19
THE WEEK GOES BY IN A BLUR. I’M IN THE COFFEE SHOP EVERY MORNING, WITH a latte and my favorite pastry and my favorite table. Parker’s ownership has some perks, and not just for me. New flavors are added to the menu. More baked goods. Outdoor seating becomes available.
I’ve broken into my story, and it’s like I can’t write the words fast enough. This is my favorite part of the screenplay, where it feels like I’ve fallen into it. I’m at its mercy. I stay up late at night and wake up early in the morning, just to fold myself back into the story. I crave it like a drug; I live it like a second life.
My normal anxieties fade away. It’s like meditation, being so singularly focused on one thing. This is the point when I usually go long stretches of time without leaving my apartment. When Penelope usually has to feed me vegetables and point out that I haven’t had any water that day. It’s the part when my laptop dies because I’ve been so buried in my pages that I have missed all the alerts telling me about low power. My screenplays swallow my life, for months at a time.
This time, it’s different. I take breaks from my story when Parker comes to say hi. I don’t get annoyed when he interrupts me to leave a mug of hot chocolate in front of my laptop. When Taryn asks if I want to get lunch, I go. We laugh for two hours straight, and I ask about her job working in marketing at a clothing company, because I care. On Thursday, we meet Emily and Gwen for chardonnay and pottery painting in Tribeca. We eat doughnut holes Gwen brought in her purse. We walk along cobblestone roads, going in and out of shops just to browse. Three times during the week, Parker and I go for runs in the morning, and out of nowhere, my body and mind seem to crave them. We visit Little Island and marvel at its construction—whimsical, with winding roads like a walkable board game. We run down the West Side Highway.
“You’re getting good,” Parker says, as I’m folded over, breathing warm summer air into my lungs, sweaty palms slipping against my knees. I look up at him, incredulous. I’m just short of needing to call an ambulance.
He laughs at the look I give him. “I’m serious. You couldn’t run for a block a few weeks ago, and we just ran a mile.”
A mile? He nods at my surprise.
“A mile. We’ll be walking the length of Manhattan in no time.”
I roll my eyes, remembering his goalpost he set at the Cloisters.
I’ve built a life outside of my writing, outside my apartment. It happened suddenly, without warning. One day, I woke up, and there was a little city built around me.
I’m no longer a deserted island.
By Friday night, I’m halfway through my screenplay. I sit back, marveling at the pages. Half a movie. I’ve written half a movie. It never gets old. I tell Sarah, and more champagne is delivered. This time, instead of letting it bubble in the corner of my fridge, I make plans for it. Maybe I’ll invite Taryn, Gwen, and Emily to share both bottles with me. Maybe I’ll take it over to Parker’s apartment.
Before I know it, it’s Saturday night.
And it’s time to wear the dress. The one that has hung in this closet all summer.
“You win,” I tell Penelope over FaceTime, as I grab the hanger.
“Great, what’s my prize?”
“Helping me get ready.”
We’ve been on the phone for an hour and a half, as she gave me careful instructions for how to blow-dry my hair, and I tried not to burn my scalp. Then she watched me put my makeup on while telling me about her latest date with the hot doctor, cutting herself off to say, “No, smokier. Smokier. ”
By the time I’m done, I have more makeup on than I’ve ever worn in my life.
Now, as I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t feel like a different person, the way I might have before.
I still feel like me. Just . . . a different version of me.
“Wait,” Penelope says, as I put the phone on the bed, facing the ceiling, while I change. “Did you pack the nice underwear?”
She means the black lacy set that I bought a year ago, in case my dates ever went anywhere. They never did.
“Yes,” I admit. I don’t even really know why.
Penelope doesn’t say anything else. I want to tell her I won’t need them. That nothing is happening tonight. But I slip them on anyway without a word.
I’m going to a nightclub. I want to feel sexy. This is for me .
Then I put the dress on.
“You’re too quiet. What is it?” Penelope says from the bed. “I can’t see anything!”
I pick up the phone. Turn the camera so she can see the mirror.
She gasps. A dramatic stretch of silence. Then, “Does Parker suffer from any preexisting heart conditions?”
I frown. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because he’s going to go into fucking cardiac arrest when he sees you.”
