Chapter 8 #3
Maybe I was just really absorbed in what everyone was saying—and making mental notes about all the places I wanted to try—but the line moved surprisingly quickly. It felt like no time had passed before Dash and I were exiting the restaurant with our paper plates.
The slices were rectangular, the dough as chunky as a good paperback.
And the pepperoni—oh my god, the pepperoni.
Cut thickly and curled up slightly at the edges so that each piece became a fat little cup for all the grease from the cheese.
And if you don’t think that sounds like the most delicious thing in the world, don’t you ever talk to me or my son again.
My mouth was watering for a bite, but I felt bad about eating in front of people who were still waiting, so I resisted. As soon as we had cleared the line, I held up one of the two square slices on my plate. Looking amused, Dash followed suit.
“A toast. To the Duke of Harding. And to you, and to me, and to the city, and to tonight.”
“May there be many more,” Dash said, touching a corner of his pizza to a corner of mine.
Okay, so it wasn’t a kiss. But it was something. We might not have locked lips, but the way our gazes met and held felt deliciously—or maybe disconcertingly—intimate.
I’m not actually sure what would have happened next.
Like, we’d already established that there wasn’t going to be any kissing that night, at least not between Dash and myself.
So I wasn’t really sure why my stomach sank a little when we peeled our slices apart and broke eye contact to take our first bites.
“I have to ask,” Barrettes said, motioning to her companion to set their drinks down on a nearby window ledge. “Who’s the Duke of Harding?”
“I am,” Dash replied.
Barrettes tilted her head, infusing her voice with just the slightest hint of skepticism. “You’re a duke?”
“Not a real one—I just play one on TV,” Dash said, and gave her a little wink that left her looking faintly stunned.
“And by TV, he means social media,” I added.
I think we both held our breath a little as Dash interjected with an explanation of what we were doing. But Barrettes didn’t say anything out of pocket about our silly goofy project, or more importantly, about Dash being on OnlyFans.
Letting myself exhale, I chimed in with “We haven’t actually gone live yet, but we’ll be ready to upload our first video in a few days.”
“I’ll be on the lookout for it,” Barrettes said, and let her companion tug her away by the belt loops.
Paper plates in hand, Dash and I ambled slowly down the crowded streets until we reached the Bowery.
The Lower East Side felt kind of gritty, especially at night, one of the few remaining parts of the old, graffiti-covered Manhattan that I hadn’t realized still existed.
There must have been at least a handful of art galleries in every block, and Dash and I slowed down even more to peer through their windows.
It felt like one of those nights when anything could happen, when the world flung open its arms to you as if to say, I’m yours. And maybe it was. The world was ours, and so was the night, and so was Manhattan.
By the time we had finished our slices, we had walked several blocks down East Houston.
Dash pointed out a green awning with the words Punjabi Deli printed on it, making me hungry all over again as he described his usual order.
Right next to it was a bar called The Library.
Neither of us were quite ready to go home, so we went past the crowd that had spilled out onto the sidewalk and headed inside.
If it was hot outside, it was sweltering in the packed bar.
The Lady Cerulean song that was throbbing through the neon-tinted air was a little too loud for easy conversation, and we had to drift close together to be able to hear each other without having to shout.
You’d think that after all the hand-holding Dash and I had done earlier I wouldn’t be fazed by the occasional bump and graze, but every time we accidentally brushed against each other, it felt like we were striking sparks off the places where our bodies met.
My gaze kept straying to his hand. His fingers were curled loosely around his glass, his thumb slowly stroking away the condensation beading on its smooth surface.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to burn with desire.
Prickles of awareness danced over my skin, so scalding that I almost convinced myself Dash could feel the heat radiating from me.
By some miracle, I kept it together. And kind of disappointingly, so did he. But it wasn’t that disappointing, because we spent the next few hours deep in conversation, resurfacing only when the music cut out and we realized that the bar was closing.
We made our way outside, and I didn’t know about Dash, but I felt like I had gotten the one thing I’d been craving ever since I had moved to New York—a real connection.
The sky was starting to get that translucent quality that means that it’s about to lighten, but I was still wide awake.
So when Dash said we might as well go watch the sun rise over the Brooklyn Bridge, I pulled out my phone and ordered us a Lyft.
We made it there right in time to catch the sun as it started to peek out from behind the buildings, suffusing the pale sky with its orange glow.
If there’s one thing about this city, it’s that there are always other people around, even at sunrise on a Saturday morning.
Laughing, Dash and I pressed ourselves into a corner to get out of the way of joggers and of the couple shooting their engagement pictures, and we watched the night turn into a new day.
INT. THE DUKE’S DRAWING ROOM—DAY
In the FOREGROUND, THE DUKE OF HARDING sits on his pink armchair, reading a large tome bound in leather. He glances up at the sound of footsteps, and the book lies forgotten on his lap as he spies his bluestocking.
THE DUKE OF HARDING
(with a wicked little curl to his lips)
This? Yes, it is the book you were reading earlier. I thought I’d see what you found so captivating about it. Why you keep your gaze so firmly on its pages when I happen to walk past. Why it brings such a blush to your cheeks.
The Duke picks up the book and turns it over in his hands as he studies it.
THE DUKE OF HARDING (gazing at the camera)
I’m beginning to think it’s not the book at all. It’s much too dry to warrant such a response. I think perhaps it’s the sight of my sweet butt cheeks that gets you all hot and jsdlkad
M: Dashwood, get off the doc. You’re in my way.
D: Impossible. I’m being very helpful and productive.
M: Kinda like this morning when you asked if you should get us on the next flight to London so that we could shoot our videos in a more authentic location??? (I’m not saying no, btw.)
D: Hey, that was a serious offer.
M: You’re in a weird mood today. I think you’re spending too much time around me.
D: Not possible. Speaking of, though, you wanna go grab a coffee (or sugary drink of your choice) and help me run lines?
M: Nope, I’m very busy and important. (See you in front of the laundromat in five.)