I admire him tremendously.
I talk about my sisters, about life in Cuba with the taste of pineapple on my tongue and a Brandy Alexander clouding my head. Or maybe the man is responsible for the feeling inside me, this giddy, achy feeling.
Once we’ve spent as much time as absolutely possible in the restaurant, tables clearing out, the night growing later, Nick walks me back to the hotel.
It seems as though it takes us far less time to get back to the hotel than it took to walk to the restaurant, and despite the late hour, I yearn to turn down side streets, to prolong my time in his company.
Our conversation tapers off the closer we get to the hotel, the building looming before us.
Will he be married the next time we see each other?
Nick follows me into the lobby, his hand on my waist. I wait for him to release me, for the evening to reach its natural conclusion: me tucked under the covers of my hotel room bed, him somewhere out in the city.
Does he keep an apartment here? Is he checked into an elegant hotel, or does he stay with his family when he’s in the city?
A group of businessmen spills out of the hotel bar, their raucous laughter filling the nearly deserted lobby.
“I’ll walk you up to your room,” Nick offers, his gaze darting to the men, his hand tightening around my waist.
The men watch us walk through the lobby, comments about how lucky the man with me is reaching my ears.
Nick tenses beside me.
“Leave it,” I whisper. The last thing either one of us needs is a scene.
He gives me a clipped nod, his strides lengthening until we reach the bank of elevators.
The elevator operator greets us as I tell him the number of my floor, and Nick releases me, his arm falling to his side. We take the elevator up to my room in silence, the car blissfully empty of other guests. I watch the buttons light up as we ascend to distract myself from the nerves rising in my stomach.
The elevator stops, and the door slides open. I keep my gaze trained on the carpet as I step into the hall, Nick behind me.
The elevator whirs to life as it continues its journey. In the distance, a baby’s cry emanates from one of the rooms, mixing with the noise from a television farther down the hall.
I reach into my purse and fumble for my room key, pulling it out with shaky fingers.
I wish I’d met him a year ago, before he got engaged, when I’d just arrived in Palm Beach, before I became involved in this mess with the CIA. I wish I’d never met him at all so I wouldn’t know what I’m missing.
“Thanks for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure,” Nick replies.
I wish I could read his mood, but his emotions are hidden, until the silence stretches on, and I summon the courage to ask the question that has run through my mind all evening.
“Why did you come find me?”
He’s quiet for so long I almost think he isn’t going to answer me.
“Because I wanted to see you.”
He says it like a man unburdening himself of a great and terrible secret.
God help me, I do what everyone says I do. I push.
“Why?”
“Because I think of you. Constantly. Because I wonder what it would be like to kiss you. For you to be mine, even for a moment.” His voice cracks. “Do you?”
My heart thunders in my chest so loudly I imagine he can hear it, too, the sound of it sputtering and racing, filling the empty hotel hallway, joining the baby’s cries, the television’s chatter, the hum of the elevator.
I nod, and then because I want to give him the words, because it seems right to match his courage and candor with my own, I say—
“Yes.” I swallow, the key biting into my palm as I fist my hand, careful to keep from reaching out and touching him. “Constantly.”
The elevator starts up again, coming back down. Anyone could see us like this. At any moment, the elevator door could open and someone could step out.
“I should go to my room.”
“You should go to your room,” he agrees, lowering his head as he moves closer to me, as he tucks me into the curve of his body.
I take a deep breath, and then another, steadying myself.
With my free hand, I trail my finger along the cuff of his elegant Burberry trench coat, curling under, brushing the suit fabric beneath, grazing the soft skin at the inside of his wrist.
He shudders against me.
My fingers tremble as I press my hotel room key into his palm.
I walk toward my hotel room door alone, leaving Nick standing in the hallway behind me.
My gaze rests on the wood door, my legs quaking beneath my dress, the sound of his footsteps filling my ears, the elevator whooshing between floors.
I close my eyes as his hand settles on my waist, at the scent of orange and sandalwood, his breath against my neck. I open my eyes to the sight of his tanned, naked fingers placing the key into the keyhole on my hotel room door.
chapter twelve
The hotel room door closes behind us.
I face him.
“We should talk about this.” Nick sets the key down on the nightstand.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“What do you want then?” he asks.
“You.”
“I’m a politician. There’s scrutiny—”
“I’m used to the scrutiny. I don’t care.”
“It’s different,” he warns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t want to hear all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I know it is probably a terrible idea, that my actions this evening have been brazen to the extreme, that I am about to cross an invisible line for which there shall be no return. I don’t want reality to intrude on this moment.
I sigh. “You think I’m too young for you.”
Nick steps forward, and his lips brush the top of my head, his fingers clasping my waist, clutching the fabric of my coat, somewhere between pulling me closer and pushing me away.
“You’re too everything for me. Young is probably the least of my worries.”
My hand finds his, and he releases the fabric, threading his fingers with mine once more.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, as I step into the curve of his body.
“The worst,” Nick agrees, his hands moving to my nape, his fingers on the clasp of my necklace. His fingertips ghost across my skin as he removes the jewelry from my neck. He sets it on the nightstand before mimicking the motion with my earrings, his knuckles skimming my earlobes.