Penelope is being dramatic. But I do look . . . different. The dress is almost too scandalous to wear outside, at least to me. It’s short and black. There are two thin straps, then tight fabric that clings to my waist and hips, riding up my thighs.
As if that wasn’t revealing enough, there’s a slit.
In heels, the dress feels even shorter. I swallow.
I flip the camera around. “I’m scared,” I admit. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do at a club. I don’t dance, I don’t know how to make small talk, I don’t know how to wear something like this and not feel ridiculous.”
“Breathe,” Penelope says. “The music will be too loud to talk to too many people anyway. It’ll be so crowded that dancing will be more like swaying, holding a drink. Keep your chin up, shoulders down, posture straight. Take all the confidence you have and wrap it around you like a damn cashmere sweater, because you look amazing and you are amazing, and yes, I’m biased because you’re my best friend, but I would say it even if I wasn’t.”
My eyes prickle. “I wish you were here,” I say.
“Me too,” she says. “If only to see the look on Parker’s face when he sees you.”
PARKER’S WAITING IN THE LOBBY. HE SAID HE DIDN’T WANT TO rush me.
I stand in the elevator and wonder if maybe I should just go back upstairs. If maybe I should just tell him I’m sick.
Then the doors open, and I see him.
Parker’s on the phone. It sounds important. When he looks up at me, it slips out of his hand and cracks against the marble, shattering into pieces.
He doesn’t even look at it. He’s looking at me.
“I think—I think your phone just broke,” I say, stepping toward him. I feel the rush of the air-conditioning on way too much skin.
“I’ll get a new one,” he says, his lips barely moving at all as he studies me. His eyes inch up my bare legs to my waist, to my chest, to my face, like he’s taking in every detail. He does it again. “Elle, are you trying to kill me on the night of my cover party?”
I smile. “Maybe that’s been my plan all along. A long game.”
He steps forward until he’s right in front of me. “Maybe I wouldn’t even mind.”
THE NIGHTCLUB LOOKS THE SAME AS IT DID TWO YEARS AGO.
My heart is in my throat when we enter. This could be bad. All the feelings I pushed down about him could come rearing back up. The hatred . . . or the desire. I’m not sure which is worse.
I glance over at Parker as we make it past the bouncer, and he’s already looking at me. It’s like stepping back in time. Security walks us downstairs, past a blown-up version of Parker’s cover. “I’ll help you carry this back to our building after,” I assure him, and he flips me off.
His hand finds my lower back. The fabric of my dress is thin enough that I feel his fingers almost like they’re on my skin. The main room is packed, just like it was that night we met.
Unlike that night, the moment we step into it, everyone turns in our direction. A few cameras go off, photographers for the event.
Parker’s hand curls around my waist, pulling me toward him, almost protectively, as we’re swarmed.
Everyone wants to talk to him. There are a few people from the magazine, then some colleagues in the industry, and a few women brazen enough to try to flirt with him while his hand is making lazy circles down my side. He brushes all of them off, indifferent, and converses with the people who want to talk business. He expertly handles questions about the acquisition, and it’s interesting to see him in this mode. Work mode. His eyes are intense, his expression cold, just like he looks on the magazine cover.
For some reason, I put a hand on his back. He glances down at me, midconversation, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have, but then his body relaxes, just a little. He always introduces me to every new person who comes up to him, but I don’t say much, beyond answering a few of their questions.
Finally, someone else from the magazine comes over and leads us to our table.
It’s just a slice of couch, barely enough room for both of us. The tables are overflowing with people who have clearly been here a lot longer, empty bottles sitting in ice in front of their knees. Designer purses stacked behind them, they squeeze in tight or sit on each other’s laps to fit.
A woman comes to take our order. Parker asks me what I like, and I tell him the type confidently, silently thanking Gwen for explaining the different kinds of alcohol and the best brands to order at our dinner. When the bottle is delivered, he pours me a glass first. We’re sitting so close together, his thigh is completely against mine. “Sorry,” he says, trying to give me more room, but I shake my head.
“It’s fine.” I lift my drink to him. “Congratulations,” I say, because I’m happy for him. Whatever he wants, whatever he does . . . I’m happy for him.
