Page 22 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
She wiggles an eyebrow, stands on her tiptoes, and drops a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t worry, Hunter. Even if you’re tempted, I’m not, so whether I’m involved or not doesn’t matter.”
Ouch.
But when the cab arrives, I open the door for her, bend down, and brush her cheek with a chaste kiss. “Don’t worry, honey. I know I’m not the only one tempted.”
The signs come in a rush.
The telltale gasp.
The hitch in her voice.
The way she shivers.
I let my lips linger on her cheek, then I murmur, “You smell better than last time. So much better that I have to wonder how your lips taste.”
Her lips part the slightest bit. Another sign.
On that note, I say good night.
8
Presley
Achievement unlocked.
I breathe a twelve-ton sigh of relief, because holy hell, did I really just pull that off?
Me?
Mild-mannered art historian goes full coy vixen?
Then again, I’m not truly mild-mannered. But hell, it was fun to amp up the mysterious factor times ten.
As the car weaves through traffic, I grab my phone, reporting back to Truly, as ordered.
* * *
Presley: Apparently, all I needed to do was mention the age twenty-five and he assumed I had a twenty-five-year-old boyfriend.
* * *
Truly: Brilliant! Also, how the hell did he jump to that conclusion?
* * *
Presley: I’m honestly not sure. We were joking about age in general, I made a comment about twenty-five being young, since I was twenty-five when I met him, and somehow he leapt to the conclusion that I have a twenty-five-year-old boy toy in my apartment.
* * *
Truly: Like, in a cage? And you have to get home to let him out and feed and water him?
* * *
Presley: Please, I’m a benevolent sugar mama. My apartment boy toy is fully free-range.
* * *
Truly: How enlightened of you. But tell me more about how Hunter reacted to your imaginary boy pet. I need all the details!
* * *
As the cab slows at a light, I picture Hunter’s face, the furrow in his brow, the flicker of envy in those deep, dark irises. God, his eyes.
They melted me from the beginning.
The biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen were the first thing I’d noticed about him the day I met him at the museum. Warm and welcoming, they said Trust me, talk to me, look into my soul.
And tonight they seemed to say You’d better not be taken.
A shimmer of heat runs through me at the memory. I liked his jealousy. I wanted his jealousy. It felt good and right.
And so did the way he stared at me like he wanted to eat me up.
I shake off the little shudders.
I tap out a reply, keeping my answer objective.
* * *
Presley: He kept asking me if I had one. And by “kept asking,” I mean about fifty times.
* * *
Truly: Whoa.
* * *
Presley: Men are so silly. Such pointlessly territorial creatures, right?
* * *
Truly: That wasn’t what my “whoa” was for.
* * *
Presley: What was your “whoa” for, then?
* * *
Truly: “Whoa” means tell me more about how the whole night went before I give you my diagnosis. And tell me now!
* * *
As the cab whisks me to the East Village, I give her a quick summary, including the way he touched my arm, my hair, my cheek. Whoa indeed. He did touch me a lot. Then I relate the boyfriend convo, how he called me “honey,” and the teasing.
I lean back against the seat, smiling out of nowhere as I recall his words—You look beautiful. I just wanted to say that—and how they sent shivers racing down my spine.
But he’s just being a guy. It means nothing.
I give Truly the unfiltered tale of the night and wait for her conclusion.
* * *
Truly: Whoa . . . as in it sounds like he has unfinished business with you.
* * *
I stare at her note. She can’t mean that.
Unfinished business? No way.
His reactions were surely less about me and more about his persona. His rugged, hypermasculine persona, which was irked by my power play.
That’s all. Nothing personal.
The cab stops at my apartment, and when I reach for my wallet to pay the driver, he waves me off. “Your boyfriend paid for it.”
I shoot him a surprised look. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
The man smiles. “He’s quite generous. Maybe consider him.”
I step out of the cab and stand on the sidewalk, amused by the cabbie’s sudden interest in my romantic life. And admittedly a little delighted by Hunter’s generosity.
I call Truly as I walk up the stoop. “Hunter paid for my cab. Secretly.”
“And he was obsessed with whether you’re seeing someone or not?” She sounds like she’s adding up facts to make her point.
“Yes, and I didn’t give away a thing to him. I was rocking the evening,” I say, unlocking the front door.
“Good girl.”
“But do you actually think that means he has unfinished business?”
