15
WE MIGHT AS WELL BE AT A MOVIE PREMIERE. MY NERVES BEGIN TO STIR AS WE pull up to the building. There’s a photo op station and dozens of paparazzi already lined up, down the block. There are even a few journalists holding oversized microphones.
“Is there always this much press at auctions?” I ask, wondering if it’s too late to turn the car around.
It is. Parker’s already out. He’s reaching for me. “No. We got lucky. There’s a rare pink diamond for sale, but the main attraction is a necklace that has the biggest diamond ever discovered. All the heads of jewelry companies are going to fight over it.” He nods toward the growing cluster of cameras, all still pointed in the opposite direction. “They’re here to see which one wins.”
“Ah,” I say. My knowledge of pink diamonds comes exclusively from the Pink Panther movie with Beyoncé.
I hadn’t known what to wear, but, mercifully, there was a dress waiting on the hallway couch again. A simple, strapless dark blue dress with matching heels.
We head to a side door, circumventing all the press. “There will be photos afterward,” Parker says in my ear, tracking my view. Great, I think, dread already sinking through my bones.
This is what I signed up for, though. I knew the conditions from the beginning. And, as much as I hate admitting it, our agreement has made me far more productive. I’m already well into the second act of my screenplay.
A few pictures are a small price to pay.
An associate from Christie’s greets us. “Mr. Warren,” the man says, shaking his hand. Parker then turns to me.
“My girlfriend, Ms. Leon.”
The man shakes my hand next. He smiles. “Elle. Pleasure to meet you. Would you both like a final preview of the pieces?”
Parker nods and takes my hand in his. I look around for cameras, but there aren’t any inside. The message is clear, however. Out in public, I am Parker Warren’s girlfriend, whether we can see the press or not.
All the jewels are set up behind a sheet of glass, laid out like a feast. Diamonds, it turns out, can come in a variety of shades and shapes. They remind me of ripe fruits. I see blue, yellow, green, even orange.
There are also pieces made of other precious stones. Some are more beautiful than others. Behind a strangely mushroom-resembling bracelet is a pair of teardrop ruby earrings. I had some just like them, from a play set, made of plastic. My mom used to clip them onto my ears, and we would walk on our tiptoes around the house, pretending we were fancy, while she was pregnant with Cali.
Normally, she was serious. Firm. She locked herself like a prison, like it could keep the hurt from spilling out. Like being strong meant being unfeeling. Like being smart meant being alone.
It was one of the only times I remember her throwing her head back and laughing. As if she had forgotten, for just a moment, that life didn’t always have to be so heavy.
I smile, remembering. My fingers catch against my necklace. It’s not worth anything, especially compared with any of the stones behind this glass, but it means everything to me.
What would she think of me, here, with a tech billionaire? About to parade myself in front of cameras?
I wonder if she would understand, given the circumstances. If she wouldn’t mind, as long as it was all pretend.
“And, of course, the pièce de résistance,” the man says, pointing toward the only necklace that is encased in another layer of glass. “Winston, De Beers, and Tiffany all want it.”
I can see why. The diamond is shockingly large, even from far away. It’s like a piece of art.
We get ushered into a room full of chairs and led to one of the front rows. Parker is handed a paddle.
The auction begins.
Parker doesn’t seem too interested in anything. Most of the time we just sit there, bored, and I try not to flush when he starts to absentmindedly trace shapes on the top of my hand. Then the shapes start to turn into letters. He’s writing me notes.
Help, one reads.
I shoot him a look. He’s still looking straight ahead, expressionless.
Boring, another says.
I start to trace my own message across his ridiculously large hand. Your fault, it says.
Luckily, there’s supposed to be a break after this piece. I look at the clock, only to see that strange mushroom bracelet fill the screen.
The bid starts at a hundred thousand, a startling amount for something so ugly. I almost laugh.
Parker raises his paddle.
I glance at him, perplexed, but he doesn’t look my way.