I can barely hear the glasses clink together over the music, and we don’t break eye contact as we drink.
“Warren!”
Parker’s eyes narrow before he turns away, toward a short man who looks to be in his thirties, walking over to us. Two women walk with him.
“Benson,” Parker says flatly, reaching out to shake his hand. “This is Elle, my girlfriend.” He turns to me. “This is Benson. We were in the same incubator a few years ago.”
“I recently had an exit,” Benson says, shaking my hand for a little too long. “Not as big as Warren’s, of course, but not too bad.”
I force a smile, trying to remember when I asked. I stand and extend a hand to the women, and Benson startles, like it never occurred to him to introduce them. I’m not even sure he knows their names. I sidestep Benson and introduce myself. They’re both tall and beautiful. Mira has red hair and freckled skin, and Adriana is from Brazil. She has brown skin, dark hair, and hazel eyes. They’re both getting their master’s at NYU and happened upon Benson while trying to get into the club.
“He got us in,” Mira says, shrugging.
Adriana laughs. “He clearly wanted to look cool walking in with two women, but who cares? We’re here, and we’re going to dance. Without him. Want to join us?”
I look over my shoulder at Parker. He’s still sitting down, arm extended where I was, talking to Benson. He seems to sense my gaze, and our eyes lock. He smiles just the slightest bit.
“Sure,” I say, because why not? I’ve already had half a drink and can feel it humming through me. I pour two more drinks for Mira and Adriana, and we carry our glasses with us to the dance floor.
It’s chaos, just like I remember it from two years ago. But this time, I don’t really mind. My hair dips into someone’s drink, but it doesn’t matter. Bodies press against me, but it doesn’t make me shudder like it did that night.
Songs are played that I haven’t heard since college, and I dance with Mira and Adriana, laughing, and belting out the words, and moving without a care in the world. We’re in the middle, framed by bodies. No one is watching. No one cares. We’re all just trying to have fun. We dance for what seems like hours, until I feel sweat in the roots of my hair. I haven’t even had much to drink, but I’m drunk on the excitement, on the freedom, on the music. I’m swaying my hips, dancing to the rhythm, when I turn and see that part of the crowd has cleared. Parker is sitting there, watching me, the intensity in his green eyes nearly bringing me to my knees.
Adriana taps me on the shoulder. “We’re headed to another party. Want to come?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to stay.” We hug goodbye, and then I turn back around. Parker is still watching me.
I don’t shrink under his gaze. No, tonight, I savor it as I walk toward him, through the crowd. He’s watching my body like he’s committing it to memory.
There’s even less space on the couch than before, thanks to the next table having too many people, and he moves to stand to let me sit, but I gently push him back down by the shoulders and sit on his lap instead.
He goes still beneath me.
“Elle,” he says, a whisper like a warning against my shoulder.
I turn to him. “We’re dating, remember?” I scoot closer up his thigh, and I don’t think he’s breathing. “I’ll get up, if you want.” I make a move to stand, but his arm curls around my waist.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice just a tortured rasp.
For some reason, Benson takes this moment to walk up to the table again. “Where are the girls?” he asks, and it makes me want to forcibly remove him from the premises.
“The women left,” I say.
He gives me an appraising look. “If you ever get bored with him, let me know. I just bought a two-hundred-foot yacht. It’s parked in the harbor.”
I just look at him, not wanting to waste my breath shouting over this blaring music.
“Sorry, Benson,” Parker says lightly, though his gaze is cold. “Elle isn’t impressed by money.”
Benson must finally take the hint, because he mumbles something about getting gin at the bar and leaves us alone.
I turn to Parker. “That’s not true,” I say. “I’m sometimes impressed by money.”
“Really?”
I nod. “When a big donation comes in when Penelope and I are volunteering. Then I’m really impressed.”
Parker doesn’t waste a moment before pulling out a brand-new phone. I blink. Somehow, in the time I was dancing, someone clearly delivered one to him.
He hands his phone to me.
“Pick your favorite cause,” Parker says. “And then pick a number.”
He can’t be serious. I type in the URL for an endangered animal fund. It’s the first one I think of, and I know it takes donations by credit card, since it’s one of my monthly charges. I go to the donation page and type in an absurd number. A ridiculous one. One that could buy a house. I tilt the phone toward Parker for approval.
