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The man grins. “It’s your lucky night. The park is open for you. Someone will greet you on the other side.”
“We appreciate it.” Jonah slips the man a crisp hundred, as if people open closed New York City parks every day for him.
We mount the steps. “How?” I demand. “How?”
He winks at me, the lights of the surrounding buildings making his triumphant smile flash white. “I told you. Literally anything you want. And George called the mayor.”
I choke and nearly stumble onto the raised platform that makes up the park.
“Easy there, tiger.” Jonah’s palm lands on my back.
“You had George call the mayor? Remind me to thank them.”
“George likes throwing their weight around. I’m sure they took pleasure in it.”
I snort a laugh because George would enjoy that. I can picture their crisp tone now, always half-distracted on the phone, like the person on the other end doesn’t matter.
“You’re crazy,” I whisper.
Jonah shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t do things like this.” We walk past the tall grasses that make up the plantings along the path. We’re several stories up, walking between the buildings, as if we live in the sky.
“I’m glad I forced you out tonight.”
“Me too, Thompson.” He gives me a faint smile. “Though I think my workout tomorrow might suffer after all the drinks.”
“You’re drunk?”
“Not on your life.” His smile is hazy though.
“You’re totally drunk,” I crow.
“So are you,” he counters.
“Maybe so.” I shiver and rub my arms.
“That coat is too thin.”
“Don’t growl at me. It’s perfectly fine. It’s just windy up here.”
“Take mine.” He’s already shrugging out of it.
“No, no. I don’t need—”
“Take it.” He reaches around to settle the overcoat over my shoulders. The warm weight of it makes me sigh with pleasure.
“Better?” His dark eyes watch me intently. His hands are on my shoulders, like he can’t force himself away.
“Better,” I whisper. It smells like him, woodsy cologne, faint hints of citrus, male skin. I want to bury my nose in it, breathe him into my lungs. “Are you cold?” He’s only in his suit jacket and a scarf, both gray wool, but not warm enough for the cool evening.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs distractedly. His thumb comes up to brush my cheekbone. I freeze, my pulse fluttering in my throat. His eyes are half-lidded and locked on my mouth.
The pad of his finger ghosts over my lips. I can’t help but part them. I want to bite his finger, but I restrain myself.
“I want to kiss you again.” His voice is a mere whisper in the dark.
I step closer. “I want that too.” I want that free-falling feeling I had when he kissed me in the park.
Kissing my boss is a bad idea.