Someone else bids one fifty.
He bids one seventy-five.
Someone bids two hundred.
Parker looks annoyed. “Three hundred thousand,” he says, and some people behind him gasp. There’s no way that bracelet is worth that much. I wonder what in the world he’s going to do with it. Maybe it’s a gift for his mom? It seems like something she might like . . .
The gavel comes down, and the item has been sold. Parker puts his arm around my shoulders, and I try not to tense. I know what we’re doing. We’re pretending. I can feel the curious glances at our backs. Still, the stutter in my chest feels very real.
When we walk out of the room, I’m grateful. It felt too full in there, like all the air was slowly being sucked out. I don’t know how I’m going to sit in there for the remainder of the auction.
People try to talk to him, to congratulate him, but when we finally end up in a quiet corner, I frown at him. “Why did you want that bracelet so badly?”
Parker’s answer is immediate. “It made you smile.”
I blink, not sure if I’m more shocked at the fact that he just spent three hundred thousand dollars on something that made me smile . . . or the fact that I don’t remember smiling at it at all.
Then it hits me. “Parker,” I say very carefully, “I was smiling at the earrings behind it.”
“Fuck,” he says, and turns around.
Just like that, I’m alone. And more than a little confused. I’m about to pull my phone out of my purse when someone comes up to me. Her blond hair is braided into a crown against her head.
Carissa, from the dinner. Great. This time, at least, she’s wearing a dress that obeys the laws of physics. “I have to admit,” she says, “I didn’t expect this to be anything serious.”
I frown. “The auction?”
She gives me a scathing look. “No. You and Parker.”
Oh. Well, it’s not , I want to tell her. But I’m not supposed to. And, come to think about it, I don’t really like what she’s implying. “And why wouldn’t it be serious?”
Carissa smirks as she looks down at me. She’s wearing heels far taller than mine. “Everyone wants him. He has his pick of the city. I’m just surprised he picked you.”
Anger is building behind my ribs. I might be a hermit and not the best at having friends and might intake an alarming amount of caffeine daily but I know my own worth as a person. I keep my mouth shut, knowing this is what she likely wants, to get a rise out of me.
In response to my silence, she says, “Well. Perhaps it isn’t serious after all. Summer flings happen all the time, of course.”
I smile. “Better luck next summer, I guess.”
She gives me a grating look as she walks away.
Parker has returned. Carissa tries to talk to him, but he strides past her as if he doesn’t even notice her. No. His eyes are on me.
“The earrings are in the next lot,” he says.
“Parker,” I say very clearly, “I don’t want the earrings. Please, don’t buy me anything. Give your mom the bracelet. I’m sure she’ll love it.” I hope he doesn’t think I mean it’s because she has awful taste. “Moms—they love bracelets, I mean,” I say, clarifying. “My mom loved them, at least, and—”
His hand is steady on my back. He looks amused. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re right. My mom will love it.”
I nod. Good.
We’re not actually dating. A real gift, because I smiled at it, is well beyond the scope of our agreement.
Is it all for show? Is Parker going to tell the reporters he bought the bracelet for me? It’s the first time we’re in a large crowd, acting like we’re together. I’m not used to this—my pulse is racing every time he gets close to me, my body doesn’t understand that this is all fake.
Suddenly, I need some distance. Just for a little bit, to recalibrate.
There’s a sign for the preview of another auction, coming up next month, in the next room. It’s featuring impressionist paintings. That was my favorite part of art history. “Do you mind if I sit this one out? I want to see the preview.”
I wonder if he’ll tell me this isn’t part of the plan.
He doesn’t. “Of course,” he says, no hint of annoyance in his expression.
Conversations are happening around us, small groups forming, speaking about the pieces that were snatched up and those yet to be auctioned off. Still, they seem fixated on us. On Parker’s hand along the bottom of my spine. He reaches down and lightly presses his lips against my cheek. It’s just a whisper of a kiss, but then he’s gone, and his heat has somehow been left behind, and it’s falling through me.