He frowns.
I grab the phone back. “Sorry, I know that’s a lot, I’ll—”
His fingers slowly curl around mine. “We can do better than that,” he says, voice right at my ear.
And then he adds another zero.
I blink. The charge goes through. I didn’t even know it was possible to put a number that large on a credit card.
I should have picked another charity, I think. Another cause. There are so many—
He seems to sense my concern, because he says, “Make a list for me. I’ll give the same to all of them.”
The sincerity in his tone melts something in my chest..
It’s not just the money, because he should be giving that much, given how much he has.
But he cares about what I care about. He’s making an effort.
Parker pockets his phone. We sit in silence for a while, the music blaring, the dancing getting more and more chaotic. People are making out at the table to our left. The group to our right has left, and there’s more room again, but I don’t get off his lap.
He’s warm. His hand is resting on my hip loosely. My hands are firmly laced together in front of me.
I reach forward to grab a bottle of water from the table and feel him tense beneath me. The motion has dragged my ass down his thigh—
And he’s hard.
My mouth is suddenly far drier than it was before. My skin is on fire. I forget the water and sit back, slowly sliding against his length. He grips my hips, keeping me in place, and says, “Careful.”
I look over my shoulder at him. His eyes have darkened; his skin is slightly flushed. I don’t think he’s had more than a sip to drink, and I’ve only had a couple more sips than that. “Not tonight,” I say. “Tonight, I don’t want to be careful.”
For a moment, he’s just still. He’s staring, like he couldn’t possibly have heard me correctly. When my words finally sink in, his hold on my hip tightens.
Slowly, so slowly, his fingers begin a trail down my thigh, to the hem of my dress. He starts to trace it, very carefully, middle finger slipping up the slit, then retreating down, leaving me burning. I start to gently rock against him, desperate for any friction.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my neck, as I press closer, hips grinding back. The club is packed. No one is looking at us anymore. Everyone’s too caught up in their own night to care.
I turn to face him and say, “I need you.”
That’s how we end up back in the stairway. I’m pressed against the wall. He’s towering above me. His eyes are hungry, desperate, even more so than they were that night.
That night.
I hesitate. Parker can feel it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, apologizing for the second time. “I’m sorry I didn’t act like a decent human being that night, because if I did, maybe I could have had more summers with you.” His fingers slide down my temple, then tuck my hair behind my ear. “You’re looking at me like you might be about to bolt or call this whole thing off, but I hope you’ll stay, because this is the best summer of my life, and I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to spend the rest of it without you.”
“What do you want?” I say, chest moving a little too quickly, repeating his words from that night.
“You,” he says immediately. “I want you.”
I look down. I can see how much he wants me. It makes my throat go dry, how much he wants me.
“I want you too,” I say in a voice I barely recognize. But not here. Not in a stairwell. “Can you leave?”
He looks like he might be losing his mind. “I can do whatever I want,” he says, and then he’s taking me by the hand and leading me to his car.
WE DON’T SPEAK ON THE RIDE BACK TO THE BUILDING. WE JUST LOOK at each other in a way that can only be described as hungrily. We walk through the lobby as fast as we can and race into the elevator.
He’s against one wall. I’m against the other. There’s an energy surging between us, an electricity I can practically taste, a gravity I want to give in to. I’m staring at him, shaking my head, brimming with emotions I wasn’t sure I would ever feel again.
“What is it?” he asks.
Sixty floors have never passed slower. I watch the numbers grow and will them to go faster. I’m so impatient, so full of feeling, I can’t be anything but honest. “For years, all I felt was hurt, but at least hurting means feeling something. Then, I went through a period of not feeling anything at all.” My chest rises and falls too quickly. “It’s why I couldn’t write.”
It was like all the emotion had been drained out of me. It was like I had forgotten how to feel.
“What got you out of it?” Parker asks, hands pressed against the elevator steel, fingers flexing, like it is torture not to be touching me right now.
My voice is a whisper. “Hating you.”
His eyes are burning through mine. It’s like he can’t take it anymore.
“Come here,” he says, and we collide in the middle.
