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He chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Like a kraken. Okay. Yes.”
“Anyway,” I say, “that would be for a date—the kraken planning—which this clearly isn’t. So how would you plan this particular evening without the help of your entire events team?”
“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t try to impress you.”
“You’re off to a good start,” I joke.
He tries not to smile, but I see the quirk. Knowing that he finds me vaguely entertaining stretches my smile wider.
“I wouldn’t try to impress you because I have the feeling that flashy things aren’t your style.”
“Correct,” I say. It hardly makes him a genius: he found me at a climate change protest, wearing a vinted jacket and torn jeans—and he saw my old phone’s screen, which has more cracks in it than a plumbing academy.
“I’m pretty sure you must be hungry, but I wouldn’t take you out for dinner because after the day you’ve had, you probably don’t feel like going out.”
“Correct again,” I say, touching the steri-strip dressing on my temple. Plus, I’m already in pajamas. Super silky cream-colored ones I’m guessing were sent up from the concierge earlier.
“So …” he ventures. “We should stay in, then.”
Our eyes lock. There is a current running between us.
“Makes sense,” I agree. “We don’t want to be wasteful. We’ve already got the room, may as well make the most of it.”
His eyes flare. It’s the first time I truly understand that he may want me as much as I want him.
“Yes,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “Let’s do that.”
Chapter 6
Balls
“Let’s start with a bath,” he says, standing up and making his way to the bathroom. The tension is broken. I wait until I can hear him running the water and finally allow my body to relax. I breathe properly. I haul air deeply into my lungs. It’s like oxygen is finally back in the room—and gravity.
Okay. I need to think. I need to pull myself together when he is out of the room because I can’t seem to think clearly when he is near me.
Firstly, I tell myself, stop being so damn melodramatic.
Next, I try to imagine what Becks would tell me, because she’s brilliant and always gives the best advice. I often think that I should have one of those Kumbaya Jesus Camp bracelets, but instead of WWJD it should say WWBS: What Would Becks Say?
Saint Ives, she’d say. I settled in the for imaginary pep talk. Don’t be an asshole. You have not been kidnapped. You are not being held against your will—let’s be honest, the exact opposite is true. Yes, there is crazy chemistry between you and a strange man. Worse things have happened. Now just deal! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for what will probably be an amazing experience, so just chill the fuck out AND ENJOY IT.
Life is short. Grab it by the balls! (Not his balls)
(Unless that’s his thing.)
(It might be. Rich guys are kinky as fuck.)
Does obscene wealth make you uncomfortable? Yes.
Do you want to be fucked senseless by this man-god? Also yes.
Great. Good chat. See you at yoga tomorrow. I want to hear every dirty detail.
I inhale again, feeling calmer. She’s right. I know she’s right. It’s one night—who cares if this man is everything Becks and I hate about the world? Tomorrow my plain old life will be back to normal and this will all be a memory. A guilty pleasure to remember when I’m old, sexless and withered, wearing my organic cotton Fair Trade tunic.
That is, unless I die tonight in ecstasy. And with the planet burning, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.
I’m in, I tell myself. Where do I sign?
