Chapter Twenty-seven
Laila
“Oh, Cole . . .” I stood in awe of the twinkly lighted wonder before me as I stepped out the glass door and onto the roof. “How did you . . . When did you do this?”
“Let’s just say I have very important friends with at least one very bored personal assistant who was willing to spend her day—” He tilted his head and shook his hands in front of him. “Actually, now that I hear it aloud, scratch that. Since I just invited you to dinner about ten minutes ago, definitely a little problematic that there were preparations taking place all day. So, um . . . it’s always like this?” The upturned hands accompanying the upturned lips and voice made me giggle.
“Nice save.” I nodded and patted him on the arm. “Yep. Super smooth. Totally not giving me new-undercover-cop-being-thrown-into-the-deep-end-on-his-first-day-on-the-job vibes.”
Wow. It really was breathtaking. We’d made it up to the roof once before, while we ate our breakfast on Tuesday morning, and even then, the view had captivated me. Much of the city was intentionally blocked by trees and shrubs and artistic gallery-worthy designs of . . . well, trees and shrubs, allowing for privacy and seclusion, right there in the wide-open spaces of the concrete jungle. But of course that only blocked out the buildings that were roughly the same height or shorter. Tribeca boasted and was surrounded by many, many buildings taller than seven stories high.
One World Trade, for one. It was as majestically displayed from Brynn and Seb’s home as Snowshoe Mountain, at just over twelve thousand feet in elevation, was displayed from the front porch of mine. But at night? At night my mountains were lost to me until the morning, while the wonders that surrounded me now, much like the city they inhabited, didn’t really seem to come alive until the sun went down.
The night air had a party atmosphere to it, thanks in part to the music coming from . . . somewhere. It could have been from a local party or a nearby restaurant, but wherever it was, it sounded like the sort of party Cole and I wouldn’t have hated going to. Ed Sheeran was blasting (as much as you ever really blasted Ed Sheeran) at that particular moment, so it didn’t exactly sound like a rager. It was the perfect soundtrack for the atmosphere.
And then there were the decorations that Cole seemed to have had more of a hand in. Edison bulbs were strung from side to side and back again across the expanse of the roof, creating the perfect subdued lighting with a gorgeous yellow tint. Not the sort of yellow tint that made you wonder if someone’s kidneys were failing. The kind that created that soft sepia hue that was so much more flattering than jaundice.
Brynn and Seb had more furniture on their roof than I had in my house. The space was clearly designed for entertaining, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine the fancy, famous people who would inhabit the space as guests of our fancy, famous friends. But tonight the spotlight—metaphorical and literal, in the form of fairy lights suspended as if by magic—was on a table set for two. Nearby stood a giant stainless steel grill that looked ready to be put to work.
My mouth began watering at the thought of eating some of Cole Kimball’s legendary BBQ, just as Cole had been drooling over the entire outdoor kitchen, with its rotisserie and smoker and wood-fired pizza oven and running water, since Tuesday morning. Outdoor heaters taller than either of us, with dancing flames creating almost a lava-lamp effect, surrounded the dining area, raising the temperature of the outside air enough even where we stood, still by the door, to chase away the chill. Although, who was I kidding? It wasn’t propane that was making every nerve ending in my body tingle with warmth.
He’d done it for me. Okay, he’d gotten Brynn to get Drea to do it. But . . . for me. This was planned before we nearly kissed that morning. Before we hatched the blind-date plan. Before he picked me up and gave me a rose and snuck appreciative glances at my legs all day—some of which had been done for comic effect, but also sincere ones he’d thought I hadn’t seen—and before our experiment of a day succeeded in, as far as I was concerned, the best ways possible. He’d done it for me.
And I was in love with him.
Not because he had treated me like a queen all day. Not even because he treated me like a queen most days. I was in love with him because this was who he was. I’d lived an entire life of all the good and all the bad with him, and even when he was feeling lost, and even when his heart was breaking, and whether he was treating me like a stranger or the person he knew better than anyone, this was who he was. He was wonderful and kind and caring and so selfless, and he had spent who knew how much time researching and mapping out movie filming locations to the point of knowing where he was going and leading me effortlessly through a city he didn’t know any better than I did, all while possessing basic navigational instincts that were far inferior to mine.
Didn’t that mean he was in love with me too? Not because he did that. Not exactly. But because . . . because . . . I don’t know. Because how would any other woman ever be able to live with him caring about me that much? There was no point trying to insist to myself any longer that when some other woman came along, I’d be fine. It was me, right? For him, it was always going to be me. Just like for me, it was always going to be him.