Our lips crash together, and it’s a frenzy, just like the first time. We can’t taste enough of each other, touch enough of each other. My arms wrap around his neck, his fingers curl around the back of my head, pulling me closer, closer.
His tongue slides against mine, flicks against the top of my mouth, and I’m gasping. Digging my nails into his shoulders. His hands slide down to my ass. He lifts me, my heels lock behind him, and we both groan as he drags himself against me. Slowly. The friction is almost too much, and I want more, grinding against him greedily. He finds my mouth again.
The elevator opens, and he carries me to his door, seamlessly unlocks it, and nudges it open.
We don’t make it far.
Inside, he presses me against the door, like he can’t wait another moment. We’re both breathing too heavily, watching each other as I slowly lower to my feet. In my heels, I don’t have to tilt my head fully back to meet his eyes, but he’s still towering over me, breath hot against my temple as he leans down to whisper in my ear, in a voice that skitters down my bones, “I want to buy you this dress in every color, just so I can tear it off you.”
That’s it. I want him. I want him right here, against his door.
My chest is heaving. My nipples are straining against the silk. His hand trails up my thigh, his gaze never leaving mine. It finds the slit of my dress. Moves past it.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “ Please. ”
He quickly finds the lace at my hip, then follows it down, slowly, torturously, until he reaches just above where I want him. He lingers there, for a moment, two, then, just as I start to say something, his knuckles drag straight down my aching core, and I gasp.
“Fuck,” he says, feeling the soaked lace. He pulls it to the side.
At the first press of his callused fingers against me, my back arches off the door. He makes a pleased sound, watching me writhe as he slowly circles my center. His fingers are long and capable— dexterous —and, maybe, a little teasing. I look up at him, glaring really, lips parted as I breathe too quickly, as he takes his sweet time. “Please,” I say, taking his wrist. Slowly dragging him lower.
“Just because you asked so nicely,” he says, and then his finger slips inside me. I gasp, my head falling back, hand still gripping his wrist as he pumps into me. Slowly, then harder. Faster. Sparks race up my spine. My skin is electric, needy. I make a sound I’ve never made in my entire life. “Is this what you wanted, Elle?” he asks, mouth at my ear, his voice sounding both domineering and strained.
I nod furiously, and his lips dip to trace my jaw, back and forth. His teeth drag down my neck, ever so lightly. He pauses. Hums approvingly. Then, I go wholly liquid as he slowly licks across my pulse like he wants to feel it racing below his tongue. Like he wants to taste my pleasure.
Reason and thought and what happened two years ago have vanished. All that is left is this blazing want. I’m breathless, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as he pumps into me at an unforgiving pace.
“You can take another one,” he says, then waits for me to confirm. I do, then cry out as he slips in a second finger. I tense around the building pressure, clenching, but then he starts to move again, and I’m panting. His palm starts to hit my center, and I see stars.
I start to shamelessly ride his fingers, hips grinding, and Parker braces his other hand against the doorframe. His eyes are wide as he watches me. His erection is straining against his pants.
“That’s it,” he says. “Fuck my fingers, Elle.”
I do. I’m moving with abandon, and for once my mind is emptied out, blissfully bare, save for the cresting pleasure traveling up my spine. Nothing has ever felt this good, this all-encompassing, this right.
His thumb brushes against my center, and I cry out, pulsing around his fingers as he keeps going, cursing as he watches me break and mend again in front of him, shivering, gasping, before slumping against the door.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers back, and I’m immediately empty, needy.
“What do you want?” I say for the second time that night, my hand going to the front of his pants. A shock goes through him as I stroke him, and his hand covers mine, stilling it.
“What do I want?” he says, shaking his head.
I nod, pressing harder against the door.
His voice is a tortured growl. “I want to go on my knees and make you come again, this time on my tongue. I want to peel this dress off you. I want to bend you over every single piece of furniture I own. I want to hate you, because you’re all I can think about, even in important meetings, and sometimes, it’s fucking annoying.”
I’m ready for all of it. He has no idea how ready I am.
He takes a step back. “But not tonight.”
“Why not?” I say, breathless.
“Because it’s only July, Elle,” he says. “And you promised me all summer.” His eyes drag down my body. He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. “I intend to take my sweet time enjoying you.”