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“Actually, they eat fish. But Graham is not going to eat me,” I say, then a scandalized snort escapes my lips as I realize how that sounds. “Sorry.” I wave a hand in front of my face as I swallow the burst of laughter because, of course, he’s going to do just that. And soon, I hope. “I shouldn’t be going there. I’m not open to talking specifics. That stays between Graham and me.”
“Does it?” She arches a honey-colored brow. “Because last time I checked, Graham wasn’t the kind who minded everyone knowing who he was fucking, how often, and in what kinky positions.”
“That’s not Graham,” I say, jumping to his defense. “He doesn’t kiss-and-tell. His exes are the ones who talk.”
“And how many of them are there? Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred?” Chloe bites her lip. “You did have Mr. Man Whore tested before you jumped on his pony, right? I’m worried about your health, you know, not just your heart.”
“Graham would never expose me to anything that would hurt me,” I say firmly, not a sliver of doubt in my mind. “He’s clean. He cares about me. And we are both approaching this as adults who are friends and are deeply respectful of each other.” I wiggle my shoulders back and forth. “And we haven’t gotten to the pony-riding yet, but soon, maybe. Maybe very soon.”
Chloe nods for a long moment, her lips pursing, then squishing into a wiggly line, then spreading into a melancholy smile.
“What?” I ask, flopping a hand her way. “What does that smile medley mean, exactly?”
“It means I believe you,” Chloe says slowly. “And I hope everything goes exactly as planned.” She pauses before adding in a careful tone, “And I’m here for you any time you need to vent or cry, and I promise not to say I told you so.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Just tell me I can handle this, okay?”
She smiles again, more sympathetically this time. “Like I said, I’ll be here to catch you when you fall. Or if you fall.” She shrugs. “Who knows, it could work out great. Crazier things have happened.”
“That’s true,” I agree. “Crazier things happen all the time.”
“Especially in this city. Which reminds me, Roberto asked me to make sure you wanted to shoot the apron samples on that urban farm in Brooklyn,” she says with an eloquent roll of her eyes. “He seems to think aprons only belong in a kitchen.”
I cluck my tongue in exaggerated disapproval. “Silly Roberto. Of course I want to shoot at the farm. And I want the models wearing nothing but swimsuits and aprons. It’s going to be so sexy and fun.” I nod, thinking back to my conversation with Graham last night as I add, “And I want the girls to have such a good time that everyone who sees these photos thinks about what a blast they’ll have in an adorable, retro-style apron.”
Chloe’s expression takes on an appraising air. “Agreed. I like your embracing of the sexy. Maybe Graham will be good for you, after all.”
I cast my eyes to the ceiling with a breezy laugh, playing it cool. “Could be. Definitely a possibility.”
But inside, I’m not anything close to cool. I’m hot, bothered, eager, and so excited to see Graham again that for the rest of the day, time seems to crawl at a snail’s pace. A sea slug crossing the ocean floor against an incoming tide would move faster than the clock.
I’m beginning to think the day is never going to end when a text pops up from Graham at four thirty.
Graham: St. Regis sleepover. You and me. Meet me in the lobby bar at six, and we can go up together. Be sure to bring your new present so I can show you how to put it on properly. And of course, how to take it off . . .
I run my finger over those last few words, as tingles spread through my chest. How to take it off . . .
My heart beats faster, and my spirits lift. Only ninety more minutes and I’ll be seeing Graham again. Ninety more minutes.
It’s nothing.
It’s forever.
It’s going to be over in four more nights.
I close my eyes, trying to push that last errant thought out of my head. Of course it’s going to end. It’s designed to end. It’s a seven-day project, like a week-long sex-cation.
And on that note, I let my mind wander to the kind of sex-cation we might be having tonight.
As dirty, sexy images flash before my eyes, I’m pretty sure I just did that goofy lip-bite, smile-fighting, smile-anyway thing Chloe was teasing me about before.
But who cares? Ninety minutes . . .
I can’t wait.
11
Graham
The St. Regis lobby bar is an old standby for me. With its vintage leather seats, warm wood accents, and art deco murals depicting sun-drenched vistas and a larger-than-life King Cole attended by fawning jesters, it’s simultaneously opulent and grounded in reality. Even kings fall prey to fools, and golden afternoons only last so long. For me, the St. Regis encourages thoughtful celebration.
