Chapter Nineteen
Sexual chemistry between two people is a powerful thing.
It’s that all-consuming feeling of attraction that seeps into every exchange, every look.
The desire is unshakable, as if forces beyond your control are drawing you together.
When you feel it, it’s electric, almost palpable, and all you can think about is their body against yours.
I sit cross-legged on my couch, gritting my teeth and staring at the text on my laptop. Of all the articles to be assigned this week, I have the ill fortune of editing Charlotte’s piece on sexual chemistry. As soon as the document popped up in my inbox, I begged Tae-woo to take it off my hands.
“A sex column by Charlotte? I’d rather rewrite an illustrated manual for a catheter,” was his gracious way of shooting me down.
The article hangs over me like a gloomy rain cloud, soaking me in dread.
It’s taken me longer than usual to get through the assignment, which is why I’m spending a Saturday afternoon trying desperately to finish it.
It’s not because of Charlotte, and I’m not such a prude that the subject matter would have me clutching my metaphorical pearls.
It’s because every line about physical attraction or sexual gratification activates some memory of me and Parker in his St. Regis suite.
I hate to admit it, but this is hitting a little too close to home.
But sexual chemistry isn’t simply “just a feeling.” There’s a science to it, as well, and as the term itself implies, it has to do with the chemistry of our brains. When you’re attracted to someone, the brain releases high levels of dopamine and norepinephrine . . .
I groan with my entire body. How dare you bring science into this, Charlotte? Now she’s got me staring down the barrel of the cold, hard facts. I don’t need a reminder of how my brain’s hypothalamus sends my sex drive into pandemonium whenever Parker is around.
Does having sexual chemistry with someone also mean you’ll hit it off outside the bedroom?
Not always. Have you ever found yourself attracted to that one Wall Street guy, that bad boy who stands for everything you’re against?
We’re all familiar with the idea of wanting something you can’t—or shouldn’t—have.
Attraction happens subconsciously, and sometimes telling yourself that it’ll never happen is what makes it all the more enticing.
And if the attraction is mutual, it can lead to explosive, mind-numbingly great sex.
I shut my laptop. That’s enough for today.
Flopping onto my back, I make an effort to think of anything unsexy: soup splatter on the ceiling of the microwave, energy prices and crippling inflation, a podcast on alpha male energy.
It’s no use, so I snatch my phone from the coffee table and bring up my chat with Parker.
Maybe I’d been reluctant to give a name to it, but it’s evident that what we have is sexual chemistry.
I know that I’m attracted to him. And I assume the feeling is mutual.
But attraction is just the surface of it.
It doesn’t explain why hooking up with him is so different from anything I’ve experienced before.
The last time I saw Parker was three nights ago. As I start typing, my gut twists just like it does in the elevator ride up to his suite.
Me: What are you doing today?
Parker: Miss me already?
Me: Never mind. Have a nice day.
Parker: I’m with a client at Barclays Center. Can I text you when I get back to the hotel?
Me: You’re in Brooklyn?
I pause, lifting my head to glance around my apartment.
I could probably do a quick lap with the vacuum, but otherwise, it’s in an orderly state.
Once I was old enough, Dad assigned cleaning duties to me, while he took care of the cooking.
I was consistent with the habit even after moving out, right down to following Marisa around with a coaster.
Me: Do you want to come over?
As I wait for Parker to arrive, I suddenly become aware that, after spending the whole Saturday sprawled on the couch getting nothing done, I now look like someone who did just that.
I pace around nervously, debating whether I should change.
Would that seem like I’m trying too hard?
I mean, who actually wears jeans at home, anyway?
By the time Parker texts that he’s arrived, I only have time to throw my tangled hair into a ponytail.
“I didn’t know you work weekends too,” I say when he reaches my door.
“I don’t, but sometimes you have to work around the client’s schedule.” He blinks the fatigue from his eyes. “The building’s nice. You have an elevator.”
“Have you ever seen a New York apartment that wasn’t in a TV show?”
“It’s just that I always pictured you in one of those classic New York setups. Someplace with too much exposed brick. Lugging your laundry up an unreasonable number of stairs.”
“I’m a survivor of a fifth-floor walk-up,” I say. “Would not recommend. I was always afraid they’d find me passed out with a pizza box before I made it to my door.”
