiar voice fills the line, deep and rich.

“I can’t believe I missed another whole day with you.”

My eyes fly open. “Marco?”

“Don’t tell me you’re dating someone else for only thirty days,” he drawls, voice sarcastic and sleepy.

I shift up onto my elbows, dizzy and confused and happy. “It’s like, three a.m.”

A throaty laugh ripples across the line. “It’s midnight, babe.” Babe? I roll over to check the analog clock on my nightstand. It is midnight, and barely at that.

“Don’t you babe me.”

“Why? Afraid you might like it?”

“Yeah, terrified.” I yawn. “Where are you?”

“New York.” He sighs these words. A door clicks behind him and suddenly his voice is farther away, flatter, without any echo. I can almost feel the hot city air. “I spent the whole day with a bunch of people I don’t like thinking about how much I’d rather be on a boat with you.”

I settle back against my pillow and decide to tell the truth. “I had a similar thought today. Which is weird.”

“Weird?” I can hear the smirk in his voice; maybe something else too. Smoke catching on his teeth. “Not nice or good?”

“No.” I dig the heel of my hand into my eyes. “It’s weird. I’ve known you for five days. Are you smoking?”

“You’re a slow burn, huh? A little stand-offish? Full of secrets?”

“No.” I sound very defensive. “I’m just not anxiously attached or a recovering addict. Now, answer the question.”

“Damn. Right through the heart with that one.” He sounds excited. He likes this, this me-being-mean thing. I like it, too. “And yes. Just one cigarette. I had a bad day.”

“Poor baby.”

He lets out a little growl and now I can definitely hear it, the sizzle of the paper as he inhales. “Exactly. More people need to feel bad for me.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“This cigarette.”

“It’s time for your favorite meal and all you’re having is some toxic air vapors?”

Marco makes a tut of agreement. “I’d kill for a Pier Point BLT.”

“With sweet potato fries or regular?”

“Regular. Who the fuck gets sweet potato fries?”

“Heart-healthy Americans,” I reply, defensive.

Marco huffs. “If you actually swap regular fries for sweet potato, we might need to end this little experiment.”

“Well.” I bite back a smile. “Looks like you’re single again, buster.” And that makes him laugh very hard.

Liv and I both wake up around eight and take our coffees down to the beach for one last walk. For some reason, I feel like she’s holding something back and this sensation only intensifies when I notice she’s barely sipped her coffee. I’ll never stop being acutely aware of Liv’s body language, every micro-change in her mood. I’m getting ready to ask just as we reach the top of the steps that lead from the sand to the asphalt, but she beats me to it.

“I’ll miss you,” she says quietly, threading her arm through mine.

“I’m always here,” I remind her.

“I know.” She pulls back, then runs a hand over my hair, smoothing the frizzing little bundles away from my face. An uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “I just prefer when you’re in the same house as me.”

“We haven’t lived together in a decade.”

She gives my arm a squeeze. “We can change that.” I’m not sure if I should roll my eyes or cry.

Her car’s packed and ready to go. There’s nothing left for her to do but leave. We dust the sand from our feet and she puts on her shoes.

We hug one last time, and when I let her go, pushing her toward her car, I yell after her, “Go on. Get out of here. Go home to your loving fiancé, the poor sucker.”

Liv smiles at that, rolling down her window and shouting back at me, “Luckiest man on Earth!” while she drives away.

I don’t have too much time to pine after my sister. I have bigger, bolder matters on my mind, such as: What does a person even wear on a date to eat sushi with their K-list celebrity fake boyfriend? If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be standing in front of my closet, completely naked, heart racing, thirty-five minutes before I have to be at the bus station. All I know is that I definitely cannot wear my bucket hat, lest he begin to think that I’ve had it surgically attached to my head.

I grab a slinky black dress and some gold jewelry, which I carefully pack into a bag alongside an unnecessarily cute pajama set, skin-care necessities, my medicine, a toothbrush, and a paperback historical romance titled Her First Duking. Because if I’m not having sex, someone should be.

Just to be safe, I booked myself a last-minute hotel room. And also, to be safe, I’ve shaved my entire body.

I’m still unsure of how deep the waters of our relationship cosplay are. How much Marco has decided to go method with his role. Is he actually excited to see me? Has he missed me over the last couple of days? Or does this fantasy only work if he plays out every part of it—romance included? Because if Marco just wanted to have sex with a woman for thirty days and then fuck off out of her life forever, he could have easily done that—with a more easy-going accomplice, might I add.