“Well, happy birthday.” He stepped toward the dining area, extending his arm to usher me forward. “I sure am glad I happened to have this all set up and ready to go. So, tell me . . . do you like steak?” He hurried over to the kitchen and began washing his hands. “You’re not a vegan or anything, are you?” he asked over his shoulder. “I’d say I’m a relatively humble guy overall, but there’s no point denying I grill a mean rib eye.”
The playful grin was still on his lips as he turned around, towel in hand, but it fell away in pieces, like the way I cracked an egg. I still hadn’t moved from the spot, having not followed his guidance to move farther in, and he hadn’t noticed until right then. It was also right then, I assumed, that he noticed I didn’t seem to be in the same playful spirit he was.
“Laila? You alright?”
I stepped toward him then. Slowly. One step. Another. One more. Did I dare take a fourth? Everything had changed and yet nothing had changed. At this point we could still wake up tomorrow morning and act like we were Bobby Ewing in the shower on Dallas. The entire season had been a dream. Or, more likely, we wouldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, but we would be just scared enough by our feelings to try to minimize everything. He still hadn’t touched me in any ways I hadn’t been touched by him before. It just felt a little different. The pacing. The lingering. The fire beneath the skin. And we still hadn’t said any new words, even if the words now possessed more complex layers.
“Will you do something for me?” I asked.
He twisted the towel between his hands, drying, and I watched his throat constrict, shadows of New York bouncing off him beneath the lights. “Who’s asking? My date or my best friend?”
“Does it matter?”
He swayed his head gently from side to side and then set the towel down on the countertop behind him. “Well, sure.”
“So what would you say if it’s your date asking?”
“I’d probably say I’d be happy to, if I at all can.”
Breath shuddered in my chest. “And if I’m asking as your best friend?”
Cole took a step forward. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, Laila Olivet.”
The force of his words—my words to him, less than a week ago—rushed at my senses, clearing away the muck and mire.
“Kiss me.”
The two syllables were barely out of my mouth and I had not yet had the opportunity to inhale after them before his hands were cupping either side of my face, his fingers were spreading out into my hair, and he was pulling me to him. My head tilted as my lips parted for breath in the instant before my eyes closed, and then opened again. I wanted to see him. I needed to see how he was looking at me. I needed to know that he was sure and that there would be no regrets. I needed to know, as he had said only hours earlier and yet somehow a lifetime ago, that this wouldn’t ruin us. I needed to know that we hadn’t spent the day so far detached from our reality that the gravity of the situation had momentarily escaped us.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. There wasn’t a sign that I knew to be on the lookout for. We’d made a lot of deals through the years, but an escape plan for an errant, ill-advised kiss when we were pretending to be on a blind date was not something we’d prepared for. But when I saw the familiar smile creases appear around the outer corners of his eyes in the instant before our lips touched, I knew, and my eyes fluttered shut. My arms dangled at my sides, lifeless and numb, as everything changed and we passed the point of no return.
His mouth teased me, brushing against my bottom lip and then disappearing . . . again . . . one more time . . . creating agony and ecstasy that I knew I’d never recover from. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and I could hardly feel them anyway, but when Cole lowered his fingers and brushed them gently down my neck, followed the outline of my shoulders and down my arms, still covered in his jacket, and then slipped his hands under the jacket and around my waist, it was the most natural thing I’d ever done to place my hands on his chest. My fingers, of their own free will and suddenly very much alive, inched their way up to his shoulders, fascinated by the feel of him.
And still his lips teased mine with care and consideration, as if trying to make up for so many years of ignoring this previously unexplored part of me. A rare aspect of me that wasn’t familiar to him. Again . . . torturous ecstasy. Exhilarating agony. I whimpered against his lips and dug my fingernails into his shoulders as a means of survival, and it suddenly seemed he had taken, in his view, an adequate amount of time introducing himself to and becoming acquainted with my lips. From that moment on, they were his.
His hands were in my hair again and I gasped—though I don’t think the gasp ever made it into the open air—as he conquered the last vestige of uncertainty between us. I slipped my arms up, bending my elbows on his shoulders and hooking them forward until my hands were in his hair, cupped up over his head, pulling him down. I needed more of him. I needed to make up for lost time and store up for the uncertain future, and I needed him to never stop kissing me. It was like riding a frantically spinning ride at a carnival. You feel the damage being done to your equilibrium, but as long as you’re spinning, you can ignore the effects you know are to come and just hang on for dear life and get lost in the explosion of your senses. It’s not until the ride stops that you’re unsure if you can still walk straight.
I needed him to never stop.