Chapter 27
27
Even though we only sleep for a couple of hours, those 120 minutes have transformed what happened from some blurry abstract notion under the blanket of night to an actual concrete light-of-day event. A car beeping at street level wakes me; the small noise foghorning me back to reality. I reach for my phone, as is my reflex the moment I wake up. I turned it to “Do Not Disturb” mode after the first time last night, so I missed a ton of notifications.
An email from Susie sent at 6:34 a.m.
A text message from Yemi sent last night asking if I’m working late tonight or if I’ll be back for dinner.
A Facebook message from William, which I choose not to open. I’ll unfriend him later.
A calendar notification: my date with Jack, in thirty minutes.
An Ignite message from Jack: Be there in 20, looking forward to seeing you :)
Shit.
Eric’s arm is lazily draped over my waist, but our bodies aren’t touching. Could I leave without waking him up? Sneak out and pretend as if none of this ever happened? Do I even want to do that?
As I inch toward the edge of the bed, his hand curves around to my front and splays across my stomach, slow, circling fingers reaching my ribs. His slow rhythmic breathing doesn’t falter as he pulls me in closer. My insides melt as he tucks my back tight to his body, his morning erection pressing against my backside. Still-forming memories of last night come flooding back. I loosen as a newly familiar mouth drops tender kisses over my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, my cheek until a pair of perfect teeth grazes across my earlobe, causing me to boil over. In a moment of weakness, I lean into the feeling, gripping the pillow and grinding my hips against him.
His laugh tickles hot air against my ear. “Good morning.” His voice is low and gritty.
“I have to go,” I half murmur, half moan, mentally grappling against the gravitational pull keeping me in his arms.
“No, you don’t,” he insists, almost pleading, pulling me tighter on to his length. “Here’s the plan: we both call in sick, I book this room for another night and we can just do this all day.”
I avoid doing the calculations of how much an extended stay here would cost and whether I’m flattered he’d spend that much money just to have another twenty-four hours with me. He glides his hand over my hips, making light circles with his thumb, building the pressure in my knotted stomach.
Stifling a whimper, I push my face into the soft pillow. I don’t want him to stop but I need him to. I need to clear my head. This is Bancroft. Bancroft, my competitor. Bancroft, my colleague. Bancroft is sinking his fingers into my... My brain whirs through potential statements until I think of the only thing I know will defuse the tension building between us: “I have a date in thirty minutes.” His hand pauses instantly.
“You’re still going on the date?” his lips ask against my shoulder.
“Yeah.” I breathe out sharply as his body slowly peels away from mine. Cold air seeps in to settle in the space his warm skin has left.
“Right.”
The mattress dips as he flops onto his back, hand wiping over his mouth in contemplation.
“Yeah,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say. I decide on a word. “Shower.”
A second wind of determination seems to wash over him as the soft look in his eyes regains its cool, sexy confidence.
“We could get clean together?” He smirks and nods his head to the bathroom door. “I think that shower is big enough for two. Want to test my theory?”
I imagine him pushing me up against the steamy, wet tiles but am quickly thrown out of the fantasy. My eye snags on my notebook, my presentation notes clearly visible, on the bedside table. For a split second I wonder, Did last night happen to stop me going on a date he suggested I pursue? So I don’t outperform him?
Shaking my head, I brace myself and announce, “I think this”—flapping my hand from him to me—“shouldn’t happen again.”
My gut twists as a flash of pain runs through his eyes before they quickly harden, becoming unreadable.
Surely he knows this can’t happen again? He’s probably just never had this kind of physical rejection before, and he’s not used to it. Our presentations are only two weeks away; if I continue this now it will be over before it starts. One of us will win the job and the other won’t be able to handle it. Sleeping with your competitor is one thing, but being with the person who beat you to your dream job is a pill too big to swallow. We can’t do this again, no matter how much we might want to—there’s no point. It would be over before either of us knew it.
He schools his face into neutrality. “You’re going to be needing these back then?” He dangles my underwear from a finger. I swipe them out of his hand more aggressively than intended and spin on my bare heel to the bathroom. When I return from the steamy room in a bathrobe he’s fully dressed, packing his bag by the door. He made the bed, all evidence of last night smoothed out as though nothing happened.
Trying to fill the awkward silence, I ask, “You’re not showering?”
“I will, at the gym,” he replies, zipping up the duffel bag.
“Ah.” I nod my head as though that makes perfect sense.
He shrugs as if this is a normal thing for him: having a one-night stand in a luxury penthouse and then jumping straight back into his standard morning routine as though it was nothing. As though this was nothing.
“Well, enjoy your date .” He lifts his eyebrows, jaw taut as he looks me up and down before striding toward the door.
“Bancr—Eric?” I suck in my cheeks remembering what he whispered in my ear before coaxing me into a second orgasm.
“Yeah?” He almost seems nervous as he looks over his shoulder. His knuckles are white around the handle of the bag.
Fingers intertwined in front of me: “Could you...”
Not tell anyone about this?
Do that thing with your tongue again?
Stay so we can figure out what this means for both of us?
“... leave your key card by the door, so I can return it to the front desk?”