He’d said it himself: I’m stand-offish. And when I want to be, I can be as frigid and inhospitable as the arctic. Maybe that was part of the appeal—my appeal—to him. Traversing a hostile environment, struggling to reach the summit, and then, ultimately—uh—planting his flag in frozen earth. Of course that would appeal to a certain thrill-seeking type, wouldn’t it?

With five minutes to spare, I pull into the Atlantic City bus station and book it to my terminal, where an ungodly long line has formed. Perfect, I’ll be seated somewhere close to the toilets in the back, sandwiched between a teenage runaway and a man in khakis with pamphlets. Despite the temperate, sunny weather, I’m a sweaty, sticky mess.

Finally, I settle into a seat—not as close to the toilets as I thought I’d be—and attempt to stuff my overnight bag down between my legs. A young woman slides into the seat next to me and immediately pops in her AirPods. Thank God. It’s one thing to be a chatty passenger on a cushy Amtrak ride, but on a charter bus? There simply is not enough oxygen for that type of behavior.

As the bus lurches out of the parking lot, I open my conversation with Marco and shoot him a text: Made it onto the bus with 37 seconds to spare. If you wanted to ghost me, you’re too late.

Marco: Just got out of my last meeting of the day, thank fucking God.

Nadia: Do I get to hear about this top-secret job that’s kept you so busy?

Marco: Maybe. Do I get to hear about your week?

Nadia: I’ve got two hours and a king-size Snickers bar. AMA.

Then, suddenly, my phone’s buzzing in my hand.

His name appears on my screen: Marco Antoniou. What kind of person has the confidence to cold-call people multiple times? Sociopath.

Stunned, I pick up. “Hello?”

“Why are you eating a king-size Snickers bar when you’re two and a half hours away from the best meal of your life?” His voice is light and airy, like a perfectly whipped Italian meringue, a stark contrast to the immediate punch of city noise it’s set against. It sounds like somewhere very close to Marco, someone has fallen asleep with their forehead against their car horn.

“Don’t you snack-shame me. That’s twice in twenty-four hours.”

“Someone has to,” he says. “If you leave me hanging tonight because you ate too much caramel and peanut—”

“It was a joke, I swear. The only thing I’ve had today is a thimble of water and a single arugula leaf.”

“Man,” he laughs, “I wonder what it would be like to know one, actual thing about you.”

The ribbing about me being a dark horse is nearing dangerous frequency. Is it that obvious I’m holding something back? We’ve agreed to spend a month together, approximately one-third the lifespan of your average American egg. What do I really owe the guy? But I can offer one, small truth. I gnaw at my lip. “I’m wearing the cardigan you gave me. There ya go.”

“Yeah, right. You’re probably wearing a T-shirt that says I hate Marco Antoniou.”

“I swear! I’m wearing your cardigan, jean shorts, and no bucket hat.”

“Damn, baby,” he jokes, but I still feel a twinge deep in my stomach. “What else you have on?”

“Chaps, lasso, big red honky nose.”

“Wow. Please, stop, I am about to cum.”

I bite back a laugh. “Tell me about the very important business that stole you away from me.”

“Ahhhh,” he coos. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Well.” I guffaw in response. “Never mind, then.”

“I’m working on a potential project—a nonacting thing that is very cool.”

“A nonacting thing, huh?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to jinx it so . . . that’s the only intel you’re getting.”

“Fair enough. Must be pretty great if you’re willing to sacrifice two perfectly good days of our Sweet November.”

“I hope.” He laughs softly and the noise of the city dims behind his voice. “I’ve missed you,” he adds after a beat.

I compress my mouth to keep from smiling, as if he’s right beside me. “Yeah, right.”

He laughs again, louder. “I wish I could have put money on you saying that.”

“I should go—I think talking on your phone on a Megabus is the last felony they flog people for.”

“Fine.” He sighs. “I’ll see you soon, Nadia.”

“See you very soon, Marco.”

“Text me a picture of you in the cardigan.”

“You really think I’m lying?”

“I just wanna see your face,” he says, a smile on his voice. “But yeah, kinda.”

I can’t hide the smile in my voice anymore, either. I lean my head back against the fabric seat and let my eyes fall shut. “Goodbye, Marco.”

An hour later, we pull to a screeching halt in Port Authority and I begin my official descent into a manic fugue state. I drop my things in my hotel room and quickly change into my carefully packed outfit before ordering a rideshare. I’m rushing, but I still manage to take my meds before heading out—all the usuals, plus my first love: Prozac. I’m like a walking advertisement for the shortcomings of the modern generation.

With a swipe of lip gloss and one last scan of my final look, I head out into a perfect May Manhattan night.

