21. Slow Hands
Slow Hands
The air bites at my nose, crisp and clean in that way only autumn in New York can manage.
Central Park has thinned out—just joggers in thermals and tourists pretending it’s not too cold to enjoy it.
Leaves crunching under our boots as Riley loops her arm through mine, her coffee steaming like a tiny chimney between sips.
“It feels good to spend some time with you,” she says, tilting her face toward the sun like she’s posing for a photoshoot. “What’s Ava actually like? Is she really dating that football guy? Does her skin look airbrushed in real life, or is that just her filter?”
I snort. “She’s fine. Normal. Loves to party, kind of intense but super nice. Her skin does glow like she bathes in the blood of virgins, though.”
“At least you’re safe now,” Riley mutters. “You’ve been well and truly devirginized.”
We break out in hysterical laughter, the kind that makes your belly ache.
Behind us, I catch Luca watching Riley—eyes narrowed, as if she’s a walking question he hasn’t figured out yet. He doesn’t even flinch when she glances over her shoulder and sticks her tongue out at him.
We cut down toward the pond, the wind chasing us along the path. The water ripples with ducks, too stubborn to migrate, clustered in tight packs like they’re gossiping.
“Can we sit?” Riley asks, already flopping onto a cold bench. “My toes are colder than a witch’s tit.”
I sit beside her, still grinning, breath fogging in front of me in short bursts.
“Are you ready to talk to me about…” I jerk my head toward Luca, who’s standing staring away from us—no doubt keeping an eye out for any threats.
“What’s there to say?” she sighs, all dramatic deflation, like someone just told her the bar ran out of tequila.
“I take it the hostile takeover didn’t go to plan.”
“No,” she mutters, pouting now. “He gave me some speech about taking this—” she gestures between me and him “— seriously.”
“Babe.”
“I know.” She slumps against me like I’m furniture. “I didn’t even go full throttle. I was keeping it light. Flirty. Friendly. He just shot me down.”
I snort. Riley rarely hears no from men. She’s confident, magnetic, and has the kind of boldness that makes men trip over themselves for a chance with her. Luca’s rejection must’ve hit hard.
“Oh well,” she says, flicking her hair back like she’s brushing it off. “Plenty more blokes in the paddock.”
“You make it sound like you’re herding cattle.”
“Well, if the boot fits.”
We giggle and settle into each other.
“Worst comes to worst, I’ll just marry you.”
I scoff, throwing my head back. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all week.”
Though my mind goes back to Vegas with Broderick.
We sit in silence, staring out at the pond as it shimmers under the low sun, all glitter and gold. For once, I’m not backstage, mic’d up, or racing to the next interview. It’s quiet. Still.
My phone rings cutting through the serenity.
Mark.
I don’t move right away—just stare at the screen, the chill slipping beneath my coat collar and down my spine.
Riley leans in. “You okay?”
I nod, thumb hovering. “Yeah. Just...give me a sec.”
I tap accept. Pressing the cold phone to my ear. “Mark—hey.”
“You sitting down?”
“Yeah, why—”
“Good,” he cuts in, barely holding back. “I’ve got two words for you: Grammy. Nominations.”
“You’re serious?”
“Best New Artist. Song of the Year, Elena.” His voice jumps. “You did it—and that’s not all. They want you to perform, too.”
Riley lets out a squeal beside me, half-laughing, half-choking on her coffee.
I press a hand to my mouth, the bench not solid enough beneath me.
“I—what?”
“You earned this. It’s happening.” He barely pauses. “And since you’ll be in L.A. anyway…the Academy wants you to present Best Supporting Actor.”
That yanks me straight back to earth. “Wait. The Oscars?”
“Yes. Oscars. Capital O. Big stage. Hot room.”
I don’t say anything.
Mark sighs, already bracing. “You’re not going to like who’s nominated.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Alexander.”
Riley groans.
“What shall I say?” Mark adds quickly.
I look at Riley who shakes her head. On one hand this would be an incredible opportunity, on the other...it would mean seeing him again, in person. It’s been months and even longer once the Oscars roll around.
He’ll be a memory by then, I hope.
I stare out at the pond. The wind shifts, colder now, slicing across my cheek.
The ache hits fast and stupid, my chest twisting the way it always does when he’s near—or just out of reach.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Maybe it’s just the season. Or the exhaustion. Or the fact I haven’t seen Broderick in a few weeks. He hasn’t called in days. Caught up with work.
I sigh, “I’m in.”
“You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Mark says, voice softer now. “February’s going to be the biggest month of your career.”
Mark’s still talking—something about dress fittings and flight itineraries—but it all blends together.
