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Shit.

I finish up as quickly as I can, and hear voices in the living room. I pop my head out and see Henry standing, his shoulders braced. He hasn’t taken off his overcoat, but he’s wearing delicious black slacks and shoes that I know cost more than a month of my rent. Luisa and Michael are standing by the couch with him. It doesn’t look like the jovial encounter I would have facilitated myself if I’d been here. Henry looks over at me, a tight smile on his face.

“I’m running a little behind, I’m sorry!” I say, scooting past everyone toward my bedroom, my wet curls bouncing around me.

Henry gives Luisa and Michael a single nod before following me.

“Traffic is already a nightmare out there,” he tells me when he closes the door. No hello, no kiss, just that sentence, tension emanating off his tight body.

“I’m really sorry, I’ll be quick,” I say, knowing I still have my makeup to deal with, and that I probably shouldn’t go out in the cold with my hair this wet.

Henry looks around my room, assessing. There are heaps of clothes everywhere even though I swear I unpacked my suitcase in full when I got home the other day. On the floor, on the bed, on the chair, on the bench at the foot of my bed. Henry’s eyes glide over the mess, his face stoic. I shove a pile off the bed and onto the bench, and gesture that he can sit there. He doesn’t move. But he doesn’t say anything either. I immediately feel anxious, so I turn to my dresser and start applying makeup.

“You can wait out in the living room if you’d rather,” I say finally as I find my black eyeliner. Frankly, seeing him hovering, silent in the reflection behind me, is unsettling.

“I don’t exactly have anything to say to them.” He practically spits out that last word.

I swivel around, sure that I look ridiculous with liquid liner only on one upper eyelid, but I don’t care. “Don’t be an ass to or about my friends, Henry. You didn’t even say hello to me. What is going on?”

“I thought you’d be ready to leave,” he says. “And…” He waves his hands at me, indicating nonsense.

“Is this really how you want to start tonight?” I ask, annoyed. I don’t want to drive to fucking Tenafly. I don’t want to do any of this. I turn back to the mirror, drawing a surprisingly steady line across my other eyelid. All that subway-makeup-application training has prepared me for this moment as my hands shake.

But when I open both eyes to blink, I watch him approach me in the mirror. His arms snake around my towel-clad body, and he lays a soft kiss on my bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I got flustered. Alexander is my mentor, and I don’t want to be late. But that doesn’t mean I should act like this. Can we start over?”

I nod, reaching for my mascara, but Henry’s grip tightens around me. His fingers trace up my thigh, then just underneath where the towel ends.

“If you keep going, we’ll be even later,” I laugh. I give him a gentle push, and he takes a few steps back, sitting down at the spot I cleared on the bed. Once he’s seated, I drop the towel completely. He immediately goes to stand, but I shake my head, turn back around, and apply my mascara. He stays on the bed, and I feel invincible knowing he can’t tear his eyes away from me. I step into tiny black panties that make him pant from the other side of the room, and then slip on Luisa’s dress. The thin black straps give way to a completely backless number. I have to go braless. I now understand her cardigan comment.

“Holy shit, Norah,” Henry says. “I don’t know if I can make it out of this room.”

I dig through the jewelry case on my dresser. “You have two minutes to get a hold of yourself.” I find a pair of long silver earrings, slipping them on, then grab a sweater from my closet. I empty my purse into a clutch, throwing in a lipstick from my makeup stand.

Finally, when I’ve got my heeled black boots on, I step toward Henry, still seated on the bed. He runs his hands up the backs of my thighs, under my dress, to my ass, his thumbs kneading.

“Ready to go?” I ask, and he nods, but his eyes fall closed, legs refusing to move him anywhere. I tilt his face up and kiss him slowly. His hands travel up to my bare back, causing him to practically hum into my lips.

“You just want to drive me wild, huh, Gold?” he asks when he finally opens his eyes, the evidence of this question straining against his tight slacks.

“We have a dinner party to get to,” I say, knowing that I’m teasing him. Henry stands, adjusts himself, and off we go.

Chapter 25

In the time it takes for me to finish getting ready, the accident Henry saw that was causing delays on the George Washington Bridge has cleared, and we’re actually on time. We pull up in front of a huge brick 1930s colonial at the end of a small court of equally breathtaking estates. Large white pillars frame the entryway as Henry knocks, a bottle of Macallan 18 in his hand. I remember to slide on my lipstick just in time for the door to open.

A beautiful blonde woman in her fifties answers the door in a navy one-shoulder long-sleeve knot dress, looking elegant as fuck, and I instantly regret the sparkly dress that’s barely skimming my thighs.

“Henry,” she says warmly, kissing him on each cheek. She notices the bottle in his hand as he starts to present it. “That can go directly to my husband. And—oh, hello.” Her eyes skate over me, eyebrows forming a question.

“This is Norah,” Henry adds. I don’t miss the fact that he doesn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, but I try not to think too much about it. If this woman knew Genevieve, as I now suspect she does, my presence definitely raises some questions. “Norah, this is Agnes.”

“Welcome,” Agnes says, ushering us inside. The hardwood looks freshly polished throughout the whole main floor, and I spot at least two dining rooms (the formal one set up for tonight’s meal) on our way to ditch our coats. Agnes leads us to a sitting room where a dozen other grown-ups are milling around, enjoying cocktails. My entire apartment could fit in this room alone. The furniture looks too pristine to sit on, as evidenced by the woman perched on the arm of a chaise. Henry takes my hand, leading me over to a man, also in his fifties, with more salt than pepper in his hair and thick-rimmed glasses.

Henry extends the bottle of Macallan. “Alexander. Happy New Year.”

“Son! Welcome! I am glad you could make it.” Alexander straightens his charcoal tweed jacket as he stands up to greet us.