The restaurant is packed—elegant in its soft, dim light and abundance of noise. The lobby’s choked with bodies, clouds of Coco Mademoiselle and Baccarat Rouge rolling in from every direction as I try to navigate my way through martini-clutched hands and sport jacket backs to the hostess stand, flashing apologetic smiles left and right.

It’s amazing that I haven’t forgotten, after months, how to move through a space like this—solipsistic glamour glides, and when you know the rhythm, you can join like a fish to its school. My heart thrums in my chest, my pulse in my neck, and I remember suddenly what was so appealing about the way I lived before. Every night began the same: feeling like it might be the night, so epic as to change the rest of the nights that would follow, for the rest of my life.

There’s more than just designer scents in the air in a place like this; there’s hope.

Marco’s at the bar. Everyone around him is beautiful, finely dressed. But Marco, somehow, glows. He’s sitting with a leg casually extended to rest on the bottom of the stool next to him. His profile in the bar light makes him look like Apollo or Ares, powerful and warm. Full lips curling backward in a winking laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners, biceps strangled by the soft knit fabric of his shirt. His thick, dark hair flows in neat waves away from his face and behind his ears. There’s something so sexy about the muscular curve of where his neck meets his ears that I’m once again overwhelmed with the urge to bite him.

“Hi, welcome. How many in your party?” the hostess asks, pulling my cannibalistic sex-fantasy tangent to a halt.

“Oh, uh, I’m with—” I point at Marco. But then I realize that I’m just some lady pointing vaguely, so I add: “My boyfriend. He made a reservation, I think.” It feels so indulgent to call him that. My boyfriend.

She doesn’t give a shit. Her eyes are already back on the screen built into her kiosk as she pokes away. She dismisses me with a chilly, “Enjoy your dinner.”

I cut through the crowd, and Marco’s still engrossed in conversation with the bartender. But something is happening in my body and now all I care about is ripping him away from everyone else and burying my face in his neck, kissing every tendon that stretches and tightens as he calls me baby. I want to feel his hands in my hair; I want his lips on my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself, smoothing a hand over my stomach. I’m so horny I might die. That’s also part of being alive, I guess. Desire. It’s a hunger that feels like I’d never possibly be able to satiate. I feel like a vampire, dreaming about his neck and skin and eyes.

How am I even going to say hello? Do I tap him on the shoulder? Do I just slide onto the stool and wait for him to notice? Should I go for a coy hey, you? A jaunty oh, hi? I cannot for the life of me remember how I usually greet people. Is it possible I’ve never said hi to anyone, not even once?

The bartender catches my eye as I’m creeping up behind Marco, and the ignoramus foils my plan by giving me the famous White People Smile (no lips, no teeth, lots of eyebrow) and saying something to Marco that sounds like “I think she’s here.”

He turns in slow motion. No, not slow motion—regular motion. But I swear to God, everything goes flat except for Marco. Have I ever really looked at him before? Maybe not. Maybe I’d always kept my eyes downcast for this exact reason.

He leans back, pulling himself up to his full height. “Nadia.” He says my name like he’s exhaling a heavy breath.

His fingertips find my waist and then we’re hugging. Briefly. His palms slide to the flat of my back and around the smallest part of my waist, sending an ache through my hips and crashing into my knees. If that’s what a palm to my spine can do, I’m worried what will happen if he ever actually touches me.

We separate before I pass out.

“I made it,” I say, situating myself on the stool, carefully navigating the high chair in my even higher heels.

“You . . .” He gestures toward the stool swiveling underneath me. “You need help?”

“I got it.” I laugh. “This place looks incredible.”

“You look . . . ” He pauses briefly to furrow his brow at me, but the bartender is back with a heavy-bottomed tumbler filled with a dark liquid.

I look between Marco and the glass. “Is that alcohol?”

“No. God. I promise.” Marco’s fingertips are still resting on my waist, a gentle throb of heat at my side, but when the bartender says, “Cheers,” he pulls away. “Dan, this is Nadia. Nadia, this is my very good friend Dan.”

Dan flashes me a sweet smile as he garnishes Marco’s glass with sprig of rosemary. “This is an Old Classic—my spin on an Old Fashioned. Homemade bitters with a sassafras-infused, nonalcoholic Italian aperitif, topped with caramelized herbs.” He finishes his explanation by lifting a mini torch from his apron pocket and setting the rosemary briefly ablaze.

“Well, Dan. What an introduction.” I deeply regret calling him an ignoramus. He has a kind baby face and sweet blue eyes.

Dan gestures at Marco’s glass. “Give it a taste.”