Breathless, I walk into the preview.
Calm down, I tell myself. It’s all for show.
I try to distract myself by carefully studying the paintings. Some of the artists are familiar. The rest, I google.
The last one, carefully positioned behind glass and a warning sign in several different languages, is a Monet. A woman in an elaborate hat is sitting among long grass and flowers, reading a book. A parasol is upturned behind her. She’s lost in the words, in another world. Part of me wants to be there, like her, buried in daffodils.
I remember sitting in front of the television, so close my nose almost brushed the screen. It’s like you want to crawl inside the movie, my mom would say, amused.
She got me a library card, but books never had the same escape. It wasn’t until I found out you could borrow movies there that I enjoyed it. Every week, something new to watch. Another life to get lost in, if only for a couple of hours.
When I’ve seen all the pieces, I wait on a bench and scroll through my phone, then put it away. I have a sudden, strange, and concerning urge to talk to Parker. To have his messages traced on my hand. To look at him and have an understanding pass between us. I realize, in that moment, that we don’t even have each other’s numbers. Texting isn’t necessary when we live next door to each other.
I need to get it together.
It’s another hour before the doors burst open again, and I immediately hear the excitement. The auction is over. People are loudly discussing it, the pieces, the ridiculous prices. Fifty million dollars. One of the diamond companies bought that necklace for fifty million dollars .
I stand, and Parker finds me immediately. With a simple hand against my back, he leads us toward the double doors, where I can see flashes of cameras and commotion. We linger at the side.
It’s time. This is what we came for.
My chest feels like it’s been overtaken by the bundle of balloons from Up . My throat is tight.
No one has ever paid much attention to me. That’s on purpose. I don’t like the attention. I’ve lived my life exclusively in the shadows, in anonymity.
Now, that’s about to end. At least for Elle Leon, the person. Not me, the screenwriter. I frown, wondering when I started to give my profession most of the attention.
Who is Elle Leon? I find I barely know. I’m better at writing everyone else’s story than I am my own.
“Elle.” I look up to see Parker’s face, clear of any nerves or uncertainty. “We don’t have to do this. We can leave out the back.”
“But our deal,” I say, my voice thin. This is why I’m at this auction. Because—if it’s not part of our agreement—then what am I doing here with him?
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Fuck the deal. I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to.”
I almost take him up on it. I almost escape out the side door from which we came.
But even though I believe Parker would continue our deal, that wouldn’t be fair. We made a promise. And I don’t intend on being the only person getting something out of this agreement.
Besides, he needs this press to outweigh the headlines about the trouble with the acquisition. If this helps him . . .
“I want to do it.”
Parker studies me for a few moments. Then he nods.
Security guards are walking toward the doors, in the direction of the paparazzi. They have a box between them. I can only guess what’s inside: the star of the show.
I frown, watching the chatter intensify. I start to doubt Parker’s plan.
“Wait. No one’s even going to be looking at us. They’re all going to be looking at the fifty-million-dollar necklace.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be wearing it,” Parker says, as the security team stops right beside us. Before I can react, the box is clicked open. He doesn’t waste a moment before clasping it against my neck.
“I—I can’t wear this,” I tell Parker, eyes wide.
“Why not?”
I motion wildly. “This belongs in a museum! Or on a statue! Or behind a glass box!”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It belongs to me.”
His finger runs down the chain, dragging against my bare skin, all the way to the stone, and I shiver.
“It belongs on someone who can outshine it.” He lightly tugs the diamond. “It belongs on you.”
Parker turns us toward the doors.
Before I can even process the situation, we’re led through them, and I’m nearly blinded by the cameras.
Lights, everywhere, staining my vision, stars bursting then fading, only to be replaced, an endless galaxy. The roar of excitement sounds like a storm. The press is loving this. We’re led in front of the photographers. They start yelling at us.
“Look this way!”
“Right here!”
