Page 34 of Double Exposure

I’m also sure the Lotus Crane’s wi-fi is not crappy. This room bore all the finishing touches but without losing any functionality. Except, maybe, the heater. I bend down and adjust the dial on the unit and then the thermostat. Within minutes the place starts to warm up.

I’m near to dozing off when the bathroom door opens with a wave of steam. Jade steps out with her hair up in one white fluffy towel and another wrapped around her torso.

“I figured you'd see me in the long underwear, so this was okay,” she says and crosses the room to the second bedroom door. Her face is damp, her neck long and curving, disappearing into the collarbones of a dancer. Her eyes are bright. She turns the knob and disappears behind it, but not before I notice how the water clings to her skin, leaving it luminous under the chandelier.

I swallow and nervously reach for one of the pristine wine glasses on the coffee table just as the door reopens.

She’s dressed in blue jeans and a dark red turtleneck sweater. It’s cashmere, and the soft fabric around her neck rises impossibly high. Removed from coats, jackets, heavy gear, her throat is like a swan’s. Her face, small, pink, her jet black hair drying flat like ribbons of glassy obsidian, is classical. She brushes a twist of damp hair away from her face.

“Do we have time for a glass?” she asks, eyeing what I’m sure is a very expensive bottle of red wine.

“Absolutely,” I say, and reach for an elegant corkscrew. They think of everything. I say as much as I pour our glasses. It’s only seven-thirty, but it’s been a long day. Though I want to get over to Mom’s and the rest of the crew, I also want to stay here, with the just the two of us right now.

As she reaches for her glass, our fingers touch for a moment. I hold my breath. Then the sigh that escapes is shaky, not because I’m unsure of what I want—but because I know exactly what I want.

I want this woman I just met.

This kind of confidence, the idea that this is right, is something I don’t know what to do with. Yet, there is nothing to do but trust it.

Trust your feelings.

I never have been great at that.

She sits down next to me, one leg tucked under her and her other foot hovers about six inches in the air. She raises the glass to her lips.

I want to slip my hand under that mass of black hair and cup the back of her head, bring her lips to mine, and feel her under me, but I can’t. Now is not the time. She’s been through too much.

Capturing her hair in her hand, she pulls it over one shoulder and then leans over to pick up the glass again. A wave of dark hair falls forward. Beautiful.

I catch a whiff of shampoo—something floral, honeyed, hibiscus maybe.

“You’re not drinking,” she says, nodding to my untouched glass. “It’s very good.”

I wipe my face and throw a hand on the back of the sofa. Reorient. “Your dad,” I begin, picking up the goblet. “You think he was after bears?”

She shrugs. “I have a feeling. And when I asked, he changed the topic.”

“Well, he ghosted you for a reason.”

“A not cool reason,” she says.

“Has he done it before?”

She shrugs. “Not really. He’s going to Bali next and he’s already making noises about how there’s not room for me.”

“Bali?”

She nods. “In three weeks. He nailed an incredible opportunity to scuba dive and work for a video film company there as a videographer. Bali has some of the best coral reefs and scuba diving in the world.”

I can’t help but notice that when she takes a sip, she lets the glass linger for a moment on her upper lip.

It’s just a moment. Just enough to start to get me hard.

“My dad is—he’s very protective of me in a way that is both cloying and annoying.”

She glances at my face. She can tell I have sympathy for her father. I might even be siding with him. I wouldn’t want her running around by herself traveling to God knows where alone.

“It's too much,” she tries to explain. “There was one incident in Japan when we were there, one in an alley where these two guys came up and shoved me down. One exposed himself while the other one starts unzip his,” she waves at her groin, “and then my father comes flying in all Mister Martial Arts with krav maga and scares them off. And that was that.” She takes another swallow. I watch her throat, smooth as silk. I imagine how soft it is, the tension there if she gasped.