Marco lifts the tumbler to my lips and I sip back the mocktail. “Wow. I don’t know how to tell you this . . .” They’re both watching me, rapt. “This tastes exactly like Dr Pepper.”

Marco lets out a huge laugh as Dan drops his head, shoulders slumping. “Goddamnit. It keeps happening.”

“What? That’s a compliment!” I assure him.

“Not when you’re soft-launching your mocktail business,” Marco leans in and says to me, not-so-sotto voce.

“Ah.” I pat my lips with a cocktail napkin. “Then I take it back. This sophisticated, groundbreaking beverage tastes nothing like Dr Pepper.”

Dan gives me a wry look before turning to Marco and quipping, “Your girlfriend’s a liar.” There’s something about the way he says it—smooth, unflinching—that sets my insides on fire. Tonight there are no parameters; we just are. Then, Dan gets pulled away to make more drinks and Marco turns his everything on me.

“No one kidnapped you,” he remarks, swiveling on his barstool to face me, drinking in my entire body with a slow, smooth look.

“Was that a possibility?” I ask, cheeks heating under his focus.

He shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips. “Cute woman on a regional bus route.”

“Cute?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Marco pauses, drink suspended at his lips. “If I tell you you’re sexy, will you make fun of me?”

“Of course.” I smirk. “But I thought you liked that.”

After a round of nonalcoholic drinks, the hostess comes back and taps Marco gently on the shoulder. “Sir, your table’s ready.”

“Oh?” I remark, as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Very impressive. Celeb treatment.”

Marco shrugs me off and for the first time, I wonder if he’s actually gone ahead and pulled some strings. We say goodbye to Dan and make our way back to the hostess stand, where the previously disinterested woman perks up significantly, leading us to a set of steps beneath an enormous, glistening chandelier.

“Hey.” Marco slides his hand into mine and gently pulls me back, until his lips are a hair away from my ear. “You look unbelievable,” he whispers.

I have to keep moving or my knees may turn completely gelatinous and send me tumbling to the ground. I give his fingers a squeeze, then guide his hand to my waist as we move through the crowd. His other hand meets my other hip, and my mind goes blank except for one single thought—what if he pulled me back against him? How would it feel to have his hips against me, his hands pressing into the soft flesh of my hips? A shiver runs through me; I hope he doesn’t notice.

We’re guided to a quiet corner of the second floor, where the music turns to low, groovy Muzak. Up here, the only light comes from votive candles in the center of each table, illuminating couples bent low toward each other, sharing plates of steaming gyoza and tonkatsu.

We drop into our chairs and the hostess leaves us alone.

“It’s no Ernie’s, but it’ll do,” I quip. It’s hard to read Marco’s face in such dim lighting. His expression is usually so clear, painted over his features in broad strokes. The man is mostly incapable of keeping a secret, immediately betrayed by the overactive muscles around his mouth.

Marco laughs, carefully unfolding his napkin. “You can take the girl out of Evergreen . . .”

“Should I order a Twisted Tea?”

“Absolutely. Assert your dominance.”

“Should I ask for a fork, too?”

He winces. “Eh, there’s such a thing as being too down to earth. Let’s start slow with the Twisted Tea.”

I’m failing terribly at keeping my cool. “Since when are you funny?”

Marco throws me a wink. “I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

I meet his eyes full-on for the first time since I walked in. There’s a fire behind his gaze. I think I may be making us both more nervous than we need to be, so I pivot. “Jen sent me a picture of a drawing Emmett did at school today—it’s us on the boat with his dolphin.”

“Really?” His eyes light up and he leans toward me. “Let me see.”

I slide my phone across the table to show him the picture Jen sent me, completely forgetting that the entire exchange culminated in me telling her about tonight, to which she replied: will you tell me if you bang??? pls nadia

“Damn, Jennifer.”

Heat rushes to my ears. Of course he’s snooping. “Can you not read my messages, please and thank you?”

“It was right there! Underneath the picture her kid drew.”

“No excuses.” I take my phone back and make a show of sliding it into my purse.

“Jen, Jen, Jen,” Marco tuts, flipping open his menu. “What are we going to do with you?”

We order potentially way too much food. Pork buns and pickled vegetables to start, chicken katsu with curry sauce, nigiri and sashimi. I ask Marco a million questions about his life, rapid-fire, between bites. He’s gracious with his personal deets, and in the absence of alcohol, carbohydrates relax us back into the slick, cool material of our chairs.

“Siblings?” I ask, biting into my fifth or fiftieth piece of yellowtail tuna sushi.

“An older half sister and a younger half brother,” he replies. We’re both middle children. Very interesting.

“Favorite Evergreen pizza?”

