The day Ace tells me he loves me, if he tells me he loves me, I’ll die and go straight to Heaven, like one of those cartoon characters lying on the ground with a bouquet of flowers in their hands as their ghostly spirit rises high above them.
“What’d you bring?” he asks, his hand on the small of my back as we head upstairs.
“Your favorite,” I say. “Corned beef and cabbage pizza from Chauncey’s.”
“God, I love you,” he says, his hands sinking into my hips as he leans in and kisses the spot just beside my left ear.
My heart flutters and then sinks hard as a stone. He doesn’t really mean he loves me. He only loves that I brought him his favorite food.
I ignore it, instead choosing to revel in the sensation of his hand creeping up the back of my thigh just before we reach the top step. A sly smile slinks across my face.
“Okay, well, you enjoy your pizza,” I say. “As soon as you’re done, you know where to find me . . . naked . . . in your bed.”
I throw the box on the island and it skids across. Tugging my blouse off to reveal the sheer black lace bra I bought especially for him this morning, I toss my shirt at him and saunter down the hall. Practically feeling his eyes on my ass, I know it’s just a matter of time before he makes the right decision, and I grin to myself.
“Fuck pizza,” he growls, a prelude to the determined trod of his footsteps. When his hands wrap around my waist from behind, I smile even bigger.
Ace loves me more than his favorite pizza.
That’s got to count for something.
I thought about letting him sleep in Saturday morning and creeping out just after the sun came up. But he looked so damn hot lying there all half-naked and peaceful. I stole a kiss, dragged my hand down his chiseled chest, and then whispered into his ear, letting him know I was leaving and I’d get a hold of him later. After that, I took the train home, showered, and headed out to a full day of appointments.
By noon, Ace had texted me, asking what I was doing that night.
If I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d think he was more obsessed with me than I am with him.
And yet he still keeps me at arm’s length, and in many ways I still feel like I hardly know him. I know he’s great in bed. I know he’s athletic and bossy. He doesn’t whine about anything. Ever. He’s quiet more than he talks, which is where I come in, and he loves pizza and beer. He has an agent named Lou, whom I’ve yet to meet, and I spoke to one of his brothers, Matteo, on the phone once when we were lying in bed and Ace’s phone rang. He seemed nice.
YOU COMING OVER?
I glance at my vibrating phone as soon as I leave my last client of the day. It’s almost four o’clock. I’ve been running all over Manhattan since eight a.m, subsisting mostly on coffee and a single, day-old muffin one of my clients so generously offered me. I’m exhausted.
I fire one back: I’M STARVING. WILL YOU FEED ME?
He responds within seconds: I’M ASSUMING YOU MEAN ACTUAL FOOD BECAUSE YOU’RE CERTAINLY NOT STARVED FOR SEX.
My lips curl up at the corners: WHATEVER. JUST FEED ME. SOMETHING TELLS ME I’M GOING TO NEED MY ENERGY TONIGHT.
Last night we had sex twice. In a row. The man is a machine, barely needing any downtime. He says he’s never been this way with anyone before: only me.
My legs ache and my shoes cut into my heels when I walk. Up ahead, a Yellow Cab is parked, so I grab it before anyone else does, and I hitch a ride to Lexington Avenue.
“Are you my boyfriend?” I ask when Ace answers the door Saturday night.
He jerks his neck, taking a step back, mouth smirking. My question amuses him.
“What?” he asks.
“Are we dating? Am I your girlfriend? What are we?” I place my makeup case at the foot of the steps inside.
Ace reaches for my hand and closes the door behind me. “Where’d this come from?”
“I was just thinking on the way over here. We’ve been hanging out almost every day for a while now. And you’re coming with me to my sister’s wedding next week. I’m not sleeping with anyone else, and I like you a lot. Like, a lot a lot,” I say. “Is the feeling mutual or am I one of those women who overcompensate for their insecurities by making assumptions about relationship statuses?”
“Jesus, Aidy, you’re not insecure,” he says, sucking in a long breath and dragging his thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth curls into a signature Ace half-smile.
I want to bite it. And then I want to kiss it. And then I want to climb up his Adonis body like a cat climbs up one of those catnip trees. God, seeing him gets my body so worked up into a frenzy. Every. Single. Time.
“And you’re not making any assumptions,” he says. “I like you too. A lot a lot.”
I smile.
“You want to be my girlfriend?” he asks.
Nodding, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Clearly.”
“Fine,” he says. “You’re my girlfriend.”
I kiss him. Hard. Harder than I’ve ever kissed him before.
He hoists me up, and I’m weightless in his arms. Carrying me up the steps, I kiss him again and again, my hands caressing his smooth face. I slide off of him when we reach the top, my fingers greedily tugging at the hem of his shirt.
I want him, and I want him now.
He stops me, placing his hands on mine. “I’ve got groceries being delivered any minute. I thought I’d make us dinner tonight and then maybe we could go out and see that movie you’ve been wanting to see. The one with Ryan Gosling and that girl from that other movie with that guy . . .”
“Really?” I squeal, doing a slight jump. “You’ll see it with me? God, we really are boyfriend and girlfriend now.”
He smirks, “Anyway, I just got back from the gym a little bit ago, I’m going to hit the shower quick.”
“Seriously?” I sigh. It’s not fair that a man can go to the gym and come back smelling like testosterone and pheromones and the good kind of sweat, and a woman leaves the gym walking home in a three-foot bubble of gym-stench and praying she doesn’t run into anyone she knows on the way. “I could eat you alive, you smell so good. It’s not fair.”
“Just make yourself at home,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead.
“Always do.”
Ace disappears down the hall, and I cozy up on his couch, flipping through channels on his TV and hoping I can find the latest Real Housewives of Whatever marathon because I’m so behind.
Score.
Found one.
I settle in, watching two women go at it. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think one of them talked to the other one’s daughter behind her back and the one is pissed off about it and accusing the other one of manipulating the daughter into not liking her fiancé? And it all happened in St. Barths last New Year’s Eve?
Something like that anyway.
God, I need popcorn for this.
A commercial plasters the screen, and my fly-like attention span wanes. I find myself focused on the photos that line Ace’s fireplace mantel. Rising, I move closer, examining each one like a detective attempting to unearth clues. I don’t see a single woman in any of these photos besides an older, middle-aged lady with jet black hair flanked by a bunch of strapping and audaciously handsome young men. The woman, who is clearly his mother, wears a proud smile, and the son standing to her left, Ace, has his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders.