32. Eleanor
Eleanor
Theo picks me up the following morning at six, and even though it’s still dark out, I take a quick, furtive glance along the street before slipping into his Range Rover.
“Hi,” I say, giddy as I set my weekend bag at my feet. I want to lean across and kiss him, but even in the shadowed interior of his car, I know I can’t. Shouldn’t.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough from sleep.
He pulls the car onto the quiet street without another word.
Nerves flicker through me as we turn down Main Street, dark and empty this early in the morning, then head out of Wetherly Cove.
I don’t know what to expect from this weekend, but sitting beside him, in the hush of his car, is already enough.
The Range Rover is what I’d expect: sleek, polished charcoal exterior, black leather seats, chrome detailing. The floor mats are spotless, the dashboard free of dust. This car is Theo Wright incarnate. A proper grown-up car.
I know that’s a silly thing to say, but even at twenty-seven, parts of my life don’t feel fully real yet. Like I’m in the middle of building something that hasn’t quite taken shape. My career. My dented car. My place in the world.
But Theo… he’s already built his life. He’s put in the hard work, made the choices, arrived somewhere solid.
Even if I can see, maybe more than he can, that all that structure comes at a cost.
I sneak a glance at him as we turn onto Montauk Highway, the car gliding along quiet, tree-lined stretches of road that lead toward the Long Island Expressway.
Even on the weekend, he’s still in a button-down shirt and dark chinos with a crease, silver watch glinting in the early morning light.
It’s like he doesn’t have a casual mode.
My mind flashes to him at Halloween, in that soft Henley and ripped jeans, all sharp fangs and claws.
That look epitomized the unrestrained animal side of him, the same man from the copy room, his office yesterday.
Theo seems to exist at extremes of total restraint and control, or, when he can’t hold it together anymore, wild, primal release.
He senses my gaze on him, glancing over to give me a sleepy smile. “I brought coffee,” he murmurs, motioning to the cup holders. I’d been too busy looking at him to notice.
“Thanks.” I take one, letting my gaze stray out the window as we head along the highway, scenery passing in a blur. The sun is almost up, the landscape ablaze in gold, orange, and red, a riot of fall colors.
Theo’s warm hand slides onto my thigh, and my breath catches. I’d forgotten he’s allowed to touch me here. Heat radiates from that spot, and I press my eyes shut, savoring it.
Let’s find out what this is when no one’s watching.
I recall his words from yesterday, my heart quickening. I’m not the only one who wants more from this, from us, and I’m dizzy at the thought. That this could be something real.
If only we didn’t have to sneak out of town to have it.
Still, I’m not complaining. I get him to myself for an entire night. The fundraiser floats into my mind, chased by guilt, but I push it away. Theo’s right, I’ve been working hard, and I deserve a break. We both do.
Setting my coffee in the cup holder, I turn to gaze at him.
We’re miles from Wetherly Cove, and I’ve been patient enough.
His sandalwood cologne is like an aphrodisiac, and I need to get closer.
Leaning over the center console, I press a kiss to his bearded cheek, stroking the coarse hair.
It suits him, this beard. Softens him. And fuck, I love the silver.
It reminds me that time has shaped him, turned him into the man he is today.
The man I can’t keep my hands off.
“Theo,” I whisper, dragging my mouth across the silver. “This beard… God.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, one hand coming to stroke it. “I’m glad you like it. Though…” He glances in the rear-view mirror for a second, his gaze flicking to mine, a flash of something I don’t recognize. “You don’t think it’s too gray?”
Oh. I study him for a moment, what I now understand to be vulnerability lining his face. I know he’s worried he’s too old for me, and I get it. He’s old enough to be my father.
But I’ve never found his age to be anything other than a turn-on. I’ve never felt anything but utterly attracted to him.
“No,” I say huskily, pressing my mouth to his neck. “It’s perfect. I think about this beard when I’m alone at night…” I let my words hang there, the implication clear, and his hand tightens on my leg, pinkie finger stroking my skin.
“You do?”
“God, yes.”
He groans as I work my way down his neck, into the open collar of his shirt. I wait for him to move his hand higher, but his jaw clenches and he pulls it away. Then he grips the steering wheel with two firm hands, knuckles white, like he’s battling the urge to reach for me.
I settle back in my seat, quelling the disappointment in my chest. Yes, he has to focus on driving, but I know it’s more than that. This weekend is about spending time together, real time together. We can’t just rip each other’s clothes off at every opportunity.
