Page 51 of 32 Days in May

“You know.” I set down my chopsticks and lean forward, narrowing my eyes at him. “I used to spend a lot of money on being a blond woman. Hours of my life were wasted in salon chairs scorching my scalp so I could have some of that fun.”

“You? Blond?” Marco feigned deep reverence. “Tell me more. I know you used to love to run—and you used to be blond. What about now?”

Now.

What do I like now? Who am I now? With our knees almost touching under the table, I can’t get out of answering this question. Not in this dress, not in high heels.

“Well,” I say slowly, searching my mind for even the most basic facts about myself. “I love a really strong cup of coffee. More than anything. If I had to pick between a last meal or a last cup of coffee, I’m going coffee, all the way. And I like to paint—I make all the signs for Soph’s stand. And cook. I don’t cook as much as I should but I think . . . I think I really love to cook.”

Without realizing it, I’ve delivered my mini monologue to the votive candle between us. When I lift my eyes to Marco, he’s watching me with widened eyes. “Underneath all that attitude . . .” He lifts his fingers and swipes them gently over my cheek, a movement so smooth and quick I wouldn’t have known it happened if I hadn’t been totally pulled in by his gravity. “You’re just a sweet little grandma.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, fuck you.”

Outside, after dinner, the night air feels like a cool rag over my flushed neck.

“We should have followed your rule,” I groan, pressing a hand to my stomach. “No page twos.”

“I don’t know.” Marco stretches like he’s just taken the best nap of his life, rubbing his stomach with both hands. “Page two was where we did some of our best work.”

“Mmmm,” I groan, leaning back against the building, actively fighting off the food coma. “I’m deeply regretting saying no to the green tea.”

“Come on.” He laughs, reaching for my hand. His fingers lace with mine. “Let’s walk it off. You can wait for a cab at my place.”

A cab at my place. What a gentleman.

It takes everything in me to not ask—is this a line? But realistically, if Marco had wanted to sleep with me, he might have tried before suggesting we split an aquarium’s worth of fish.

The night is aglow with streetlights trapped in fog. We turn a corner and somehow, we’ve slipped out of Chinatown and the crowds of twentysomethings and tourists fall away. We’re the only ones walking on a cobblestoned street under zigzagging fire escapes and electrical lines.

I let him lead the way, let his fingertips dance down my wrist until his fingers lace with mine. In heels, I’m almost as tall as Marco.

“I can’t believe you live in a neighborhood this glamorous,” I comment with widened eyes.

He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s no Evergreen.”

I let out a small laugh. “You read my mind.”

I try to keep a straight face as his fingers travel back up my wrist then migrate suddenly to the small of my back. I’m beginning to suspect Marco may be an ass man, given how frequently tonight I’ve felt his heavy gaze settling on that curve of my body. His fingers pulse for a moment on my hips and I feel a tidal wave of warmth strong enough to buckle my knees break loose from my stomach.

“Cross here,” he says. He’s just guiding me—devilishly. Marco’s building is a grand stone-facade high-rise. He greets the doorman with a quick dab. I want to analyze his face for micro-expressions—does Marco do this often? Did he do this yesterday? How many times has he brought home a woman in a skintight black dress after a fancy dinner?

But Marco’s walking too fast, the doorman’s totally unfazed. I can only wonder.

We step into the elevator and all around us are mirrors, reflecting the tiny space into infinity. My crisp profile, my short hair. The fabric of my dress, clinging to every curve and dimple of my body. His laconic, crooked smile and his heavy black waves that fall around his gaze. Marco shoves his hands into his pockets, but his eyes beckon me. Come here. No words, no fingertips. All it takes is a look.

The elevator glides upward without a sound, picking up speed with every floor we pass. His eyes travel downward, dripping over every inch of me, leaving a volcanic heat in their wake. My skin goose-bumps; my nipples harden.

“Come here,” he whispers, pulling a hand from his pocket and hooking a finger on the strap of my purse. With the gentlest tug, I fall forward toward him. I’m liquid.

We’re inches apart. He reaches for me, taking my hand in his. His lips graze my knuckles, the inside of my wrist. His mouth moves over my skin so gently I have to remind myself to keep my eyes open. Desire blossoms in my belly and I feel like an orange, peeled open, soft flesh pulled aside.

“This okay?” he asks, his voice a warm breath against my wrist.

I nod, taking another microscopic step closer to him.

Up close, Marco’s still boyish, even at thirty-three—even with the fine dusting of gray through his stubble. His brown eyes glow yellow under the light and his heavy brow softens. His other hand finds my waist and all the space is collapsing between us. His full lips part, like he’s going to say something.

The elevator dings.