“Genie’s. Duh.” We agree that this is the only respectable answer.

“Biggest fear?” I pause and point my chopsticks at him. “But fun stuff only.”

He laughs, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cloth napkin. “Sure. Tropical bugs. How’s that for fun?”

“Worst sex of your life?” Then, I quickly add: “And I don’t count.”

Now Marco pauses, eyebrows tenting as his gaze drifts to the chandelier hanging over the center of the room. His fingers slide back and forth over the angle of his chin, and I try to not imagine what it would feel like if they carved that exact path over my waist. “Worst sex . . . ever? I guess when I got roped into a weird love triangle with an Instagram fitness model.” Then, for context, he adds: “She was like, twenty-five, which in retrospect was maybe too young for me.”

This one cuts weirdly close to the bone. I hate imagining his tan forearms flexing around some faceless woman. “Too nubile for you?” I tease. I hope you like stretch marks, I think. I can’t even imagine my nude body on display for a man who has almost exclusively dated models and actresses without nearly barfing up my gyoza.

He catches the edge in my voice and looks suddenly quite proud of himself. “Way too nubile. And too blond, yuck.”

“You know.” I set down my chopsticks and lean forward, narrowing my eyes at him. “I used to spend a lot of money on being a blond woman. Hours of my life were wasted in salon chairs scorching my scalp so I could have some of that fun.”

“You? Blond?” Marco feigned deep reverence. “Tell me more. I know you used to love to run—and you used to be blond. What about now?”

Now.

What do I like now? Who am I now? With our knees almost touching under the table, I can’t get out of answering this question. Not in this dress, not in high heels.

“Well,” I say slowly, searching my mind for even the most basic facts about myself. “I love a really strong cup of coffee. More than anything. If I had to pick between a last meal or a last cup of coffee, I’m going coffee, all the way. And I like to paint—I make all the signs for Soph’s stand. And cook. I don’t cook as much as I should but I think . . . I think I really love to cook.”

Without realizing it, I’ve delivered my mini monologue to the votive candle between us. When I lift my eyes to Marco, he’s watching me with widened eyes. “Underneath all that attitude . . .” He lifts his fingers and swipes them gently over my cheek, a movement so smooth and quick I wouldn’t have known it happened if I hadn’t been totally pulled in by his gravity. “You’re just a sweet little grandma.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, fuck you.”

Outside, after dinner, the night air feels like a cool rag over my flushed neck.

“We should have followed your rule,” I groan, pressing a hand to my stomach. “No page twos.”

“I don’t know.” Marco stretches like he’s just taken the best nap of his life, rubbing his stomach with both hands. “Page two was where we did some of our best work.”

“Mmmm,” I groan, leaning back against the building, actively fighting off the food coma. “I’m deeply regretting saying no to the green tea.”

“Come on.” He laughs, reaching for my hand. His fingers lace with mine. “Let’s walk it off. You can wait for a cab at my place.”

A cab at my place. What a gentleman.

It takes everything in me to not ask—is this a line? But realistically, if Marco had wanted to sleep with me, he might have tried before suggesting we split an aquarium’s worth of fish.

The night is aglow with streetlights trapped in fog. We turn a corner and somehow, we’ve slipped out of Chinatown and the crowds of twentysomethings and tourists fall away. We’re the only ones walking on a cobblestoned street under zigzagging fire escapes and electrical lines.

I let him lead the way, let his fingertips dance down my wrist until his fingers lace with mine. In heels, I’m almost as tall as Marco.

“I can’t believe you live in a neighborhood this glamorous,” I comment with widened eyes.

He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s no Evergreen.”

I let out a small laugh. “You read my mind.”

I try to keep a straight face as his fingers travel back up my wrist then migrate suddenly to the small of my back. I’m beginning to suspect Marco may be an ass man, given how frequently tonight I’ve felt his heavy gaze settling on that curve of my body. His fingers pulse for a moment on my hips and I feel a tidal wave of warmth strong enough to buckle my knees break loose from my stomach.

“Cross here,” he says. He’s just guiding me—devilishly. Marco’s building is a grand stone-facade high-rise. He greets the doorman with a quick dab. I want to analyze his face for micro-expressions—does Marco do this often? Did he do this yesterday? How many times has he brought home a woman in a skintight black dress after a fancy dinner?

But Marco’s walking too fast, the doorman’s totally unfazed. I can only wonder.

We step into the elevator and all around us are mirrors, reflecting the tiny space into infinity. My crisp profile, my short hair. The fabric of my dress, clinging to every curve and dimple of my body. His laconic, crooked smile and his heavy black waves that fall around his gaze. Marco shoves his hands into his pockets, but his eyes beckon me. Come here. No words, no fingertips. All it takes is a look.