His shoulders sag slightly and I hold my breath as he places the card on a side table and leaves without another word. When the door slams shut the bubble of energy in the room finally bursts. I’m standing alone in one of the most expensive rooms in the city, so many thoughts rushing around my brain that they’ve turned into white noise.
Ten minutes later, including the fastest makeup routine I’ve ever done in my life, I’m flying out of the door to meet Jack. If I wasn’t so flustered from last night and stressed out about being late, I would find it endearing that he arrived early.
“Miss Hastings!” A booming voice bounces off the walls as I press the call elevator button.
“Christoph!” I reply breathlessly. He’s wearing a bright red suit printed with white and gray hibiscus flowers. It’s hard not to smile when you see him, even under these irregular circumstances.
“I trust you found your stay satisfying, ja ?” he says with a wink.
“What?” I blurt.
Christoph looks confused; of course, he doesn’t know about Eric staying.
“I mean yes, ja ! Thank you so much!”
Did I have the best and then second best and then third best orgasm of my life in one night? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Do I want it to happen again? Yes. Wait—no!
“ Wunderbar! ” He claps his hands together. “Also I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding about the room. I do hope Eric didn’t mind giving up the suite to you for the night.”
My stomach lurches at the idea of Christoph bumping into him on the way down to the lobby. Here it is: another reason why this shouldn’t have happened. We both risk looking unbelievably unprofessional in front of our biggest potential business partner for the Ditto launch, putting the chances of either of us getting the promotion at risk. Sure, he has this kind of reputation already, and even if he hates it, it works in his favor. The last thing I would want is a new business contact to assume that about me.
“I think he was fine with it,” I insist, eyes wide and head bobbing frantically. The elevator dings open. “I have to run but we’ll be in touch on Monday about partnership contracts.”
I smile my most enthusiastic toothy smile, which probably makes me look like a crazed extra in Wallace why does he look so uncomfortable at his answer? Does he think I look down on bartending as a profession or something? Then it dawns on me.
“Shit, you’ve already said that. I’m so sorry! I had a... rough night last night. Hardly slept.” I down a huge glug of my latte for emphasis, lifting it in a remorseful “cheers” gesture toward him. “My brain’s a bit frazzled this morning.”
He perks up at my explanation. “Oh, no worries. I could have rescheduled if you wanted. Is everything OK?” Argh, what a Nice Young Man.
“No, no. It’s fine! Everything’s fine,” I maintain. He’s so accommodating he’s trying to reschedule the date we’re currently on to make it more convenient for me. “Please. Tell me about your job—I’m all ears.”
I make a conscious effort at a real smile, focusing on his eyes as he talks. He actually has really nice eyes. Deep brown with orange-gold flecks like a dancing flame, the opposite to Eric’s icy blue stare.
“Well, I work at SALT. The bar downtown?”
“No way! I’ve been there for a work event. It’s so good!”
He lets out a nervous laugh, his crisp white T-shirt lifting as he scratches the back of his dark curly hair. “I’ve just finished revamping their cocktail menu. They want to do more of those Instagrammable, experimental drinks that have things like dry ice and stuff.”
I cross my legs and lean forward as though I’m making a heinous admission. “I think I’m more of a martini kinda girl.”
He mirrors me. “I can see that,” he says, flashing a perfectly symmetrical smile framed by matching dimples.
My chin rests on my knuckles. “So, do you have a favorite drink on your fabulous new menu?”
“Yeah... maybe you could come by the bar and I can make it for you?”
My confident facade falters and my entire body breaks into an instant sweat as though he’s just asked if he can extract a few of my teeth.
Blinking furiously, I force out, “Ummm, sure, sounds good,” trying to regain my smile.
What is wrong with me? I can go on a million fake dates with my enemy but don’t want a second one with this obviously great guy?
We talk for another twenty minutes about places we’ve been for drinks, for walks, for food, before I notice the time and have to leave, explaining my boss wants some work delivered to her first thing. Jack touches the small of my back as we weave through the tables to the exit. His hand feels like an unwelcome intruder attempting to invade my personal space. I thank my past self for making this a breakfast date; the meal least likely to end in sexual expectations.
We burst into the already baking morning sun, the rush hour crowd brimming with ambitious energy.
“Well, this has been great. I’m not usually up this early but it was definitely worth setting an extra alarm.”
I laugh, but then realize he isn’t joking. My smile fizzles out trying to imagine me working into the late hours of most evenings and early mornings, him working every night, how we’d ever see each other. Spending our weekends running around outside covered in twigs and bugs instead of leisurely wandering through climate-controlled galleries and museums hand in hand.
Jack leans in and my entire body freezes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Do I let him kiss me? Do I kiss him? I can still taste Eric in my mouth—how is that fair to Jack? Is this what people do on the first date nowadays? Or just an Ignite date? I’m about to thrust my head into oncoming pedestrians when his lips land on my hot, flaming cheek. My shoulders smash back down to earth and as the dust settles I feel absolutely awful. Of course, he doesn’t just go in for a post-coffee kiss on the first date. He is a Nice Young Man.
We say our goodbyes and obligatory “I’ll text you” promises, then we turn and walk in opposite directions. Him back to bed and me into the office, trying to suppress an instinctive wish that he was someone else.