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My family has other secrets. Worse secrets, really.
I have things I’ll never tell Finn Hughes, which isn’t fair. I know his darkest parts, but he doesn’t know mine. It makes us uneven. It makes me a coward.
He pulls up in front of the building and gets out to open my door for me. I know what I should do. I should go upstairs. Leave him here. Let him get back to his family…
“Do you want to come upstairs?”
He nods, wordless.
He’s quiet again on the way up and I realize this is different. This is different from when he came here before to get me for our date. Arousal simmers in the air. Anticipation as well. Are we going to have sex? That’s what people do, right? When they invite a man upstairs after dinner? That’s how dating works, I think. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve barely ever dated. I’ve only had sex with one man, and that was done in furtive, secret meetings.
Having a man follow me up the stairs to my loft is new.
And so I feel shy when I open the door to my home.
The walls are painted various jewel tones—navy blue and emerald green and aubergine. That was how my grandmother did it, each area themed to the space. Ornate antique furniture covers every inch of the walls, each surprising in its way. An antique TV has been hollowed out and now serves as a lighted liquor cabinet. Paintings and quilts cover the walls. Chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, along with a four-foot-tall stained-glass whale.
Ironically the strangeness of it all makes it feel safe and comfortable.
It’s a place where the decor is so bizarre that you can feel free to be yourself. Nothing you do or say will be more strange than some of the pieces here. There’s a pink lacquer statue of a dog next to a miniature library—classic books printed in one-inch volumes. A neon sign proclaiming CIGARS & MARTINIS was possibly stolen from some unsuspecting club years ago.
I moved in the second I turned eighteen. And sure, I could have changed the decoration. My mother practically begs me to do it every time she visits. I love it, though.
My main addition is the terrariums.
I probably should have warned him about those.
He might think it’s weird. Well, that’s because it is weird.
Like a magnet, he’s drawn to one despite all the other things to look at. This one is small enough to hold in one hand, perfectly round, packed with moss and stones and a small porcelain figurine of a realistic-looking T-rex. In his tiny hand is the stem of a single orchid, which blooms white, reaching outside the round opening of the terrarium. It reminds me of the orchids at the gala for the Society for the Preservation of Orchids.
It’s quirky and irreverent.
In other words, it fits into the vibe of the loft perfectly.
He glances back, his lips quirked. “You made this?”
“It’s kind of a hobby.”
Unerring, he wanders over to another one. This one’s larger and themed more like a fairy garden, with a small cottage and a wooden bridge over a babbling brook made out of moss.
“That’s reindeer lichen,” I offer, babbling in my nervousness. Am I supposed to give him a tour? A coffee? I have no idea about the after-dinner customs. Or maybe I’m supposed to ‘slip into something more comfortable’ and come back in lingerie. It would help if I owned lingerie. “My brother Carter brought it back from northern Canada. He said it’s green when it’s fresh, but it turns blue when it’s dry.”
Somehow when he looks back at me, he’s close. Close enough for me to feel the warmth of his body. Close enough to turn flushed under his intense regard.
“You’re nervous,” he murmurs. Not a question.
“No. Maybe.”
He puts his hand on the side of my neck. His thumb brushes my pulse point. I can feel it, a little too fast. My breath sounds loud between us. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says. “We can just have a glass of wine. Or maybe I can leave, if you want me to.”
He can leave. If I want him to. The meaning of words is slow to register. My mind feels weighted down with desire. Like I’m made of silk-thin petals, and the desire is dew. Do I want him to leave? That’s the safest thing to do, for both of us. Do I want to talk and open a bottle of wine? Also safe, but that’s not what I want. There are Alex Langleys of the world if I want safety. I’m with Finn Hughes, the playboy billionaire. Other women would love to be with him, even if it was only for a night. This has nothing to do with other women.
Me.
I would love to be with him, only for a night.
“Stay,” I say. “Make me forget.”