“No, over here!”
“Let’s see a kiss!”
“Move your hair!”
“Who are you?”
I blink and can barely see, my vision is all flash, all I hear is a dozen increasingly urgent orders from every direction. My heart is beating way too fast, my shoulders are hitching up, this dress is suddenly too tight and—
Parker’s hand flexes on my waist. He’s like an anchor in the chaos. I look up and, through flashes, can see him staring down at me. Green. A peaceful color, I think. The shade of the forests I used to hike through with my mother, to find the redwoods, during our brief stint living in Northern California. She loved nature as much as I do. More, even.
I remember his fear at the Summit. I remember telling him, Don’t look down. Look at me.
I can almost hear him saying the same thing to me in response to my panic.
Don’t look at them. Look at me.
I do. The world dims. It’s just us, staring at each other. Helping each other through a tough moment. Communicating in this wordless way, a language we’ve developed through a mosaic of a hundred small moments. One I wasn’t even aware I was learning.
I take a shaking breath that has nothing to do with the photographers, but Parker seems to sense my stress and says, “That’s enough,” before leading us away, ignoring all the yells for interviews and one more pose!
“Elle, are you okay?”
We’re in a hallway. I’m blinking too many times, hoping it will do something to melt the stars from my vision. I nod. “Yeah. I’m just trying to see clearly again.”
His thumb rubs gentle circles against the bottom of my spine, as he leads me down the corridor.
He’s good at this, I think, as he looks over at me . . . as he looks at me like I’m more important than the two-hundred-carat diamond resting on my chest.
Suddenly, the strapless dress makes sense.
“You were planning this,” I tell him, voice quiet, as we walk through a room of press, filled with publicists, Christie’s associates, and security. Carissa is there, with another group of socialites, glaring at me. We stride right past all of them, despite rising protests.
A corner of his lip raises. “Of course I did,” he says. “I don’t make fifty-million-dollar spur-of-the-moment decisions.”
I almost choke, remembering the price. The circles along my spine get bigger. “Why? Just for this? Just to make a statement?”
He lifts a shoulder. “My financial advisers have been telling me to diversify my portfolio. I just did.”
I frown. “Aren’t diamonds, like, terrible investments?”
“Not when they hold records.”
I shake my head.
He closes the door behind us, and I look around, relieved to find us alone. There’s just a single couch inside.
Once I sit, the full weight of what just happened sinks in. My mom’s necklace. This one is on top of it. As if it’s nothing, as if it’s meaningless, as if it can just be replaced, because it isn’t worth tens of millions of dollars.
What would she say, if she were alive, and saw me pictured next to Parker Warren? Wearing a necklace like this, like some sort of trophy?
“Take it off,” I say, sharper than I meant to.
“If that’s what you want.” Parker casually unclasps it, then opens the door. Hands the necklace back to the guards. Closes it again.
I shake my head, breathless. I’m relieved to have it off me. My hand reaches up to my mom’s necklace. I roll the charm between my fingers, like it can remind me of who I am, who my mom raised. “This is why I could never be with someone like you.”
He was reaching toward me, as if to tuck a loose strand behind my ear, but he stops dead. “Someone like me?”
“Someone with so much money.”
His arm is now firmly at his side. “Why is that, exactly?”
I sit back against the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted. Drained. “My screenwriting fee is exorbitant. It took years for me to get there. But I would have to write, like, a hundred movies to buy that necklace, before taxes, with my every last dollar.” I shake my head. “It just . . . my work wouldn’t matter anymore. Why would it? It would be like a drop in the bucket.”
Parker looks more wounded than I expected. Any softness in his expression has sharpened again. “You write movies just for the money?”
I’m oddly defensive. “No. Of course not.”
“Then why would it matter?”
He wouldn’t understand. I’m not going to explain it to him. “It just would.”
Parker smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. “Then it’s a good thing that this is all pretend.” He reaches into his pocket and drops a pouch into my lap. “For the pictures,” he says, before going into the other room. I guess he changed his mind about talking to the press.
