Chapter 23 #2
I can’t look away from him. It’s a problem. I keep picturing his hands on my hips instead of on the podium, his voice in my ear instead of drifting through the speakers.
By Friday afternoon, the main conference is over, and the event shifts into “networking and team building mode,” which means several hours of structured “fun”.
The day flies by, which I’m grateful for because this has felt like an incredibly long week, no matter how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with James.
When we return to the hotel suite that afternoon, I’m ready to start packing up and relax in the room with James. Those plans come to a screeching halt when James tells me we have dinner reservations this evening.
“Dinner reservations?” I ask.
“At six. And if I recall, you have a teeny black dress I still haven’t seen.”
“Isn’t it kind of risky to go out to dinner when our coworkers are here and will probably be out on the town and could see us together?”
“We have a private table. Nobody will see us.”
“Oh…okay. I’ll just get ready then.”
I pull the silk dress from the closet, careful to keep it from slipping off the hanger. I giggle to myself thinking back to Mina bullying me into buying it.
When I slide it over my head, the silk ripples down my body, clinging in places I’m not sure I want to be clung to.
I study myself in the full-length mirror.
The slip dress is midnight black, barely skimming the knees, slim straps and a neckline cut deep enough to scandalize my mother.
Wearing this dress feels like an alter ego, and suddenly, I decide to forgo the boots and leather jacket altogether and opt for the strappy heels, wanting to look my best for James.
I touch up my hair and makeup, grab my purse, and head to the living room where James is waiting for me. When I enter, his eyes rake over me slow and deliberate.
“Holy shit,” he says flatly.
My reflex is to laugh, but he’s serious. His gaze is slow-burning, working up from ankle to collarbone and back, taking in every inch.
“Turn around.” His voice is raw, not quite a command.
But I obey, turning slowly, feeling the silk pull across my skin. I hear his intake of breath.
“Is it…too much?” I ask.
James shakes his head, but it’s a delayed response, like he had to drag himself back from imagining something else.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He closes the distance, slow at first, like he’s trying not to spook me, but then his hands are on my waist, spanning the curve and pulling me flush against him.
“If I didn’t want to take you on a proper date, I would tie you to the bed and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”
“Mmm, sounds good to me,” I murmur, letting myself sprawl against his chest, feeling the soft drag of the silk and the hard lines of his body.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me, open-mouthed and slow, fingers fanned at the base of my throat. His thumb grazes my pulse, and I feel the answering throb everywhere, more insistent with each second.
He lets out a soft, resigned sigh, then presses his forehead to mine.
“We should go, or we’ll be late.”
James is quiet, gazing out the window as we drive down Broadway. I look out too, at the neon signs lighting every inch of the street. It’s only a few blocks before it hits me. The cosmic joke I’ve been missing all week: Nash’s name is everywhere.
Bachelorette parties upon bachelorette parties wearing sashes that say “Nash Bash,” signs reading “NashVegas”. Everywhere I look, I see his name.
And it makes me think of him. How I’ve missed him this week. Something I’ve been too busy to even think about until now.
Our car comes to a stop and James gets out, rounding the back to open my door. I take his hand, and we quickly cross the street to the restaurant.
Inside is a combination of rustic and modern, with low lighting and sultry country music playing.
James gives the host his name, and we’re directed to a private room at the back of the restaurant.
The room is warm and shadowed, a single pendant lamp throwing a soft halo over our table.
“Wow. How’d you swing this?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised.
“The owner is a friend of mine.”
“The owner of Whiskey Hollow is a friend of yours? Colt Tucker? Country music singer and owner of this establishment? Is a friend of yours?”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
I stare at him dumbfounded, blinking. “How?”
“Colt and I met in college. We played on the football team together,” he explains as the waiter brings us two glasses of wine.
“Friends in high places, huh?”
“A few. What about your friends? Aside from Mina, obviously. I remember her well from the happy hour interrogation.”
The reminder of that night makes me laugh.
“It’s really just her. I’d say I have more acquaintances than friends,” I say, twirling my wineglass by the stem.
He narrows his eyes.
“Hard to make real friends in law school, you know? But Mina’s all I need. She actually forced me to buy this dress.”
“Remind me to thank her,” he says, letting his gaze slowly drift down to my cleavage and then back up to my eyes.
After the food arrives, we don’t talk much, stuffing our faces with elevated Southern cuisine.
When I finish eating, feeling too full to move, I sit back and just look at James.
