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I want to sayyes, which probably means I should sayno.
“I’m free.”
I really wish I could see his face now. There’s no response right away. Then, “I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Less than half an hour to get ready. That shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care about my appearance. But I’m already plotting in my head. Running through the clothes I brought.
“Sure.” I strive for a casual tone. “I’m staying at the Carlyle. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“See you soon,” I repeat.
I hang up, drop my phone on the bed, and then turn into a flurry of activity. I upend my entire suitcase on the mattress, sorting through blouses and blazers and sleep sets. I packedone pairof jeans, and I’m tempted to wear them. But I have no idea what Oliver has in mind for dinner. Based on what he wore for dinner with my family, I should dress up. I pull on the navy dress I was planning to wear tomorrow and then rush into the bathroom. I blow dry my hair while also attempting to apply mascara, glancing anxiously at the clock the whole time.
At least the tight timeframe means I have less time to worry about what dinner will be like. I highly doubt Oliver is inviting me out to discuss divorce proceedings.
There’s nothingtodiscuss. Everything is being handled by the court process and our attorneys.
This is…something different. And that’s scary. Because I knew there was attraction between us, but I thought that’sallthat was there, besides our legal bindings. Oliver didn’t need to ask me to dinner. He’s a billionaire, he’s attractive, and he can be charming when he wants to be. He’s amazing in bed.
He has options. I’m not a last resort.
And he’s not mine, either. I could have gone out with Tyler. Or with other acquaintances from past trips to the city.
This is intentional.
Real.
I step into the lobby with only one minute to spare, hoping Oliver is running late. But he’s facing the wall just to the left of the elevators, studying the abstract piece of art hanging on the wall.
He’s in a suit, one that’s barely wrinkled even though I’m assuming it’s the one he’s been wearing all day. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his hair is slightly ruffled, like he ran a hand through it recently.
There’s an unwelcome flip in my stomach as soon as I see him. A collision of nerves and eagerness, witnessing Oliver waiting for me. Everyone—the hotel staff and the other guests walking in and out of the building—are glancing at him. I’m not sure if it’s because they recognize him or because he has that aura of power and importance.
My heels announce my approach, tapping against the buffed marble of the lobby floor.
Oliver glances my way, ignoring the other attention aimed in his direction. He smiles when he sees me, and the genuine reaction wreaks havoc on my heart.
There’s nothing cursory or forced in his expression. It almost looks like he relaxes as I approach. Like he was worried I wouldn’t show or wouldn’t be smiling back. And there’s a twinge in my chest, realizing he wouldn’t be looking at me at all if my dad hadn’t sent me to Las Vegas. If I hadn’t gone down to that hotel bar exactly when I did. It makes me wonder whether destiny or fate actually exist, and if they can supersede consequences. How believing in something larger than yourself can make you feel bigger, instead of smaller.
“Hi.” His eyes flick down, over the trench coat I’m wearing, my bare legs, and heels.
I’ll be cold and the balls of my feet already ache. But I want to look good for him.
“Hi,” I echo, unsure how else to greet him. Most of the familiarity from his trip to LA has vanished, so hugging or kissing him feels far too forward.
Oliver holds out a hand. And in the simplest of gestures, I take it. Our fingers weave together naturally, like a tapestry that’s meant to be.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, following him across the lobby. Oliver drops my hand when we reach the revolving door, but only to guide me inside one of the glass sections. Rather than take his own, he crowds in behind me. For a few seconds, we’re cordoned in our own tiny world, his smell and presence overwhelming. And then we’re spit out on the street, the city coming alive despite the dipping sun signaling the end of a day.
He takes my hand again once we’re on the street, and I hate how much that small act matters to me. Especially since it’s a logical move, considering how crowded the streets are. There’s an energy to New York that simply doesn’t exist in other cities. A constant pulse that fills the city like a live presence.
Oliver says nothing about me not telling him I was here. About our last conversation, our marriage, or our divorce.
We walk down the street together, holding hands, looking like a normal, uncomplicated couple to any outside observer.
