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And interesting? What does that mean?
Good interesting? Bad interesting? “You are an incredibly weird person, and I never want to kiss you again” interesting?
I have no idea, but I can’t stop myself from trying to find out. “What’s interesting?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes search mine for a good ten seconds.
And he squeezes my fingers with his hand as his attention snags for the briefest of moments over my shoulder. But he quickly recovers and brings his gaze back to mine.
Before I can urge him for an explanation or for his name or for him to let me see the face behind the mask, he leans in closer to my body, and his warm breath brushes across the skin of my cheek. “If we were anywhere else,” he whispers, and his soft lips just barely tease against my ear. “If we were anywhere else in the fucking world but here, my next kiss would be between your legs.”
Holy fuck.
Instantly, a shiver rolls down my spine, and every damn cell in my body is shouting for him to make an exception.
We can go anywhere but here! my vagina basically shouts from beneath my dress. Just let her get her purse, and we’ll be on our way!
“Happy New Year, Beyoncé.” His tone sounds so final. Too final.
Instantly, my stomach takes a nose dive into disappointment.
A part of me wants to urge him to reconsider. But another part of me, the larger part of me, is all about keeping my pride intact.
So, I do the only thing I’m capable of. I swallow down my discomfort and keep it locked beneath the rubber of my mask.
“Same to you, Walt,” I whisper back.
After one last look into my eyes, he lets go of my fingers and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of happy people and leaving me to wonder all alone.
Is it better to have been kissed and left or to have never been kissed at all?
Trent
It’s the second official day of the New Year, and I’ve already hit the ground running.
There’s no rest for the wicked and the work-driven, and I have an entire hotel to get off the ground in New Orleans and a short-as-fuck timeline in which to do it.
And, apparently, this morning, I also have an impromptu meeting with my father.
As I walk down the marble hallway of the sixteenth floor of Turner Properties’ New York headquarters and toward my father’s office, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, and I pull it out to check my messages.
Cap: Do you know the name Sophia Moran?
I smirk and shake my head at the same time. Caplin Hawkins is one of my best and most ridiculous friends. With my fingers to the screen, I type out a quick response.
Me: That’s Quince’s college girlfriend.
Cap: Quince had a girlfriend in college?
Me: Uh…yeah. They dated for two years.
Cap: Ah, fuck. I knew that name sounded familiar. How firm do you think Quince is on Bro Code?
I can see the text bubbles in the chat box move up and down, and I hurriedly type out a response before he can say anything else.
Me: Keep whatever details you’re about to tell me to yourself. I do not want to become an accessory to your crime.
Cap: Who says I did anything wrong?
I laugh to myself. And as I step into the reception area of my father’s office, I type out one final text and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Me: Everything you’ve ever done in your entire life.
Helen, my father’s assistant, is busy typing something out on her computer, but the instant she looks up from her screen, a genuine smile consumes her face.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks.” I nod and move toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the massive city.
With leftover snow from last week’s storm dusting the rooftops and buildings and streets, New York oozes winter. But the cold weather doesn’t stop her liveliness. The sidewalks are littered with people, and the streets are filled with yellow taxi cabs and delivery trucks navigating the early morning rush.
Eventually, I move away from the windows and make myself comfortable in one of the chairs positioned across from Helen’s desk.
In a weird way, waiting outside of my father’s office is almost like sitting in my own living room. The taupe-gray walls house pictures of familiar faces from all over the world—a sort of shrine to all of the connections my dad’s made over the years—and the feel of the cushion of the leather chairs reminds me of all the years I’ve spent sitting in them.
I’ve spent more hours in this building than I have in houses in my lifetime, and I have my dad’s ambition and drive to thank for that.
Trent Turner Senior is a man who could be the poster child for the American Dream. His family wasn’t poor, but they weren’t well-off either, so it was only the power of his determination and perseverance and drive for success that allowed him to create the multibillion-dollar empire that is Turner Properties.