It hits me that we go home tomorrow. Back to our regular lives where we’re not together and can’t be together. But this week with him felt like a glimpse into what life with him could be like.
And it felt good.
I realize I’m just staring at him, smiling dopily. I should say something, but all I can think is that I don’t want to ruin this night. I don’t want to ruin whatever this is.
His eyes flick up, catching me. Heat again, but softer this time. He cocks his head, studies me for a beat, then says, “You seem like you’re somewhere else.”
“I was just thinking,” I say, picking at the edge of my napkin.
“About?”
I shake my head, not quite ready to admit vulnerability here, in this perfect, suspended night that feels like it should last forever.
“About tomorrow,” I say finally, settling for the safe version. “It’ll be weird going back to the real world after…” I gesture vaguely, indicating the two of us, the table, the week that has been all hunger and heat and hotel room sex.
James looks down, a small smile twisting one corner of his mouth.
“I know. But we’ll go back, be professionals. You’ll pretend you don’t know about my tattoos, and I’ll pretend I don’t know how you sound when you come.”
The line is meant to amuse me, and it does.
But it also lands with a pang of something I can’t quite name.
A longing, maybe, or the slow slide of dread that comes with knowing something this good can’t possibly last. I’m not sure I even know what this is, but I don’t want it to end.
Maybe this week meant more to me than it did to him. I don’t know what to think anymore.
I chase the feeling away with another sip of wine.
The server appears to take our plates away and lets us know that Colt has comped our meal. James shakes his head as the server turns to leave and lays down a few bills, enough to cover what would have been the check and the tip for our server.
We step out into the night, the city bright even in the dark with music and neon. James hails a car with a brief flick of his hand, and the driver pulls up instantly, as if he’s been waiting for us.
The silence on the ride back is thick, not awkward but charged. Every passing moment is a reminder we’re returning to a room that belongs only to us for one more night.
When we arrive to the room, the suite is dark save for the few accent lights. James sets down his jacket, crosses to the windows, and stands there a minute.
I watch him, full of things I want to say and none of them feeling safe enough to say.
He turns, his eyes sweeping over me so slow it hurts. He lifts a hand, crooking a finger.
I go to him.
He folds me in, tugs the silk of my dress up an inch, then two, hands warm and steady. I feel the tremble in my own hands as I reach for his face, kissing him deeply, as if that could make the night last longer.
There is no hurry this time, just the low, warm certainty of his body against mine, the way he holds my face and looks at me like I’m the only thing in existence.
He walks us to the bedroom without ever breaking the kiss, backs me down onto the bed and settles over me, propping himself on his elbows so he can study my face.
“You’re really something,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “You know that?”
“I’m just a girl in a dress,” I whisper, and he smiles, but it’s sad, almost sweet.
He peels the dress from my shoulders slowly, as if it’s something precious. When I’m bare, he traces me with his hands like he’s memorizing every curve.
He makes love to me that night. It’s the only way to describe the way he touches me, the way his lips find every hollow, the way he never once looks away from my face.
When it’s over, he pulls me under the covers and wraps me up, tucking my body against his with a possessiveness that feels more like comfort than conquest.
We drift in and out of sleep, waking sometimes to the noise of the city or to each other’s touch, neither of us willing to let go.
I wake up before him, just barely before sunrise. His arm is heavy over my waist, his breath soft and even. I watch him, the way sleep smooths the hard edge from his jaw, the way one hand twitches slightly, as if chasing after something in a dream.
For a long time, I stay still, greedy for the weight and warmth of him, for the illusion that this could last longer than one perfect week.
Eventually, James shifts awake. His hand flexes on my waist, the tattooed lines on his forearm catching the pearled blue light.
“Staring at me?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
“Trying to memorize you like this,” I admit.
He cracks an eye open, then closes it again, dragging me closer until my skin is flush to his.
“You want coffee?” he offers after a minute.
“Do you have to move to get it?”
“Not if you don’t want me to,” he replies, and we lay there, suspended outside of time, until we absolutely cannot anymore.
Packing is painful.
We alternate showers, folding the week away into zipped suitcases, both pretending not to notice how careful we’ve become in navigating the shared space. But really, we are just avoiding the part where one of us has to say, “I’ll see you at work.”
As we gather the last of our things, James pulls me toward him, his hand at the back of my neck. He kisses me once slowly, almost mournfully, then releases me with a final squeeze.
“Ready?” he asks, and neither of us says what we’re actually ready for.
I nod, and we head for the airport to catch our flight back to reality.