“Here.” Theo turns the stereo on with a sigh, as if to distract us both. “Put some music on.”
“Sure.” I tug my phone out and, after fiddling with the console for a moment, pair it via Bluetooth. “What do you want to listen to?”
He lifts a shoulder, gaze trained on the road. “You choose.”
I hesitate. Music is so personal. I remember the music he had on when he cooked me dinner that time, something classical, beautiful. I can’t imagine what he’ll think of my taste.
“Okay,” I agree, chewing my lip. “But it might not be your thing.”
The side of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile as his gaze slides my way. “Try me.”
I scroll through my phone, weighing my options. In the end, I go with Hozier’s Wasteland, Baby!, putting on the track No Plan. The title makes me think of Theo and me. This weekend. Everything that comes after. How we don’t have a damn clue what we’re doing.
He listens for a moment, nodding slightly. “It’s not bad,” he concedes, but he doesn’t look like he’s only tolerating it. Not when I catch his finger tapping the wheel, when he nudges the volume up via the button on the steering wheel as if I won’t notice.
I watch him drive, smiling to myself. He didn’t change the song. He didn’t even complain. He just listened, and he likes it. Stern, uptight Headmaster Wright, drumming along to Hozier in the car.
Happiness balloons in my chest, my heart feeling suddenly like it could burst. This man…
he’s such a collection of contradictions, and I love them all.
I love his headmaster side, all rules and restrictions.
I love the deep, rough passion that breaks through.
And this side, this softer, unnameable part I’m only now learning about.
I love it all, and can’t wait to learn even more, to see even more facets of him.
I just hope I get the chance.
The title track comes on, much softer than the previous track, the lyrics romantic, revealing. I have to force my gaze away as Hozier sings about the intensity of falling in love.
Because if I look at Theo now, he’ll see it all over my face.
He’ll see how hard I’ve fallen in love with him.
We arrive in the city too early to check into our hotel, so Theo finds a spot to park in the West Village. Unfolding his long legs from the car, he pulls on a tailored charcoal-gray wool coat, and smiles at me.
“Let’s get some breakfast.”
I nod, stretching after the drive. A siren blares a few streets away, and I smile.
It’s odd returning to the city after the quiet coastal peace of Wetherly Cove.
As we emerged from the dark, narrow Midtown Tunnel into a burst of light and joined FDR Drive to head south, I didn’t feel the crushing stress I remember from my last time here.
I watched the skyscrapers rise around us, spotted the familiar silhouette of the Chrysler Building, glimpsed the Brooklyn Bridge spanning the East River in the distance, and grinned.
And when Theo turned off at Grand Street, guiding us across town into the West Village, I felt a quiet thrill.
I love Wetherly Cove, and have no plans to leave, but it’s nice to be back. It’s nice to be here with him.
“Where should we eat?” I ask, falling into step beside Theo, pulling my own mulberry-red coat tight around me.
“I’m not sure.” He chuffs a small, quiet laugh, a puff of white steam in the cold fall air. His hands slide into his coat pockets, his posture different from usual. Uncertain, almost. “I haven’t been to the city in ages. Do you know anywhere good?”
“I do.” I lived in Crown Heights but came to the West Village whenever I could to visit my favorite bookstore, Between the Lines, so I know the area well.
He pauses at the crosswalk, and I bite back a smile. Any New Yorker knows you don’t wait for the light. You walk. But as Theo’s hand comes to my lower back, tentative at first, then tightening protectively as a truck rumbles past, I forget the lights.
He’s touching me. In public.
And when I glance up to find him gazing at me, blue eyes warm with affection as they move over my face, a smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, I forget the whole damn city.
He’s allowed to touch me here. Of course. We’re anonymous, not scandalous. And I can touch him, too.
I lift a hand to his chest, wanting to rise on my toes and kiss him, when someone behind me bellows, “Are you crossing, or what?”
Ah, New York.
Theo’s brows slant together as he steps away, motioning for me to cross the street.
But I’m transfixed by this revelation. That I don’t have to hold myself in check, hyper-aware of every glance, carefully counting the minutes until we’re alone.
And suddenly, I’m drunk on it.
I grab his hand when we reach the other side of the street, tugging him against the railing of a stoop, out of the flow of pedestrians. Then I pull him into me by the lapels of his coat.