turns to face me; our eyes lock. I am lost once more. I can feel him inside me even though he is across the room. The phantom of his being with me is a powerful, beautiful thing.
‘Fillet steak. Fries. Onion rings. A salad.’ He lifts a brow questioningly and covers the receiver. ‘Anything else?’
I shake my head.
‘Ice cream. Some oysters. Maybe some garlic bread. A peach.’
He winks at me, then hangs up as he strides over to me. He stares at me for a heart-thumping second, his expression unreadable, and then he drops his hands down, inviting me to grab them.
I know it’s not wise, but I put my hands in his as if on autopilot and he pulls me up to stand. Our bodies press to one another. My breath catches.
‘I’ve missed you.’
My heart drops.
He can’t have missed me. It’s not what we are.
I smile, but I know it’s only half a smile. I’m too perturbed, confused, concerned, to be properly amused.
‘I want to ask you something.’
I don’t think my look is encouraging, but apparently he doesn’t notice. He begins to sing again. His latest song. The one that is on all the radio stations—everywhere. His latest song that is a number one hit.
God, he’s so famous.
And yet we speak as though it doesn’t matter.
‘Yeah?’ It’s a hoarse prompt.
‘I’m doing a gig Friday night. Wanna come?’
It takes several seconds for me to connect the words with the truth. The fact that by ‘doing a gig’ he means performing at a concert. And not a little local town hall concert either.
‘Where?’ I ask with a sinking heart.
‘The Garden.’
‘Madison Square Garden?’
He nods.
He’ll be performing for tens of thousands of people. On Friday night. When I would usually be at happy hour with my two best friends.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, not quite sure how to reply properly. ‘I’m good.’
‘I know you’re good,’ he responds with a wry twist of his lips. ‘I’m asking if you want to come to the concert.’
I bite down on my lip and decide honesty is the best policy. ‘Will you be offended if I say no?’
He laughs. ‘No. My ego isn’t that fragile. I’m curious, though.’
Naturally. ‘It’s just...’ How can I put into words what I don’t fully understand myself?
‘You don’t like my music?’ he teases.
‘Can’t stand it,’ I quip back.
His smile makes my stomach lurch. ‘I just...’
‘Yes?’
His lips are twitching at the corners, showing his amusement even as he tries to listen seriously to whatever wisdom I’m about to share.
‘I don’t know. I mean... I just... First of all, I don’t see you like that. I know you’re some superstar, but I like it that this feels so normal.’ I pause. ‘I mean apart from the luxurious apartment, the mega-mansion at the heart of the village and your penchant for ordering everything off the room service menu.’
He laughs.
‘And we both know this isn’t a relationship.’ I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘We’re two people who have agreed to...to sleep together. To fuck. That’s our thing.’ I sigh. ‘I had fun today. At the MoMA with you. But we shouldn’t do that again.’
‘We can do the Staten Island Ferry next time,’ he teases.
‘I’m serious, Ethan.’ I need him to understand. ‘We’ve both said what we want from this. The MoMA, your concert... Those things aren’t on my list.’
He stares at me long and hard for a few seconds. ‘I thought we said we’d have fun?’
‘Yeah. Sexy fun.’
He laughs. ‘I found you very sexy at the MoMA. Think of it as foreplay, baby. It was just one afternoon.’
‘No.’ I shake my head quickly. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
His eyes crinkle at the corners, as if he’s trying really hard not to laugh. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to overthink shit?’
‘Not so eloquently,’ I mumble.
His laugh is short. ‘Well, you do.’
‘There’s danger in this,’ I say seriously, softly, pulling him back to the heart of my worries. ‘Danger for me.’
His eyes throb with mine. He is reading me. Studying me. Analysing me. I keep my expression blank of emotion with an enormous effort.
‘Who hurt you?’
The question knocks me sideways. I drop his hand and take a step backwards.
‘No one.’
I move towards the window. I’m awkward. My body is hot and cold.
‘Who hurt you?’
‘No one.’ I say it more emphatically now. ‘You think that the only reason a person can not want to be in a relationship with you is that she’s running from a past trauma, or something? Talk about egomaniacal.’
The charge is completely unreasonable—particularly given that he’s right.
‘I think there’s more to this than you’re telling me,’ he insists quietly.
My eyes lift to his in the reflection of the window. There is strength in his stance and I feel it push against me. I suck in a breath; it barely reaches my lungs.
‘So?’ I’m on the defensive. I make a point to lower my voice. ‘Have you told me everything about you and Sienna?’
I see his frown in the reflection. ‘No.’
‘But you think I should be an open book to you?’
‘Hey.’
He walks behind me slowly, but his hands on my shoulders are firm. Demanding. He turns me around, then presses his thumb beneath my chin, holding my face towards his.
‘You’re the one who’s acting like I’ve just fucking proposed. Why?’