News travels fast. In less than twenty-four hours, my phone is red-hot, buzzing nonstop—comments, tags, texts. People I haven’t heard from since high school suddenly remember I exist.
Some relatives in Manila I’ve never even met send a voice note I can’t understand—just my name over and over, what sounds like pots banging in the background as a group of them scream in excitement.
Riley collapses onto the couch. “Okay, I love you, but if one more person texts me to ask if it’s true, I’m gonna start saying no just to shit stir.”
I drop onto the rug, back pressed against the edge of the coffee table. My phone buzzing again. Eventually, I flip it over, screen-down, ignoring the noise.
Riley looks at me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
She waits.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I should be freaking out. In a good way.”
“You’re nominated for a Grammy. And presenting an Oscar,” she says, like I somehow forgot.
“Yeah.” I rub at my jaw. “It’s just...Alex.”
Riley groans, dragging a cushion over her face. “Ugh. Voldemort. Why does he always ruin everything?”
“He doesn’t ruin—” I stop. Catch the look she’s giving me. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”
I let my head fall back against the table. “I miss him. Which is insane. Right?”
She doesn’t answer right away. The couch creaks as she shifts.
“It’s not insane. You obviously still have feelings for him—that doesn’t just magically go away.”
That’s it, the truth I haven’t wanted to admit. Despite the months with Broderick, I still can’t help the lingering tether that ties me to Alex.
Will I ever be able to move on from him? I sigh.
“Also, you haven’t seen Broderick in, what—two weeks?” Riley adds.
“Almost.”
“Yeah. So maybe your brain’s just craving a warm body and picked the worst possible candidate out of sheer spite.”
I laugh, but it snags in my throat. She’s not wrong, and I hate it. It was agony, I was craving his touch. Phone sex and my vibrator just weren’t cutting it anymore.
My phone buzzes again. On instinct I tilt it up to check. Broderick.
I snatch it up and step into the kitchen, my heart spikes, too fast, too hard.
“Hey,” I answer.
“I leave the country for five minutes and you turn into a mega superstar, Songbird.”
His voice wraps around me—static and velvety.
“Can’t take my eyes off you for a second.” He chuckles.
A grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “It’s only two Grammy nominations.”
“Oh, only? I was expecting at least three. Honestly, kind of a letdown.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs, deep and warm. “Best New Artist and Song of the Year? That’s huge, El.”
I bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck. “I know. It’s...a lot.”
“I hope you cried a little,” he says. “Or screamed. Or threw up in a trash can—something dramatic and befitting the moment.”
“Riley screamed enough for both of us.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
I lean against the fridge, head pressing into the cold metal. It helps a little. “Where are you, anyway?”
“Still in Zurich. I fly back Friday, if all goes to plan.” He pauses. “Was kind of hoping you’d wait till I got home to achieve worldwide domination.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
“You miss me?”
The question drops like a stone in my chest.
I don’t answer right away—just stare at the dishwasher, watching the flashing light.
He waits.
“Maybe,” I say finally, quiet.
His voice softens. “Good.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward—just full.
“We’ll celebrate when I get back,” he says.
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Me worshipping at your feet. Celebrate you like the goddess that you are.”
“Worship at my feet? Sir, I am a respectable lady. No funny business.”
“Your track record would say otherwise.”
“I’m presenting at the Oscars, too,” I say, maybe too bright.
“No big deal,” he drawls. “Just casually skipping up a few notches on the fame ladder—I’m so proud of you, baby.”
His words caress at the old scars in my chest, opening up that door just a little wider, try as I might it’s starting to get harder to resist it.
An incredulous laugh escapes me. “They just needed someone to hand out statues.”
“Well, you’re used to holding heavy things in your hands.”
“Oh my God, you sound horny.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
My breath catches. Me too.
He laughs low, and I know he hears it.
“You gonna wear something ridiculous?” he asks.
“Define ridiculous.”
“Feathers. Leather. Or those heels you wore in my office that made me question my sanity.”
I laugh, relief slicing through me. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Text me options. I’ll pretend to be helpful. And by helpful, I mean assess which one’s easiest to get you out of.”
“Deal.”
“Now go enjoy your fifteen minutes.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure I’ve got at least twenty.”
We hang up, but I don’t move right away. Just stand in the kitchen, phone still in my hand, cheeks hot and stupid.
The dishwasher beeps. A horn blares outside. Everything feels too normal for a day like this.
“You done blushing?” Riley calls out.
I walk back into the living room and toss my phone onto the couch, still warm from the notifications.
She doesn’t even look up, wrist deep in a bag of chips. “Broderick’s got it bad for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t.”
“He does,” she says through a crunch.