Page 36 of The Bet
“Yes, please,” she says, and suddenly she’s softer—like the decision to accept is the only power move she needs.
I pull a Zin out of the fridge, not the best I own but still impossible to get in most zip codes, and pour two glasses. Set the bottle and both glasses on the end of the island, along with a slate slab with a wedge of cheese, some brown crackers, a pile of almonds shiny with oil.
She takes the glass from me and holds it up to the light, as if she’s going to guess the year just by looking. Then she sets her nose to the rim and inhales.
“Are you one of those people who can tell what region a wine comes from by the smell?” she asks.
“No. I just know what I like.” I watch Andie sip, slow and careful, and for a second she looks like a different person: more woman than girl, more predator than prey.
She sets the glass down and leans back against the counter, arms crossed. Her bust is pushed up and I’m distracted, my dick jerking in my pants. “So am I part of your M.O. tonight?” she asks. “Do you always take girls up here, and impress them with the view, the cheese, the wine?”
I smile, not because she’s wrong but because she’s only half right. “Actually, I’ve never brought anyone here before,” I say. “Not in that sense.”
She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Liar.”
“Not lying,” I say, and mean it. “If I wanted to show off, there are a lot of different ways. I’d take you to the lake house. Or the suite at the Four Seasons. This is home, so it’s different.”
She absorbs that, and for a second, neither of us moves. The city’s reflected in the glass behind her, the lights painting her gold and electric blue.
“You’re staring,” she says, without looking at me.
“So are you,” I reply, and watch the blush rise in her cheeks.
For a minute we just drink, taking turns picking at the cheese and the almonds. She eats with her fingers, licking the salt from her thumb after every bite, and I can’t help but imagine her licking other things. The thought tightens something in my chest, then lower.
We move to the large plate-glass window, and I stand beside her, both of us looking out over the river and the labyrinth of streets below. She leans her forehead to the glass, then turns to face me, her breath making a fogged oval on the window.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, so quietly it’s almost for herself.
“It is,” I say, but I’m looking at her.
She shifts, angling her body toward me, the strap of her dress sliding half an inch down her shoulder. “Why do I feel like this is the part where you tell me a secret?” she asks.
I swirl my wine, let the silence draw out. “I don’t have secrets,” I say, then reconsider. “Or maybe I do, but none I haven’t told you already.”
Her lips part, and I can see her tongue press the back of her teeth before she says, “There’s something you want to ask me.”
I smile. “Yes. There is.”
“Then ask,” she says, all challenge.
I set my wine on the sill, turn to her, hands on either side of the glass. She’s so close I can smell the heat of her skin, the floral of her shampoo.
“Andie,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I’d like. “You know I’m older than you. You know that my daughter is literally your classmate.”
She nods, biting her lip.
“And?”
I meet her eyes directly, my blue gaze flashing. “How much do you know about men? I need to know.”
Her face doesn’t move at first. Then she looks away, blinking, and crosses her arms over her chest, as if to hide the pulse jumping in her throat. “I know enough.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mean that. I mean—have you ever been with one? In the way that matters?”
She goes still. For a second I think she’ll lie, or laugh it off, or say something cute. But she just stares at the river, then at her own feet.
“No,” she says. Her voice is so small I almost don’t catch it. “I haven’t.”