“Oh, you’ve got stamina. I would know.”
Parker is too preoccupied with taking off his sneakers to see my cheeks go red.
I stand by gawkishly, debating whether I should offer to take his jacket.
This is all new to me. I’ve never invited a man over solely to climb him like a tree.
Is there a protocol for this? Do I bother to give him a tour of the place, or do we make a beeline for the bed?
But he seems to know exactly what he’s doing as he steps past me, absorbing his surroundings. It shouldn’t take more than a glance or two to scan the studio, but he moves slowly, careful not to miss a detail.
My bed sits on the other side of a rustic bookshelf that doubles as a divider, but he doesn’t head straight for it.
Instead, I follow his gaze from the weathered spines of old books and the Marble Queen pothos on top to the boho geometric rug anchoring the center of the room.
I’m suddenly seeing my apartment as if for the first time too.
Then he peeks over to the windows, and I see him recoil.
“What in the R2-D2 is that?”
“It’s an air purifier.” I walk over so that I’m next to the device in question. It’s big and boxy, and probably overkill, but after reading an article on volatile organic compounds in the household, I was all too eager to splurge.
Parker looks around at my compact apartment. “For you and a small town? It looks like the Millennium Falcon’s trash compactor.”
“You show some respect to Gilbert.”
“It has a name.” He rubs his forehead, a barb of disbelief in his tone. “Do I want to know how much that thing cost?”
“You can’t put a price on air quality. This thing is as silent as a stone.
It uses a high-end filtration system that captures 99.
99 percent of particles and contaminants as small as 0.
1 microns. And with fifteen pounds of activated carbon with potassium permanganate, any trace of odor is virtually nonexistent.
You smell that?” I lift a finger and sniff.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Exactly.”
Parker is speechless. If we were in a cartoon, a singular question mark would be emerging from his head right now.
“I didn’t know you had such an aversion to . . . smelling things.” He lifts the collar of his jacket to his face. “I picked this up from dry cleaning today, but now you’ve made me self-conscious.”
I know Parker’s scent by now—it’s practically ingrained in my cerebrum. His cologne is Creed Aventus, and his natural smell reminds me of fresh laundry and driving by the coast at daybreak.
“You smell better than you did in high school.”
“Um, what?”
“The AXE body spray was a bit . . .” I crinkle my nose.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Wow, now I’m definitely self-conscious.”
“You’re fine. I like how you smell,” I say mercifully. I can’t help but notice that he always manages to shower before we meet—and what that does to my libido.
“Thanks, I think.” His ears are curiously red as he moves on to his next point of interest: a framed poster of the film Chungking Express hanging by the TV. “Hey, I remember this. You were obsessed with this movie.”
I was ten the first time I watched Chungking Express, and to be honest, I didn’t understand most of it.
But that didn’t stop me from falling in love with the aesthetics of 1990s Hong Kong.
Now that I’m older, it’s still my favorite movie but for different reasons.
There’s something about the characters being so unapologetically lovestruck that resonates with me.
Also worth noting: the dreamy twosome of Tony Leung and Takeshi Kaneshiro, responsible for stirring an entirely different kind of awakening.
Parker’s lips form a tight line. “I don’t know how I’d feel about a girl breaking into my place to clean. Even if she was as cute as Faye Wong.”
My socks stop short of being blown off. “You’ve watched Chungking Express?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for the punchline. “Because you lost a bet?”
“What? No. Because it’s on HBO Max, and I was looking for something to watch.” The expression he makes is contemplative, and I pay close attention to his next words, knowing very well the power they’ll have over me. “I think I get it now. Hong Kong in the nineties was a vibe.”
I can’t hold myself back. I grab Parker by his collar and pull him to my height, kissing him with a force I didn’t know I was capable of. I’ve never been more attracted to him.
“Whoa,” he breathes, eyes lighting up with surprise. “I’m not done looking around!”
“Seriously? That can wait. Get undressed, Parker.”
“Hold on, you have a Switch?” To my dismay, he frees himself from my grip and drops to the couch, picking up a controller I’d left on the coffee table. “What other consoles do you have?”
I’m equal parts mortified and humbled to have my advances turned down for a game console. I stagger into the seat next to Parker, a little dazed. “Um, I have a PS5.”