20
HE DOES TAKE HIS TIME. THAT MORNING, WHEN I WAKE UP IN HIS BED, WEARING one of his shirts, he’s making lazy strokes down my back. That turns into him gripping my ass. Which turns into me straddling him, grinding my hips against his, and him nearly giving me everything I want. Instead, he gives me his fingers again, and I ride them until release finds me, and I collapse against his chest.
It’s a distraction. We kiss, far too much. When he leaves me at my door after our next run, we end up making out against it. His hands end up under my shirt.
The week goes by quickly. I invite Taryn to get dinner with me. We talk about her roommate moving out and her plans to see her family this fall, across the country.
I tell her about Penelope and my sister, then a little about what Parker and I have done this summer.
“You look happy,” she tells me. “Happier than before.”
And I am. That happiness seems to be radiating out of me. I’m like an alchemist, gilding everything I touch. The words come easier. My moods are mellower. The things that would once bother me just . . . don’t.
Parker goes to San Francisco for yet another acquisition meeting, and I work on finishing my second act. July turns into August.
When I walk home that night, taking in the buildings, laptop beneath my arm, I think New York City might not have been deserving of my hatred.
There’s a charity gala tonight. Parker was invited. He says he wasn’t going to go, but the benefiting cause was on the list I gave him a few days ago.
Press will be there. It’ll be good for him, given the latest of several snags in the acquisition.
Our relationship, as a PR distraction, is working. Photos of us are everywhere, all over the tabloids.
“Billionaire Bachelor and Mystery Woman Spotted at Yankees Game”—insert the least flattering photo of me possible, about to unhinge my jaw to take a bite of a hot dog. “Billionaire Bachelor and Mystery Woman Stun at Nightclub”—insert a far more flattering photo of me, but also insert a comment section talking about my body in ways that both horrify and confuse me.
A charity gala appearance would be good to round it all out. I don’t have a gown in my closet—Penelope is good, but she’s not prophetic—but right as I begin to panic, a woman shows up at my door with a rack of clothing. She wheels it into the unit, along with a stack of shoe boxes.
Naskia is a personal shopper from Bergdorf Goodman, and she’s about the most stylish person I’ve ever met—the type of effortless chic I have only seen pulled off by celebrities.
“We have a car waiting to take you to the store, but Mr. Warren said you might prefer trying them on in the comfort of your home,” she tells me.
“Did he?” I say flatly, wondering if I should be mad at him for this.
I try the dresses on in my room, trying to find the price tags. There are none. I don’t even recognize the brands.
“This one,” Naskia says simply, when I walk out wearing the third option, as though I don’t have any choice in the matter.
I nod, trusting her implicitly. “Okay. This one.” I fumble for my tote. “Do you take credit cards?”
She laughs as though I’ve suddenly become a Comedy Cellar comedian, leaves a box of heels on my counter, then rolls the rack back out. “Have fun,” she says.
And then I’m left standing in the middle of the apartment in a gown.
It’s red. It has a tight bodice and thin straps and goes all the way to the floor, in a sheet of silk. It’s simple, but stunning. The heels she’s left are black stilettos. With the toe showing.
I curse and run to CVS (sans gown) to get tools to give myself a pedicure. It comes out okay “if you squint,” Penelope says when I show her. “But no one’s going to be staring at your feet. I hope.”
“Very reassuring,” I tell her.
I straighten my hair. I decide to use red lipstick, to match my dress, even though I’ve never worn it before. I wonder if it’s a bad idea.
Parker meets me at my door this time. I open it and forget how to breathe.
Nothing could have prepared me to see Parker Warren in a tux.
My lips part. I temporarily lose the ability to control my facial expression at all. I stare greedily, shamelessly.
I’m not even embarrassed. Because he’s doing the same thing to me.
When his gaze finds my face again, he stills. He reaches over to brush my hair behind my ear. “You’re wearing them,” he says, so gently.
The ruby earrings. “It seemed like a waste not to.”
He traces the shell of my ear, and I shiver.
“If I don’t make it out of this apartment now, I never will,” he says.
Part of me wants to drag him down to the floor and take off every layer of his tux.
But I take his hand and lead him to the elevator.
THE GALA IS AT A MEMBERS-ONLY CLUB IN NOHO, AN INDUSTRIAL building turned into a place where phones are forbidden and paparazzi are parked outside.
Flashes go off as we enter the massive double doors, helped through by security. “Over here! Parker, over here!”
I wonder if he wants us to linger. Get a good shot for the paper, to guarantee another headline. But Parker doesn’t even look at them. His arm is protectively wrapped around me.
He’s a member of the club. We’re led into an elevator and out into a gorgeous space with big arched windows, high ceilings, modern art, and faded brick walls. The lighting is dimmed. There is an array of seating options.
“This looks pretty casual for a gala,” I tell him.
“It is. Usually they’re in a museum or something. I think they’re trying to draw in a younger crowd.”
The room is already filled with guests, all in gowns and tuxes. They stare at us while we walk by. Whisper. I spot Carissa in the corner, sitting in one of the chairs, next to another woman. I smile at her like we’re old friends, and she glares at me.
The charity benefit is for art programs for children. I’ve volunteered for their LA branch and am excited to meet the organizers here. They tell me about their plans to expand their volunteer teaching program, and I wish, for one of the first times, that I wasn’t anonymous, so I could be part of it. Instead, I sign up on the spot for a yearly donation. All the while, Parker watches me, like every word I have to say is important, like everything is interesting.
When we finally walk away, he says, “You care.”
“Of course I do. Art . . . saved me. Giving kids access to art programs is important. It’s something I believe in.” I lift a shoulder. “Everyone needs something to care about.”
Just like any charity gala, everyone’s already donated big to be here. There’s a performance by a pop star, followed by a seated dinner by a Michelin-starred chef. Mostly, though, it seems as though the attendees would like to see and be seen. Dozens of people come up to Parker. They ask him about his acquisition. More than a few of the much older men leer at me and any other passing woman, even with their wives standing right next to them.
A few minutes after Parker leaves me in the center of the room to get us drinks, one of the older men suddenly grabs my arm. I rear back and turn to face him, then freeze when I see who it is.
He’s the CEO of one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the world. He’s one of the most revered minds in business.
I must look horrified, because before I can make a single move, I hear Parker say behind me, “Get your fucking hand off her.”
The crowd around us seems to tense. Voices hush.
Parker doesn’t look like he gives a shit.
The man looks up and sneers at him. “Who do you think you are?” he says. His hand remains firmly around my arm.
Parker takes a step forward. I genuinely think he might commit assault in the middle of this room. The people around us have completely stopped talking.
“I’m her boyfriend,” he says, his voice lethally calm. “Who do you think you are?”
The world seems to fall off its axis as he says, “I’m her father.”