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Instead, I could start my companynow.This year.
And no company could ever fire me, or take me for granted, or reject me again.
It’s so tempting, it steals my breath.
But it’s too crazy.
I can’t.
Right?
“I...I need to think,” I stall.
“I need your answer tonight,” Cole counters.
“Why?”
He ignores my question. “What do you need to help you think?”
“Space. Food. A lack of club music.” I think harder. “Sleep.”
“I can get you all but the last one,” Cole says. He turns and heads toward the door.
I stand frozen in place, my emotions tumbling around like ingredients in a cocktail shaker.
Cole looks back over his shoulder at me. “You coming, Amelia?”
Around us, the music pumps and swells. He reminds me of some ancient faery king, luring me out of my safe little world and into his glamorous one.
I hesitate.
And then I grab my purse, make my excuses to Maddy, and follow Cole and his crazy idea out the door.
7
COLE
Ihail a cab and take Amelia to a 24-hour diner in Midtown. It’s the kind of bitterly cold night that makes you check your weather app to see if an ice storm is coming soon.
A rational man would wait until morning to have this conversation. Wait until we’ve both slept, and thought it over, and calmed down enough not to do anything rash.
But for once in my life, I don’t want to calm down. I want to win. And if that means I get to spend two months with Amelia’s gorgeous smile and unpredictable brain, I can make that work.
All I need do is convince her that this can be as good for her as it is for me.
I guide Amelia to a green C-shaped booth. The way she tilts as she slides in reminds me she’s probably got a decent amount of champagne in her system. She kicks her heels off and curls her feet under her, like she’s settling onto the couch at a friend’s house.
“You ok there, party girl?” I ask, trying not to smile. She’s kind of cute.
“French fries,” Amelia says. “I want those.”
I signal a waitress and order french fries, scrambled eggs, and bacon for both of us. I also order water and coffee, which comes immediately.
In the full light of the diner, I notice her red lipstick has smudged a bit, just at the edge of her lip. I have a physical urge to reach across the table and fix it with my thumb.
I clear my throat. “Your lipstick smeared a bit.” I tap the spot on my own mouth.
Instead of fixing the one spot, she dips her paper napkin in her water glass and wipes her whole mouth free of makeup. Then she drinks some coffee, pulls out a black velvet scrunchie, and scoops her wild curls into a messy bun on top of her hair.