The elevator glides upward without a sound, picking up speed with every floor we pass. His eyes travel downward, dripping over every inch of me, leaving a volcanic heat in their wake. My skin goose-bumps; my nipples harden.

“Come here,” he whispers, pulling a hand from his pocket and hooking a finger on the strap of my purse. With the gentlest tug, I fall forward toward him. I’m liquid.

We’re inches apart. He reaches for me, taking my hand in his. His lips graze my knuckles, the inside of my wrist. His mouth moves over my skin so gently I have to remind myself to keep my eyes open. Desire blossoms in my belly and I feel like an orange, peeled open, soft flesh pulled aside.

“This okay?” he asks, his voice a warm breath against my wrist.

I nod, taking another microscopic step closer to him.

Up close, Marco’s still boyish, even at thirty-three—even with the fine dusting of gray through his stubble. His brown eyes glow yellow under the light and his heavy brow softens. His other hand finds my waist and all the space is collapsing between us. His full lips part, like he’s going to say something.

The elevator dings.

Eleventh floor.

Too late.

“Wow.” I move slowly through Marco’s living room, dragging a hand over the long, suede back of his couch. “You own this place?”

“I bought it when I was twenty-two, immediately after season one.” Marco says this like it’s some sort of discredit to the fact that he owns property in Lower Manhattan. I can tell he’s vaguely self-conscious of his celebrity, but to be honest, I’d completely forgotten. Somewhere along the way he’d just turned into Marco, the filmy mug shot and the overly photoshopped promo photos of him in a cowboy hat gone from my memory.

He’s in the kitchen, divided from the living room by an enormous glossy island, making us both an espresso. The distance is sobering, and I’m desperately grabbing at conversation topics.

How could I let myself turn to goop at his feet in the elevator? I need to keep my wits about me. I need to stay vigilant.

Marco’s watching me, tongue running over his bottom lip, arms flexing as he leans back against the kitchen counter. He picks up a piece of mail and idly fiddles with it.

“But I thought you filmed in Los Angeles?”

“Yeah.” He snorts. “Idiotic. But I was positive we’d get canceled, and I missed the East Coast.”

“Did you want to get canceled?”

Marco ruffles slightly, like retrieving whatever memory that just dawned on him has caused a cellular-level cringe. “Not right away, but a season and a half in? It just seemed inevitable. The writing was bad, no one got along, the idea was stupid.”

“Did you like anything about the show?” I ask.

Marco smirks. “Misha Landon.” Of course. Misha played some sort of bombshell neighbor with a trite, mid-aughts take on gender roles. Girl Mechanic. Sexy Miss Monster Truck. Hot Plumberina.

“Of course you did.”

I’ve wandered over to a wall covered in black-and-white photographs, grainy and filled with a familiar warmth. An old man sleeping in a plastic chair somewhere in the Mediterranean next to an old man sleeping in a plastic chair somewhere on an American beach. A woman asleep on the subway, tepid sunshine casting her face in a milky, godly light.

“You asked,” Marco says, pulling my attention back to him. Another smirk as he presses another espresso shot into his fancy machine. “Don’t be jealous. She was the biggest asshole out of all of us.”

“I am not jealous. I was just hoping you’d say something like the experience or getting paid to make art.”

“Art? It was a show built entirely on a pun.” Marco rounds the island with our coffees in hand, socked feet padding softly on the parquet floors. He flicks his head in the direction of the couch—enormous and pure white, covered in a million pristine pillows. I’m both terrified I’ll spill coffee on it and dying to belly flop down. “If I asked you your favorite part of working with vegetables—”

“That’s not my career,” I interrupt quickly, defensive. “It’s just what I do.”

He raises an apologetic brow. “What’s your career, then?”

Caught. I walked right into that. And Marco knows it. He’s practically vibrating as he settles into a corner of the couch. I can see it in his eyes—finally got something out of her.

I kick off my heels and follow behind him. The dress I picked for tonight has become unbearably uncomfortable and the arches of my feet are killing me. I sink down into the couch like it’s a warm bath, letting out a groan of delight. “What a meal, am I right?”

Marco narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t think you can change the subject on me.”

“I worked in advertising, at an advertising agency, for years.” I tuck my feet underneath me and lean forward to take my espresso from him, but never quite manage to pick my cup up. Instead, I say mournfully, “I started off as a copywriter, like the lowest of the low, but over time, I worked my way up to being an assistant art director. I had a team of copywriters and . . . yeah, that’s all.”