I open the pouch. Turn it over.
And the ruby earrings drop into my lap.
THE CAR RIDE BACK IS LONG AND AWKWARD. WE’RE STUCK IN TRAFFIC. The Escalade doesn’t move for several minutes. Fifth Avenue might as well have become a drive-in movie theater, like the one my mom took us to once, on the first birthday my dad didn’t bother showing up for.
It closed down soon afterward, but there were free movies at the park every day of the summer, and we would go to every single one. We’d bring blankets, and popcorn my mom made on the stove, and chewy candy, and I would stare up at the screen, fascinated.
After one night, my mom noticed I was quiet on the ride home. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I didn’t like the way the movie ended. It was stupid.”
She just laughed. “You think you could write it better?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yeah. I think I could.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Then do it.”
Then do it. That was her phrase. Whenever I complained about something, whenever I wanted something, it was always Then do it . It used to annoy me as a child, but I came to appreciate it. It meant action—not just thinking, not just wishing, not just dreaming, but doing .
That night, I wrote a new ending for the movie on a piece of printer paper. I showed it to my mom. She read it, folded it into a square, put it in her pocket, and said, “Good. Why don’t you do it again?”
“Again?”
She shrugged. “Maybe it will be even better.”
That, again, was very annoying . Scowling, I tried to write the same thing by memory, but I couldn’t. I got most of it right, but, after she handed the other one back, I realized, begrudgingly, that the second one was better. So, I wrote a third one. Then a fourth. The ending kept getting better and better. It would be a while after that until I even thought about writing movies again, but that lesson never left me.
A honk brings me back to the car. We’ve moved exactly half a block in the last ten minutes.
Pedicabs wrapped in lights and blasting radio songs zip by. I’m almost tempted to throw myself into one and pay basically a month’s rent to get back to the apartment, just so I don’t have to be next to Parker Warren for another second. I haven’t thought about my mom this much in a while, and guilt is starting to gnaw at me, knowing she wouldn’t approve, knowing she would be disappointed.
With a look to make sure there aren’t any bicyclists, I wrench the car door open.
I can hear Parker turn immediately. “Elle, what—”
I slam the door before I can hear any more.
Yes, I’m in heels that have already imprinted themselves on me in some horrible blister anklet. Yes, there are ruby earrings in my purse probably worth more than a sports car. Yes, I can see the dark gray clouds swirling above, as if my mood has decided to synchronize with the weather.
None of it matters.
I’m not even a step onto the sidewalk when I hear another door slam closed. Then I feel a presence at my side.
“Get back in the car, Parker,” I say, my voice withering.
“Not unless you do.”
My feet are killing me, but the strides I’m making in these heels are impressive. “A decent chunk of your net worth is in the trunk. Wouldn’t want to lose it.”
There is a security vehicle behind it, provided by the auction house. They’re probably wondering what the buyer of a fifty-million-dollar necklace is doing, abandoning it so casually.
“Not even one percent, Elle,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Wow. So impressive. Are you sure there’s even room for me in the car, with you and your ego inside?”
Parker lets out a startled laugh. I don’t even look up at him.
“Look,” I say, jogging to cross the next intersection in time. The clouds above have gotten increasingly darker. “Our appearance ended a few blocks ago. I’m walking. You’re free to take a phone call or do whatever important business stuff you need to—back in the car.”
A minute later, he’s still by my side. Whatever. If he wants to get soaked on his way home, that’s his own business.
We walk the next five blocks in silence. My eyes keep darting up past the skyscrapers, wondering if luck might actually take pity on me and let me get home dry. It’s like we’re traveling against a current, a sea full of people wearing backpacks on their fronts and carrying an array of colorful, logo-covered shopping bags. Who knew there were so many Lego stores in the city?
A rumble of thunder makes me jump as we wait for the next light to turn.
