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Normally I work until midnight on Saturdays, but even though the club is busy and I’m there for the lunchtime rush, I’m not in the mood to stay late. I feel tired but oddly buzzy. Victoria tells me she’s happy to oversee the evening, so I leave around four and go to the archery club for a while. I shoot a couple dozen arrows, then go to the gym where I run for half an hour then do some weights, but it doesn’t dispel the buzzy feeling in my stomach. Maybe I’m hungry. I head home, thinking about what I should order from Uber Eats. Curry? Pizza? I don’t feel in the mood for anything in particular.
I think about texting Elizabeth and asking if she’d like to go out to dinner. I type out the text. Delete it. Type it again. Then I delete it crossly and pocket the phone.
I live within walking distance to the club, in a really nice apartment I bought two years ago. I let myself in and toss my keys onto the table by the door. I like space, I hate clutter, and I also hate decorating, so I got a firm in and asked them to kit the whole place out with a minimalist look that matched my favorite pieces of my mother’s artwork, most of which feature bright, primary colors. They went for lots of chrome and glass, and a light-gray sofa and chairs to contrast with the bright paintings. A couple of strategically placed mirrors bounce the early evening sunlight around the room and fill it with a golden glow. It’s a great place, but tonight it feels too big, as if I’m rattling around in it.
Sighing, I go through to the main bedroom—simply decorated again in dark blues and greens—take off my suit, and have a quick shower. Afterward, I change into an old tee and track pants, and go back through to the living room. Actually I shouldn’t have takeout, I should cook myself something healthy. Maybe I’ll do some pasta. I go into the kitchen and look moodily in the cupboards. I feel restless and irritable. I should have texted Elizabeth. But then I’d only feel like shit when she said she was busy.
In my back pocket, my phone buzzes.
I take it out. She’s sent me a text.Watcha up to?
I take a selfie pointing at my tee and track pants holding a beer and a PlayStation controller and send it to her.
She sends one back of herself and Nymph sitting on a brick wall looking sad. I stare at it, and then my lips curve up. I recognize the wall—it runs around the garden behind my apartment.
Me:Wanna come up?
Her:Well, if you’re asking…
Heart fluttering, I buzz her in.
Like a teenager, I run around the place throwing clothes in the laundry bin and making sure it’s tidy, then go over to the front door and lean on the post as she comes out of the elevator with Nymph. She lets go of the poodle’s lead, and Nymph bounds up to me. I fuss her up, then let her run inside and straighten to look at Elizabeth. She’s wearing jeans, a mint-green sweater, and a long black jacket. Her hair’s all mussed by the wind. She’s so fucking beautiful, it makes my heart ache.
“Hello,” I say, sliding my hands into my pockets.
“Hi.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. Her gaze skims down me, light as a feather, then returns to mine. “You look nice.”
“I look scruffy, but I didn’t have time to change during my manic cleanup. You want to come in?”
She gives me a helpless look. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
I shrug. “Hot sex? Because, you know, that’s okay.”
Our gazes lock. I smile, and her lips gradually curve up.
“I don’t want to use you,” she whispers.
“I told you, I’ll take whatever you can give me.” I hold out a hand.
She smiles shyly and slides her hand into mine, and I lead her inside.
My heart is racing. She’s not here by coincidence—it wasn’t as if we were in the same place at the same time and she decided she might as well make the most of it. She chose to come here, of her own volition. The thought fills me with joy.
I let the door close behind her, and pull her into my arms.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I murmur, cupping her face in my hands.
Her huge brown eyes look up at me, and she moistens her lips. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to come in.”
I just laugh and kiss her, slanting my lips across hers so I can delve my tongue into her mouth. I sink my hands into her hair, filling my senses with her—the smell of her perfume, the taste of the mint she’d eaten before she came up, the silky feel of her hair between my fingers, the sound of her sighs that sends a shiver all the way down my spine.
“God, I want you,” I murmur, kissing up to her ear, then nibbling the lobe.
“I want you too.” She kisses my jaw, then moves back to look at me. “I’ve thought about you all week. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, Oliver Huxley, but you’re haunting me like the ghost of Christmas Past, and I can’t get you out of my head.”
Thrilled, I watch as she goes over to the beanbag I sit in when I play on the PlayStation and steers Nymph onto it, who promptly flops down and stretches out. “We’ve just been for a long walk and a play in the park,” she says. “She’ll crash out for a while.”
“Do you want anything?” I ask. “Something to eat or drink?”