“Damn. Really?” He sounds incredibly impressed. “That’s cool as hell.”

“It was. It was a lot of things. Fun, toxic, stupid. But—” I shrug. “I don’t know. Life’s different now.”

Marco drains his cup and sets it back down on the large glass coffee table in front of us. He’s working his lips between his teeth, gaze fixed on me again. “Was your favorite part making art?”

I tilt back my head and laugh. “Good one. Nothing about what I did was art. We had briefs and budgets and legal copy and timelines. And if you tried anything different, you’d piss off some girlboss and never hear the end of it.” I purposefully leave out that, frequently, that girlboss was me. I untuck my feet and extend my legs, flexing and stretching my toes. “This is a really nice couch.”

Marco slides toward me and then, as if he’s done it a thousand times, he pulls my feet into his lap. He possesses an otherworldly ability to move my body, to move my mind, to coax me out of myself. I don’t fight him at all, not even when he takes my foot in his hands. His touch turns my legs to jelly, warmth spreading upward from his fingers and down through my abdomen and thighs. We left something unfinished in the elevator. My coffee stays put on the coffee table, growing cold.

“Jesus, you’re tense.” His hands work up over my ankles, over my calves.

I suppress a shiver, sliding down lower, moving deeper into his touch. “Blame the patriarchy.”

Marco makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “You didn’t have to wear heels for me.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course I did. We went to a fancy restaurant. That’s what you do. What if someone had taken a picture of us?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, shining and playful, and gravely announces: “Never again.”

“Never again,” I agree.

We fall quiet while Marco’s hands steadily work at the tensed muscles of my calves. I want to ask him more questions—a million more questions—but I can’t think of anything right now. I don’t notice that my head has fallen backward or that I’m making a soft humming noise until his hands have made their way up behind my knees, my lower body entirely draped over his lap. His fingers still, and I lift my head back up, blinking my eyes open.

Marco’s watching me, cheeks flushed.

“What?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.

Then, as if we’re performing a practiced, choreographed dance, Marco leans in as I lift myself up. His fingers find my jaw and for a moment we linger, nose to nose.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, so quietly I may have only tasted his words. “Again.”

I can’t remember if I say yes or okay or if I slip my fingers into his hair and find his lips myself.

Then, every inch between us disappears, along with all my anxieties about time and place and who I am versus who he is. All of it falls away until the only thing I can focus on is the feeling of his mouth against mine, soft and persistent, the pressure of his body as we move against each other. Marco takes a firm hold on my lower back, coaxing me into his lap, his hands traveling the length of my spine in a feather-soft touch that has me melting. Electric desire moves between us, an infinite loop of half-rendered thoughts and feelings. I knew I wanted this—I just didn’t know how bad.

I shift to straddle Marco’s lap, his hands sliding back down to squeeze at the thickest, softest part of me, a growl lodging in his throat as I roll my hips against his, against the eager strain of him against his zipper. Then, with almost no effort, he shifts us, gently placing me onto my back so he’s over me, hands sliding up over my hips, my waist, my breasts.

Marco settles between my legs, easing me down further onto the couch, teeth nipping at my jawline, at the hollow base of my throat. I can’t keep track of where his hands have fallen, until they tease so very close to the tender edge of my inner thigh. As a moan slips from my mouth, his teeth snag my bottom lip. Blind desire eclipses everything, and I press into his denim-clad thighs rough against mine, bare and soft, as he brings his hips to meet mine again.

“Nadia,” he breathes, lips on my jaw.

We’re a cart careening down a hill; no brakes, no steering wheel, only momentum. I drag my hands down his chest, pulling the fabric of his shirt loose as I wrap my legs around his waist. Marco lets out another noise of encouragement against my neck, his erection pressing into the thin fabric of my underwear. My back arches instinctively as his breath hitches.

I press myself upward, trying to catch my breath. I’m losing my mind, unable to pull back and regain my usual control. I push my hands into his hair as his lips meet the exposed triangle of flesh between my breasts.

“How do I get this dress off you?” He pants against my skin, fingers skating along the elastic edge of my underwear.

“Like this.” I yank the material up over my thigh, then my hips, and finally over my head. I fall back down onto the couch, my breasts spilling sideways. Marco sits up and back on his heels, eyes dark with desire. He slides his hands from my knees up over my thighs, taking his time to feel the soft, downy flesh.

I hook my fingers into my underwear and push them down, kicking myself free.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Fuck.”

Like this—me naked and Marco fully clothed—there’s a power imbalance. Finally, he’s in my light.

