Chapter 41
Cole
I’m thinking about the copper material imbuing process when I pick Lucy up from the airport. She looks relaxed—most likely from Dane’s date—and sun-kissed—most likely from Nico’s.
She stands at the edge of the terminal, holding her purse with both hands in front of her body. I saw the pictures from their time on the island, during which Lucy wore a white bikini and floral Dior dress, but now she’s back in New York City and wearing a thick wool coat.
Undoubtedly, the designer clothes, bag, and shoes are Dane’s doing, but she looks good in them.
I’ve never really cared about clothes, which drives Nico and Dane nuts.
They don’t understand why a man with so much money would choose to wear Marvel shirts and sweats from Target, jeans and a button-down with a simple jacket.
It’s what I’ve always known, what I grew up doing. Of course, I could hire some sort of stylist to remake me, but I like being me. That’s what the money really affords me, the chance to be myself.
And that—understanding the sweet freedom of being yourself—will give me the leg-up on the guys.
Dane took Lucy shopping and out to eat because it’s how he enjoys spending his time, his money.
Nico took her to the island and out on his boat because he can’t imagine a good date without sand between his toes.
But I’m not thinking about what I want. If this date was about me, it would be a trip to Comic Con or a science museum. Or, better yet, a whole day at home with Lucy, playing the new Resident Evil game together with a private chef there to whip up whatever snacks we want.
It was my first thought, but Claire’s voice in my head redirected me.
The date isn’t about me, as much as I’m sure Lucy would enjoy that. It would be another opportunity for her to know me, and what I want now is to have a better glimpse into her.
“Cole,” Lucy says, slipping into the passenger seat and shutting the door hurriedly behind her. Christmas is in just a few days, and while it’s been flurrying here and there, the snow hasn’t stuck.
“Lucy,” I return, cocking my head and smiling at her.
I don’t realize I’m doing it until she smiles back, leaning over the console and kissing me on the cheek.
It’s quick, and her lips are cool from being outside, but it feels like more.
The lingering press of her fingers on my shoulder travels through my ligaments, the sinew, imbuing me with a glimmering sense of warmth.
“I’ll be honest with you,” she says, arranging her coat around her legs as I pull away from the curb. “You’ve got some stiff competition.”
I glance at her as we turn out of the airport parking lot and toward our destination. A quick look at the clock tells me we’re still on pace to be on time. “You and I both know you’re never going to pick a clear winner.”
Lucy’s smile grows, “Oh, do we?”
Shrugging, I say, “Dane and Nico can’t handle losing.”
That makes her laugh, and she turns up the Christmas music on the radio as we cruise along the highway, heading toward the museum.
Nico, Dane, and I have been having meetings about her. It’s Dane’s doing, the methodical approach, but I don’t mind it. Lucy is, understandably, a little depressed about the fact that this will be her first round of holidays not seeing her family or being home.
When the topic of the dating competition arose, I could tell from the look on Dane’s face that it would be about more than a chance to show Nico up. It would be an opportunity to shower Lucy with attention, to distract her with trips, shopping, fun.
So, I’d decided to participate. Not because I have anything to prove, but because I’d do anything to make her feel better. Most of the time, she seems fine, but in the quiet, in-between moments, I catch the sadness on her face, evident even to me.
And I can’t stand the fact that I’m at least partially responsible for her feeling that way.
“The MOMA,” Lucy muses, as we pull up to the valet and I toss them the keys to my car.
Nothing as flashy as what Nico likes—all those sports cars—but a solid, comfortable luxury SUV.
Plenty of room and amenities, without being as opulent.
That’s one of the differences between Nico, Dane, and me—they grew up with money.
I did not, so it’s still weird to indulge in things that feel frivolous, like ultra-expensive cars.
Admittedly, I got inspiration from Dane for this date. He’d mentioned, before, about Lucy hiring an MFA consultant to help her with applications. I just acted on that plan for the date.
We walk into the Museum of Modern Art and find it completely vacant. Lucy’s shoes click and echo on the floor, and she darts me a dubious look, whispering, “Are they even open?”
At that moment, a woman bursts through a massive set of double-glass doors, smiling and hurrying toward us, her cardigan trailing behind her. “Cole Davenport! And you must be Lucy!”
