17. Cole
Since it’sRiley’s day off, I’m responsible for Archie on Saturdays. Once the little man is at the table with his breakfast, I sit opposite him, open up my laptop, and try to get some work done.
I can’t go into the office, but I can get a head start on next week. I rarely let a weekend go to waste.
But it’s hard to focus this morning, because I just keep thinking about Riley.
There was something off about her today. She wasn’t as cheerful as she usually is, and she wouldn’t tell me where she was going.
It’s none of my business, of course, but still, I can’t stop thinking about it. What if she’s going on a date?
I click away from the spreadsheet I was supposed to be double-checking, tabbing over to Instagram on my laptop.
I feel like a fucking stalker, but it’s the only way to satisfy my curiosity. I look up Riley’s profile. She doesn’t have a lot of photos posted, but there is one from today, around half an hour ago.
It’s hard to tell where she is from the photo; it looks as though there’s some sort of art installation on the wall behind her. My gaze isn’t drawn to her surroundings, anyway. The picture is of her and another man, both smiling at the camera for the selfie.
I don’t know who the hell this guy is, but his arm is around her shoulder.
A flash of jealousy fills me.
Without even stopping to think about what I’m doing, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my assistant’s number.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Could you come to my house?” I ask, my voice deadly calm. “I need someone to watch Archer.”
“Um… sure,” she replies, clearly taken aback. “Why? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I just need to go take care of something. How soon can you be here?”
Kerry hesitates, then says, “No more than ten minutes.”
“Good.”
I hang up, then open another app: the GPS service I installed on Riley’s phone when she first took the nanny job. I need to see her. I need to stop whatever’s going on between her and that guy.
I feel like a complete and total stalker, but I can’t help it. I stand in the kitchen, tapping my foot in impatience and staring at the map on my screen, the pulsing blue dot that represents Riley’s location. Kerry can’t get here soon enough.
When Kerry does arrive, I give her a curt nod as I brush past her in the foyer. “He’s in the living room. Thank you.” I know I sound clipped, but I’m in a hurry. What if something happens between them, some connection that should have been mine?
I slip into the driver’s side of my black sedan, sinking into the plush brown leather of the seat. For a moment, I sit motionless in the garage, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white.
Do I really want to do this?
Yes, is the obvious answer. I really, really do.
I peel out onto the street in a screech of tires. Some small part of my brain, way in the back, desperately hopes that Archie isn’t looking out of the window. I don’t know how I’d explain that kind of driving when I’m usually so adamant that our chauffeur stays below the speed limit.
With my cell phone mounted on the dashboard, I make my way through the city. Riley is somewhere in Midtown, and the unpredictable New York traffic stalls my progress as I work my way through the grid streets.
When I arrive at her location, my phone emits a soft chime. I snatch it from the dashboard and leave the car double-parked in front of the building, a modern-looking, relatively low-roofed glass structure situated between two skyscrapers.
I burst through the entrance, immediately spotting the massive mural that was the backdrop of that photograph on Riley’s Instagram. It’s a deep blue, the brush strokes clearly meant to emulate ocean waves.
What I didn’t notice from the selfie was that there are people in the mural, a series of diverse, detailed faces painted in shades of blue throughout the water.
The mural overlooks an area that almost looks like a cafeteria. Lit by natural light from the tall, glass walls are several long tables. A few people, most of them young, are sitting along the benches, playing board games or card games.
Including Riley. She’s at the near end of one of the tables, sitting opposite a teenage girl in rumpled clothes. She has a handful of UNO cards fanned out before her, and as she glances up, her gaze locks on mine. A look of shock crosses her face.
Immediately, my heart sinks. I’m starting to get the sense that I read this wrong.
I turn my gaze on the rest of the room, and—yeah, there he is. The fucker who was in Riley’s picture. He’s at the other end of the table, completely absorbed in the game of chess he’s playing with a different kid.
This doesn’t seem like a date activity. He’s sitting sixty feet away from her, not even looking at her. I’m starting to get the sense that this isn’t her boyfriend.
“What are you doing here?” Riley’s voice drags my attention back to her. She sounds a little bit accusatory, and I grit my teeth, trying to come up with something reasonable.
“I… realized earlier that I should have offered you a ride home,” I say. She raises an eyebrow at that, the corner of her mouth twisting in suspicion. “It’s a long way to take the subway.”
“Right,” she says skeptically, drawing out the word into multiple syllables. “Okay.”
“So… would you like a ride?”
She shrugs. “You know what? Sure. But I need to stick around here for a while longer.” She gives the girl across the table a bright smile, and the girl grins back. “I still need to beat Tasha at UNO.”
“In your dreams,” says the kid, placing a card between them. “Draw Four.”