“Scared of the rain, Belle?”
I shoot him a glare. “You really think I would shorten my name by a single letter?”
He shrugs a shoulder.
The light changes, and I sprint to the other side. I’m walking as fast as I can in these heels, and Parker looks like he’s moving in slow motion next to me, one of his steps is like three of mine.
Even with the impending rain, Fifth Avenue is full of tourists going in and out of stores that act more as giant billboards.
“You know, this wouldn’t be a problem if we stayed in the car,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I hate traffic,” I say, nearly tripping when my heel gets stuck in a grate. I wrench it out. “I hate this city, ” I say, cursing under my breath.
“Really? Why?”
I don’t know why he’s still talking to me. I don’t know why he’s still here. The auction is over. He got the press he wanted. The words rush out of me, and my eyes are prickling, remembering the worst years of my life, going back and forth between California and New York, making decisions I would soon regret, even though I thought I was doing the right thing for my mom. “Because it’s heavy with memories—bad ones. The city is practically painted with them.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this, something true, when he said it himself—this was just pretend. Especially when one of my last bad memories in this city involved him .
Parker just looks at me. “Then paint over them,” he says. “Make it new.”
If only it were that easy.
There’s another rumbling of thunder. I start basically half running, my feet screaming in protest. I’m going to have to soak them in hot water when I get home. I keep going, picturing the nice steam shower that Cali had installed.
Just ten blocks away. Less than ten minutes, at this pace.
I almost convince myself I’ll make it.
Then, the sky breaks open. It’s not a subtle, ombré type of rain. No, it comes down in thick sheets, like the clouds have been building up their arsenal for the most effective attack.
I’m drenched in a moment, gasping, and then Parker is at my side, curling his arm around my waist, pulling me from the curb. A moment later, water splashes the place I just vacated.
Still, I shove myself away from him.
He’s dripping wet. Rain is clinging to his eyelashes. His white shirt is stuck against his torso, as if his abs have suddenly gone on exhibition.
“Your suit is ruined,” I say over the roar of the rain.
“Do you really think I care about my suit?” he yells back. We race across the street, beneath some scaffolding. Parker makes to stand there, like we’re going to wait out the rain, but I just want to get home. We’re so close.
“Yes,” I hiss, wondering if he can even hear me. “All you care about is your money and your company.”
He looks over at me. “Is that really what you think?”
Of course that’s what I think, I say to myself, remembering that night in the stairwell, the one he so clearly doesn’t. Anger fills me, flamed by the thunder above. I dart back into the rain to cross the next street. Then another.
“You think I’m some sort of villain, don’t you?” he says, eyes flashing with intensity, mirroring the lightning that cuts the sky in half behind him. “That’s my trope, right? The heartless CEO who could never actually care about anything other than my business?”
Yes. I thought that two years ago, and I’ve read almost every article and interview since, all cementing the same thing I thought in that stairwell. He’ll do anything to make sure the acquisition goes through, even pretending to be in a relationship. And I can’t even complain, because I’m the one who agreed to it.
When we verge off onto our side street and into the building, relief is dripping through me more than the puddle I’m making across the lobby. I race into the elevator, Parker at my back. We ran the last few blocks. Our chests are both heaving. I stare at him through my wet curtain of hair, only to find his eyes burning into mine.
We get to our floor, and I dart away, only stopping when he says, “You’re wrong.”
“What?”
He steps toward me until my back hits the wall. He’s so close, droplets from his hair are falling against my forehead. “You said the only thing I care about is money and my company. You’re wrong.”
Something within me heats at his proximity. At the way his wet suit is pressed against his body. At the fact that he’s staring at the raindrops dripping down my neck, my chest, and disappearing into my dress.
No. He doesn’t get to stand there and pretend he cares about anything else, when his priorities were clear as day when we first met. Shame had kept me silent before, but now all my anger and bitterness come rising to the surface.