“Yolanda,” I say, shaking her hand again. “Hope you’re doing well.”
“I am.” She turns to Lucy. “And so excited to meet you! Cole has said wonderful things!”
Lucy darts a glance at me, raising her eyebrow, but Yolanda makes it clear what the purpose of the visit is, “We’ll start with the tour, then I’ll take a look at your current portfolio. Cole already forwarded your statement of purpose; I’ll email my comments to you when we’re done.”
“Oh, that sounds great,” Lucy’s breathless now, the snark gone from her face. It’s so often she wears this expression, like she can’t believe good things are happening to her.
“I’ll take your coat,” I offer, and when she shrugs off the red duster, it reveals a wool skirt, turtleneck, and plaid sweater vest. The image of a girl on a museum tour.
Art has never really been my thing. I follow behind the women, watching as Lucy takes in the works, lingers and drinks in the paintings and sculptures and modern presentations like she can take a piece of them for herself.
Lucy enjoys the museum, and I enjoy Lucy.
It’s the best date I’ve ever been on.
“I want Yolanda to be my best friend,” Lucy squeals, hugging her materials to her chest as we pull away from the MOMA.
“Pretty sure she would take you up on that offer,” I laugh, steering the car in the direction of the airfield.
“Where are we going now?” Lucy asks, tapping my forearm. “Fancy dinner on a rooftop?”
I tilt my head at her, “I imagine Dane did that, right? And Nico surely cooked for you.”
Lucy’s smile is my answer. “So what’s for dinner? I’m dying to know.”
“If it’s okay with you,” I say, flipping on the turn signal, “I thought we could eat when we get to our next destination.”
She raises an eyebrow, “Next destination?”
Everything is supposed to be a surprise, but I can let her know this much, “Germany.”
“Germany,” she mutters, brow wrinkling cutely. Darting a look back at me, she asks, “What’s after that?”
I like this game, and I wonder if she can guess at the answer. “Paris, London, Venice—”
“Art museums,” she breathes, turning to me, her eyes wide. Apparently, she’s connected the trip to the MOMA with the remaining locations on our itinerary. “The National Gallery? Gamadegalerie? The Louvre?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise…”
Lucy squeals again, drops her folders and papers, and leans over the center console, wrapping her arms around me, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Not if you make us crash first,” I laugh, righting the car and pushing her away gently, settling my hand on the back of her neck. She’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“I don’t even care what we eat,” she bubbles, gathering up the papers again. “We could get fast food for all I care—”
I pull into the parking lot for the airfield and we step out. From the trunk, I retrieve her luggage, mine, and the cooler I packed.
“How about a picnic?” I ask, lifting it. “Something to tide us over on the plane.”
Lucy shakes her head, then tucks herself under my arm as we walk toward security. “I can’t believe this. It’s—it’s unreal.”
I kiss the top of her head.
Logically, I know about all the neural and hormonal processes for a feeling like this.
Dopamine for wanting, high cortisol for the panicking sensation, low serotonin for obsession.
Oxytocin, like what mothers and babies share for closeness, and vasopressin to transfer that short-term infatuation to long-term bonding.
They’re all knocking around in my brain and body right now. I’ve surely experienced those chemicals, in a non-romantic way, building the relationship between Cole and Dane over the years. And now here they are, repeating the process but romantically, with the miraculous woman under my arm.
Knowing the processes doesn’t make it feel any less miraculous.
The miracle of finally meeting someone—a woman, specifically, a romantic interest—whom I feel comfortable with. A woman to love, spend time with. Who understands the relationship between Dane, Nico, and me. Who wants to be a part of it, too. Who can be the centerpiece of this thing.
We board the plane, Lucy looking far more comfortable with the steps now than when I first met her. I spread out a blanket on the floor of the plane, set up the picnic, wait to pour the champagne until we’re in the air.
“This is wonderful,” she says, tucking her legs under herself and looking at me so fondly it makes my chest tight. “Thank you, Cole.”
I raise my glass to her, “Thank you, Lucy. And don’t worry—you can tell Nico and Dane it was awful.”
Lucy laughs, and I lean in to kiss her, and I realize I haven’t thought about the problem since the moment I picked her up from the airport. For hours, she’s been the only thing in my mind.
And it feels good.