While Riley clicks her tongue in staged disappointment, I take a step away from the tables, turning slowly to fully take in my surroundings.
There’s a receptionist’s desk behind me with two workers, one of whom is in conversation with another kid, no older than fifteen. In fact, most of the people in this room are teenagers. Many of them have tattered or faded clothing, and some look like they haven’t showered in a while.
Amidst the kids, sitting with them and talking to them, are a few adults wearing what I realize are similar t-shirts. There are a couple of different colors floating around—powder blue like Riley’s, and purple like the guy in her selfie—but they all have the same logo on the front.
There are signs on the ceiling, pointing the way to showers, a TV room, a gym and a kitchen. It hits me all at once: this is a community center.
Shit. I barged straight in without even thinking to check the fucking map, or check the sign above the door.
Riley’s not on a date. She’s volunteering. At a community center—helping kids who are just like she was, kids who need someone to look out for them.
Jesus. I’m such a fucking idiot.
I clear my throat, approaching Riley at her table. “Is there anything I can do while I’m waiting?”
She frowns, not looking up from her cards. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”
“I meant something I could do to help.”
At that, she lifts her head and nods in the direction of the back hallway. “They can always use help in the kitchen. Go ask back there.”
Five minutes later, I’m sorting plastic cutlery into paper bags for take-home meals. I keep at it for about twenty minutes before Riley appears in the kitchen doorway to let me know that she’s ready to go.
She’s silent as we walk out to the car, but I can practically hear the gears in her head turning. She’s too smart to have bought my excuses.
Sure enough, the second we get into the car and the doors are closed, she turns to me. “Why did you really come?”
I start the car, letting the purr of the engine momentarily fill the quiet between us. “I… thought you might need rescuing from that guy,” I admit.
“What guy?”
I maneuver the car away from the curb, heading toward the nearest intersection. “The—” I clear my throat. “The guy on your Instagram.”
“You were going through my Instagram?” She sounds incredulous, so I quickly shake my head.
“Not often. I just… happened to check it while I was taking a break from work.”
“And that’s it?” she asks. “You saw a picture of me with some guy and just assumed I was in trouble, or something?”
“Well…” I pause, staring at the road. “I might have been a little jealous.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s biting her lip, her cheeks flushed—and not in pleasure.
“That’s not fair,” she says, clearly miffed. “You don’t get to be jealous if I can’t be.”
We catch a red light. As the car slides to a stop, I stare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No.” I shake my head, mystified. “I really don’t.”
Around us, the traffic starts again. It takes a blaring car horn to make me notice that the light has turned green.
Her voice is small, and she looks away as if embarrassed as she says, “I’m talking about the woman you fucked last night.”
My brows draw together as I try to figure out what the hell she’s talking about.
The woman I fucked…?
The tension melts from me instantly with the sudden burst of clarity.
“Oh.” I let out a breath, relieved. “You mean Carrie? That wasn’t it at all.”
“Then what—”
“She’s my masseuse,” I explain. “She comes over once a month. I spend long hours at work, and it’s not exactly easy on my spine. That, and…”
I trail off. I’m not ready to admit to the rest: that my injuries still plague me from time to time, ever since the incident. That frequent massages help to keep the soreness at bay.
I try to continue as if I hadn’t almost slipped up. “Anyway, I like to get a massage once a month, and it’s more convenient for her to come to me rather than the other way around. She gets paid a good premium for a house call, so she doesn’t mind.”
“Oh,” Riley says. “Okay.” I glance at her. She’s staring out of the windshield, but there’s obvious relief in her face. She takes a breath. “A masseuse. What about her massage table?”
I chuckle. “I have one at the house. Makes it easier for Carrie. That way, she doesn’t have to lug her equipment around.”
“Oh. That’s… I understand,” Riley says. Her stare seems a million miles away, but I can tell that she believes me.
But it’s not enough for her to believe me. I want her to understand me.
“I know I made that comment about women coming over,” I say, “but I actually haven’t fucked anyone since you moved in.”
Her gaze flashes to me, and she blinks, surprised. “What, you just haven’t wanted anyone?”
I meet her gaze briefly before returning my eyes to the road. I grip the steering wheel tighter, heat flashing through me. “That’s not true. There’s someone I want.”
Both of us lapse into silence. The New York traffic slides around us, a sea of black and gray cars dotted with yellow taxis.
The tension between us is palpable. She sits next to me, fiddling aimlessly with the threads of a hole in her distressed jeans, and I’m filled with the sudden urge to reach over to the passenger’s seat, slip my fingers beneath the fabric, and tear it off.
I feel like I’m about to snap. I’ve never craved anyone like this, like I crave her. I’ve never felt desire this strong, strong enough that I almost want to abandon the wheel just to have my hands on her body.
I want her. Badly.
But I can’t have her.