“Nope.”
“But you did today.”
He looks at me steadily. “Yes. And I haven’t thought about work once since the second I saw you. And I don’t plan to think about work again until I’ve figured out how to keep you. Because I feel …” He stops.
Keep me?“You feel what?”
“Like myself,” he says simply. “Weirdly, specifically like myself.”
An errant golden ray of sun lightens his eyes into the green of sea glass. Outside on Royal Street, the city is doing what it always does. Living, breathing, unbothered.
But in here, Dallas Wilder and I are doing that thing we can’t seem to help but do, where it feels like our souls are mingling. Touching. Entwining themselves around each other.
Here he goes again with the outrageous pronouncements I don’t have a single clue how to navigate. I can tell they’re starting to melt through my forcefield. And I wish they didn’t feel so damn good doing it.
21
Luxury does something to a person,I’m learning. Not even luxury, but simple enjoyment.
I’d honestly forgotten what it was like to just sit and eat and drink and enjoy another (very hot) person’s company without having to rush. Or worry about all the things I usually worry about. Like how much it’ll cost, or whether I’ll get fired for doing it, or what if I get caught sneaking around and get myself evicted? How will I survive by myself on the streets?
I hadn’t realized how heavy all of my constant and real worries have been, or the toll they’ve taken.
Until now.
For now, for the afternoon or maybe even the weekend, I can relax. I don’t have to be anywhere at a specific time. I know where my next meal is coming from—and it’s the best I’ve ever had. I don’t have to deal, for the moment, with what so oftenfeels like trying to balance the weight of the world on my shoulders.
The food is beyond delicious. The waiters bring dish after dish and each one is more spectacular than the last.
“I mean,” I take another bite, “I’ve never really thought of cheesy grits as a delicacy before, but these are next level.”
“You know, I’ve never had grits before,” Dallas tells me, steering my fork to his mouth—which is what we’ve been doing. Sharing. Feeding each other. Sitting so close our thighs are pressed up against each other. Dallas and I seem to have a way of falling into easy levels of intimacy without it feeling awkward or too soon. It’sfun, it happens naturally, and we both want it to. The glass and a half of champagne I’ve had isn’t hurting either. For once, I’m just going with it and not questioning every goddamn thing, and it feels outstandingly good.
But his admission stops me in mid-chew. “What? You’ve never hadgrits?”
I love his eyes. I love how they soften when I say something that charms him, like now, even though he’s so big and built and freaking …male. “No. They don’t really do grits in New York.”
“Well, that’s completely unacceptable. Why not?”
“It’s exclusively a southern thing.”
I didn’t actually know that. “Shit. You Yankees don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
“Watch who you’re calling Yankee, Boo. You forget I spent most of my youth in Boston. You’re talking to a die-hard Red Sox fan over here. And I’m originally from California, so I can’t technically be classified as a Yankee anyway.”
The banter comes so easily, it seems unreal that I’ve known him for less than a day. “You went to college in Boston?” I’ve never been, obviously. It always sounded like such a cool, historical place to go, to see where they poured all that tea into the harbor and the old cobbled streets where Paul Revere made his midnight ride.
“Yeah. I went to Harvard as an undergrad. And then Harvard Business School.”
“Oh.” Wow. He’s Apollo Wilder’s brother. Hattie Carson’s son. A billionaire many times over. He went to Harvard. He could tell me he’s colonized Saturn and it wouldn’t surprise me. All of it—him, the helicopter, the kiss, the meal—have an unreal quality, like the whole thing is still part of the dream I never quite woke up from. “Anyway, you’re missing the entire point. What I’m saying is that this changes everything. I can no longer move to New York.”
“You’re moving to New York? When?” He’s clearly exceptionally intrigued by this piece of information.
“Not really. My best friend Sadie’s sister lives in Queens. Sadie’s moving up there—this week, in fact—to try to join a dance company up there. She’s a really talented dancer and she has a contact. She was waiting to hear back about maybe getting an audition. And she wants me to come with her, since things haven’t actually … well, you know, been going that well for either one of us. She’s been very insistently trying to get me to agree to it.”
“We could hang out.” He says it playfully, but there’s a lot going on behind his eyes.
I honestly don’t know if I was ever seriously consideringmoving to New York. The whole idea is overwhelming. Especially considering the non-existent contents of my bank account. “I can’t, now that I know they don’t have grits up there. They’re literally all I eat.” I don’t bother mentioning the reason for this is because there are always grits on tap in our kitchen and the chefs have to throw them out at the end of the day anyway. So they’ve become my staple because I can get the leftovers for free.
