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I’m tempted to ease the ache between my legs, but there’s no time. I’m presenting data in a meeting this morning, and final touches still need to be added.
When I’m near work, I stop at Lait Noir. It’s crowded, but the black-and-white café is small enough that I can see every table from where I stand in line. People are working, creating, connecting, right in front of me. Three girls share a table, but despite their open laptops, they’re all on their phones. Probably checking social media.
My heart skips at the thought of them coming across my photo. They’d never know they were in the same room as the person they were looking at. The author of the words they were reading. That would never happen—what are the odds they’d ever come across such a small, obscure account? But the thought alone excites me.
I take my coffee to go, and two hours later, I’m sitting across from several chuckling men in suits. My dad is always making grown men chuckle, a skill I wasn’t blessed with and have made no effort to cultivate.
“Let’s move on to campaign idea number three,” I suggest, plastering on a smile that’d put a contractor to shame.
“In a minute, Halston,” Dad says, tapping the table. “We haven’t even gotten to last night’s game.”
Grayson Dietrich, a CEO client, groans. “What a disgrace.”
My assistant and I exchange a look. She knows how my dad’s interruptions irritate me. Right about now, steam usually starts billowing from my ears. I’d hoped a promotion to Agency Analyst would stop my dad’s routine condescension toward me in front of others, but he’s shown no signs of slowing. He doesn’t see himself as patronizing. The clients want face time with the founder of The Fox Agency, and that’s what he gives them, regardless of how it makes me look to have my daddy sit in on meetings.
I can’t say much more about it than I already have, though. When I graduated college and told him I wanted to help artists reach the masses, he created this position for me. Every time we verge on an argument, I remember that and surrender first. He cares about me—I know he does—but when he thinks his way is best, there’s no alternative. Even if I want something different, I end up giving in.
My frustration quickly runs cold and soon, my thoughts pick up where they left off earlier. With just his words, his commands, Finn touched me. Having his camera on me was no less intimate than if it’d been his hands. Which isn’t a claim I can make yet.
Yet?
I’m as attracted to Finn as I am curious. There’s no question. He listens. Watches. I think he even understands me, or else he would’ve just turned my journal in and walked away. I don’t worry that he’s at home, flipping through it, laughing at parts. He gives me confidence and at the same time, the thought of seeing him again tightens my insides. He has a distinct pull, and that’s dangerous, because I can’t do anything about my draw to him.
Can I?
I shudder. Noticeably. The table vibrates. I’m about to blame it on the weather, but nobody’s paying attention to me, not even my assistant Benny, who’s using her pen to turn Dietrich’s logo into a penis. The men are still talking basketball.
I wouldn’t normally get out my phone in a meeting, not even during one of my dad’s infamous steamrolls, but I’m having trouble following protocol today. Work seems less urgent. My dad is less threatening. I’m running out of meds, so I only took half my dosage. I even skipped my third cup of coffee.
Finn’s profile is already open. There’s been hardly any activity since I checked this morning. Did he not use enough hashtags? Were we wrong, and the photo sucks? Or the caption? That could be the problem. I tried to warn Finn. It’s not like I have any business writing anything. My hand sweats around my phone.
Those comments, though.
Fucking hottt
What’s this quote from?
I want more of that. More of Finn and his ideas and his attention—even though I know it’s risky. Or because it’s risky. For so long, I’ve been moving through days, not rocking the boat, not taking too many chances. Anything more than that can result in mistakes, pain, loss. But maybe taking that photo last night woke up a side of me I put to sleep a long time ago. And maybe I want to do it again.
8
Less than forty-eight hours after I took her photograph, I wait for Halston under some trees on a park bench. Union Square was my suggestion. It’s not only close to her office and the job I had this morning, but it’s always busy here. There are crowds, but also privacy, and I think we need both. She seems to be acting out of character around me, and I’ve already gotten too close. I shouldn’t have admitted to jerking off. Between the light stalking, the photos, and that confession, she’ll think I’m obsessed. Even if we do have chemistry, I wouldn’t blame her for staying away. And if she doesn’t . . . she might be just as fucked up as me.
I spot her headed my way. She gnaws her bottom lip and surveys the crowd, holding two coffees and a shopping tote. She’s in black tights, a purple scarf, and click-clack Mary Janes. I only know what those are because my daughter wears them. When Halston spots me, she walks faster.
“I brought special coffee,” she says. She flings her stuff and herself onto the bench before handing me a cup and pastry bag. “Snacks too.”
“Thanks.” I set them on the other side of me. She takes in the bare branches over our heads, the skateboarders riding from one end of the square to another, the prep school teenagers nibbling on each other’s ears. At least, I think that’s what she’s seeing. I haven’t taken my eyes from her profile. Her soft, feminine features are only interrupted by a slight bump to her small nose. There’s a dusting of freckles by her hairline, and I get a better view of her tattoo—a small, multi-colored pastel feather that curves behind her ear. She crosses her legs. “This was a nice suggestion.”
“I love the parks in this city. I need them. Or rather, I need a break from all the chaos.”
“I never thought of it that way. I always saw them as a more scenic route to cross a block.” She smiles. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Anything else nice you want to mention?”
She laughs. “I’m too nervous to think of other adjectives.”
“Nervous? You seem like you’re in a good mood.”
“Do I? I guess I am. I don’t mean nervous in a bad way.” She cups both hands around her drink. “Coffee just makes me happy.”
I arch an eyebrow. She’s been drinking coffee since the moment I met her. “Are you sure there’s no other reason for your cheerfulness?”
She suppresses a smile. “No. Yes. I mean, it’s just the drink.”
“I was glad to hear from you.” I’d been home editing photos, wondering when or if she’d tell me whether she’d seen the post, the precise second Outlook had pinged with new mail. “Did you see the photo?”
Her breath fogs between us. “Yes.”
“And? Do you want me to take it down?”
“No.”
I smooth my hair back. I was worried. The photos are raw. I’ve grown attached to them, and I want to post the others, but only if she’s comfortable. “So it’s not as scary as you thought?”
“It’s . . . weird. And exciting. Weirdly exciting.”
“I’ve gotten more followers over the last day than I would in a month.”
“Really?” she asks excitedly. “It must be the time of year.”
“It must be you,” I say.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” I get out my phone. “I edited the other two photos just in case you wanted to see them first.”
She leans into me, peering over my shoulder, nearly in my lap, smelling like a spicy fall day. Suddenly, I can’t remember where the photo app is on my phone. I swipe between screens while she waits. Fuck. She’ll think I’ve lost it; I can’t even navigate my own phone.