I lift my chin and look right into his eyes as I say what I’ve been wanting to since the day we both pressed the same button in the elevator: “We’ve met before. And you were an asshole.”
He just blinks.
“You thought . . . you thought I was the complete opposite of who I am, you judged me . . .” For some reason, I’m flustered, I’m breathing too hard, my face feels flushed.
He’s standing there, so close, watching me, his expression revealing nothing.
I throw my hands up. “And the worst part is you don’t even remember —”
“I remember you, Elle,” he says.
My thoughts stop in their tracks. The world seems to still. “What?”
His head tilts to the side, wet hair curling around his ears. “Did you really think I wouldn’t remember you?” He leans closer, until he’s practically pressed into me. “Did you really think I would forget a night like that?”
Night like that. Please. “It was five minutes.”
“I was trying to gather the courage to talk to you for far longer.”
He had been . . . watching me? He’d wanted to talk to me?
No. He’s lying.
“Prove it,” I say. “Where did we meet?”
“The Next Big Exits party, two years ago, at a nightclub. You practically dragged me into a stairwell with you.”
“ I did not, ” I scoff, and a whisper of humor dances in his eyes.
“You’re right. I went very willingly,” he says. He lifts his hand, and his knuckles brush away the raindrops on my face, then slide down my neck. I let him. “I would have gone on my knees to get you to come home with me that night.”
“Instead, you just offered payment,” I say bitterly.
He frowns. “I didn’t—”
“You thought I was a gold digger .” I shake my head. “I can’t get past that.”
“Sweetheart,” he says bitterly, “you judged me just as much as I judged you.”
“I did not,” I say with all the conviction in the world.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You thought I was a bouncer. You judged me because of my looks, the same way I judged you.” I say nothing. “Would you have believed I was the founder of a big tech company?”
No. The answer, if I dig down deep, is no. Of course not. I thought he was a model, not a former computer science major from Stanford.
He’s right. I did the same thing to him that he did to me. Almost. I’m not the one who offered a helicopter ride in exchange for sex.
“I’m sorry,” he says, any humor dropping from his expression. “I’m sorry for judging you. I’m sorry for not knowing just how special you were. I’m sorry for implying you were after anything but a good night.”
“I thought about you for so long . . .” I say. I hated you for so long.
“Me too,” he says, his voice a dark rasp. “I looked for you after that night. I tried to find you online, but there was nothing. You were a ghost. Now, I know why.”
I don’t want to believe him. I don’t want to feel this incessant pull in my chest toward him, like we have our own form of gravity. I break our gaze.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. None of this is serious. I can be attracted to him and still kind of hate him.
His hand curls around the back of my neck, gently positioning me so our eyes meet again. For a fluttering moment, I think he might kiss me, but he doesn’t. His hand slowly drops, callused fingers slipping down my wet skin, making me swallow. His thumb traces the low neckline of my dress, causing a chill to lick down my spine. My skin is all prickled. From the cold rain, I tell myself, even though it’s a lie.
I gasp as his warm fingers dip below my dress. His thumb curves, tracing the edge of my chest, and I’m breathing too quickly, I’m wanting this a little too much. He pauses, as if giving me a chance to ask him to stop, but I don’t. No, instead, I arch my back in an attempt to get even closer, hoping he’ll touch more of me.
Parker makes a pleased sound, and his other hand curls around my hip bone, pulling me toward him. His thumb makes wide sweeps across the sensitive skin there, just inches away from where I’m aching. Then his hand slips down to grip my ass, the same way he did that night in the stairwell, as if reminding me, as if he’s showing me he remembers .
His other thumb is circling my chest beneath my bodice, getting closer and closer to my sensitive peak. He finally brushes against it, and my shoulders hike. I press my lips together to keep back any type of moan.
He leans his forehead against mine. We’re both soaking wet. His warm lips slip against my cheek as he brings them to my ear and says, “I remember everything.”
Then, suddenly, he’s gone, and I’m left cold and wet and panting alone in the hallway.