Page 97 of Faking It
My penthouse is quiet when I enter. I set my keys on table in the foyer and am about to jokingly call out, “Honey, I’m home,” when I see her.
The words die on my lips.
She’s standing at the wall of windows with a stunning night skyline in the background, but all I see is her.
The curve of her neck. The slope of her shoulders. The swell of her hips.
Every part of me aches to touch her and yet I feel like I can’t move. Like I can’t breathe. The sight of her here in my place, in my home, makes me feel things I’ve always sworn weren’t real.
Things I’m not quite sure I trust myself to believe.
MANHATTAN STRETCHES OUT FOR MILES before me. The silhouette of the Freedom Tower is on the right, the Empire State Building on the left, and below is the hustle and bustle of a city that never seems to slow down.
Like a little kid, I press my face to the window and take it all in. The constant push of taxis through the streets. The muted lights of the food vendors on the corners. The honking of horns that filter up every now and again to remind me this is real. That I’m here and that today actually happened.
I hear Zane when he comes in—the toss of his keys, his relieved sigh after a long day, the sound of his shoes starting and then stopping on the hardwood floor—but I don’t turn around. I’m still in denial about what’s going to happen in three days’ time.
The weight of his stare only heightens my anticipation to see him again, but there’s something about the moment, about the surge of emotions flooding through me, that has me waiting for him to make the first move. That has me wanting him to set the tone for tonight.
Business or pleasure.
We’re in his house. How is he going to play this?
My breath hitches when his lips press ever so softly to the slope of my shoulder and stay there. The simple touch is so intimate yet arousing that I close my eyes and just memorize the feel of it.
Pleasure.
“How was your day?”
“Mmm.” His hands slide around my waist.
“Mmm?” The sound vibrates against my skin and sends shockwaves through me.
“It was good. Wonderful. Long. I could go on.”
“I see you got my text.”
“And your gift.” I run a hand down my abdomen to smooth the dress down and my hand hits his and stays there. “Thank you. It was unnecessary.”
“A lot of things are . . . that doesn’t mean you still don’t deserve them.”
“Your place is gorgeous.” I say looking at it through the reflection in front of me. Dark blues, soft greens. Masculine but cozy.
“I’m here nowhere near as much as I used to be, but it’s nice to have when I am.”
“Thank you for letting me stay here.” I feel silly for saying it, but it’s true. I was expecting the coach or a hotel . . . not his place. Not with him.
“After everything we’ve been through?” He chuckles and moves his lips to the side of my neck. “I figured we at least needed to go out in style.”
His words make my stomach lurch into my throat. I’m sure he didn’t mean them how I took them—one last tryst before we part ways—but it’s where my mind went with it and hell if it’s not hard to remind myself to separate my feelings from it all.
Enjoy the moment, I remind myself. Breathe it in. Live in the now.
“I tell you to pick any restaurant in the city, money’s no object,”—he laughs and points at me with his breadstick—“and you ask for takeout on the rooftop.”
I look up from my half-eaten piece of pizza, smile softly, and wish I could take a snapshot of him like this right now. Seated cross-legged on the ground, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, bare feet sticking out beneath his slacks, hair disheveled, eyes ablaze, and that shy smile of his I love directed straight at me.
“Sometimes simple is better. No frills. No pretenses.” I shrug and feel ridiculous as I point to the scenery around us from the rooftop patio that I assume is highly coveted in this concrete jungle. There’s a covered trellis overhead giving us privacy, an expansive patio set we’re resting our backs against, a soft rug beneath us, and the city laid out around us complete with twinkles and moonlight.