He wants me. So badly. It’s written all over his face. And I want him, more than I would ever, ever admit. For months I’ve been dormant, asleep to myself. Maybe I’ve been asleep longer than I realized, because now, I feel like I’ve reentered my body and with every fresh connection of his mouth with my skin, I forget why I ever, ever wanted to be gone.

Wake me up, I think.

Suddenly, his lips are on the base of my throat. With a groan and a murmured encouragement, his tongue, tentative and slow, travels with restraint over my nipples, heavy-lidded eyes pinning me to the couch. He slides a hand up between my thighs, until I let out the tiniest gasp, head falling back.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, tone wry.

“What do you want me to do?” I pant. “Sing?”

He chuckles, eyelashes fluttering as his mouth descends, hands working, until they meet somewhere in the middle.

Just when I think I can’t take any more, Marco pulls away, sitting back on his thighs—chest rising and falling, dark hair mussed and falling forward. He smooths it away from his face, biceps flexing, strangled, underneath his shirt. He’s hard, the outline of his dick visible through the material of his pants.

“What . . . ” He pauses to catch his breath, tongue catching on the corner of his mouth as his chest rises and falls. “What are the ground rules for this?”

I pop up onto my elbows. “What?”

“This—for this. What are the rules?” He blinks, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “You can’t ghost me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure.” He brings his mouth to mine, snagging my bottom lip with his teeth. “You’re a fucking heartbreaker. I don’t trust you.”

“Are you kidding me? Vampire. Gone in thirty days.”

I regret those words as soon as they leave my lips. Marco cocks an eyebrow, mouth pulling upward into a smile. “Why? Do you want me longer?”

The question grates. Enough. I sit up and reach for his belt buckle, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

Marco rests his hand over mine, pressing my palm into his length. “Promise me you won’t sneak out in the middle of the night and delete my number.”

I bite back a groan at the feeling of him. “Promise me you aren’t just using me to fill some freaky void in your big, beautiful, empty life.”

“Specific,” he growls, unzipping his pants. Holy shit.

I sit up, pushing Marco back as he pulls his shirt over his head, unveiling the muscular planes of his chest. He’s built but soft, and I love the sight of his articulated, lived-in body immediately. His arms are thick and toned, his pecs muscular and broad. He looks like he could change a tire or smack an ass with authority. I want him to do both.

Without another thought, my mouth is on his, then his neck and his chest. His breathing is heavy and ragged as I push him back to the couch and straddle him. We break apart so he can work his boxers down over his thighs.

Then, he’s pressed against me, our bodies shaking with anticipation. Marco’s fingers dance down my stomach, his mouth quirking, eyes flashing with desire.

He pushes into me as I lower myself to meet him, as slowly as I can manage, a gasp snagging from me with every inch. He grips me tight, fingers digging into me harder and harder as he gives in and lets me take full control. We’re both a bundle of nerves, tightened and tightened again, so close to snapping.

Marco takes a palmful of my ass in each hand, head falling back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Give me a second,” he whispers against my damp skin, pressing his mouth into the base of my throat. I grip the couch behind him, thighs quivering. I need one, too.

We move from the couch to his bedroom upstairs, in an open loft over the kitchen, never breaking apart. His mouth and hands and eyes stay on me.

Marco’s bed is enormous. More pristine white, more luxe fabric. Eventually, we run out of condoms and move to the shower, where the steam cloaks us, obscuring our bodies. His chest is solid and warm, and I decide that pushing my fingers through the dark curly hair on his chest is my favorite sensation in the world. He holds me tight against him, then maneuvers us so my back is pressed against the freezing-cold tiles. He pins me there with his hungry, eager mouth.

Out of the shower, we collapse side by side on the bed. Marco’s hair ink black against the pillow, his lips swollen and red from the near-constant friction.

“You never answered my question,” he says, still trying to regain control of his breathing.

“Which one?”

“About your career—was your favorite part making art?”

I’m limp, exhausted, profoundly satisfied. My guard is down and for the first time in months, I feel like I’m one with my body. Is it possible Marco has melded me back together, cured me, penilely? Because right now, I’d tell him anything. I’d tell him about my diagnosis, my failing kidneys, my completely stalled out and empty life, my relationship with my sister that is alternately full of love and total shit. My cowardice in the face of my own mortality.

I’d like to start over, I could tell him. I could go completely insane and blurt out: I want to start over with you.

Instead, I let out another satisfied sigh, like a cat in the sun. I’m melting in the mattress, sleep coming for me quickly. Marco moves around me, tucking an arm under my head. I can feel the stubble of his beard against my shoulder and the soft dance of his fingers over my arm.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “It was.”