The thought turns my stomach and my mood sour.
“Well, I’d better get home…” I mutter. To my lonely Upper East Side mansion.
“Where do you live?”
I contemplate lying again, but decide against it and tell him.
“Let me call you a car,” he insists.
“No thanks, Richie Rich. I’ll take a regular cab like everyone else.” He doesn’t need to know that I’m also rich, and have my own driver at my disposal if I need him, though I never do.
Initially Noah looks like he wants to protest, but his casual mask recovers for him and he shrugs, stepping out to wave down a passing yellow cab. I join him by the car and he opens the door for me.
I can’t help the gloom that’s bumming me out, since I’ll never see him again. He helped me celebrate something so pivotal in my career tonight, an achievement I would have otherwise been observing alone. He made tonight one to remember, and in all honestly, I know I won’t forget this, whereas I’m sure he’ll wake up tomorrow with no recollection of the sad little girl he took for waffles.
“I had lots of fun tonight, Alex,” he says, his voice laced with lust, though I might just be imagining it that way. I have to actively stop myself from reaching up to grab that sharp, masculine jawline of his. “I’ll call you.”
My eyes lock on those dark irises, which seem to say so many words his mouth would never speak.
“Whatever you say,” I whisper and he laughs a soft, grumbly thing that’s so hot I need to step into the car before I do something I’ll regret.
“Goodnight, Alexandra,” he winks.
“Goodbye, Noah…”
He closes the door and I give the cabbie my address so he’ll drive. I refuse to turn and look out the window until I’m sure Noah’s fully out of sight, releasing a stiff breath as I flop against the seat.
Well, this sucks.
I count the avenues between me and Noah as we drive across town. Ten Avenues. That’s practically a world away.
When the cab stops in front of my building, the fog swirling inside my head clears abruptly as my mouth goes dry. I get out slowly, stiffening in preparation for an attack. If my husband is home, this will only go one way.
I enter the lobby and Javi, the night doorman, is there watching his iPad behind the desk. He looks up when he hears me and gives me a smile and a wink.
My shoulders drop, tension leaving me while I breathe out hard, a smile of relief tugging at my lips. I wave goodnight to him and step inside the elevator. Roger’s not here. Thank God.
I have a very good relationship with the employees of this building. They’re basically my only friends. And all of them have seen me in pretty rough condition, but since my husband pays them each handsomely, and because of the obvious confidentiality, they don’t speak a word of what they’ve seen or heard to anyone. I’m grateful, and not, at the same time.
I appreciate them, though. And because I try to make the best of everything, and always remain polite and friendly despite how much my own life is in shambles, they refrain from giving me looks of sympathy and pity when they see me. I appreciate that the most.
I unlock the door to our massive co-op on the penthouse floor of the building, waltzing inside and setting the alarm behind me. I meander through the supercilious palace into the wide-open silence; the endless darkness.
Our home is like a museum; cold, sterile and filled with art. I like the art aspect of it, but I would much rather live in a place that was warm and homey. I tried decorating when I first moved in, but Roger hates clutter. So I quickly abandoned the idea of adding my personality to anywhere other than our bedroom, and my studio.
In the bedroom, I strip out of my clothes and get into the shower. I need to wash Noah’s scent off myself, even though I don’t want to. I can still smell him on my skin and in my hair, surrounding me and giving me comfort. I’m surprised how much of him rubbed off on me from just a few minutes of grinding.
My mind drifts back to the club… to the feeling of his hard body, strapping and strong, holding me close, his breath on my neck, chasing the chills his lips left. I squeeze my thighs together at the memory of them parted, his erection dragging in rocking motions along their apex. Fuck.
I’m slippery wet, my thoughts sending arousal pulsing out of me. I lean my back against the tiles and close my eyes, remembering…
His dark eyes watching me like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His strong hands, long shapely fingers, searing the skin of my exposed lower back. Those hands have the potential to do so many amazing things to me. They’re perfect.
Forget him, Alex. Nothing will ever come of this little crush. Shut it down.
I take my brain’s advice and shake the memories away, washing my hair. I’m alone, and it’s fine. I’m used to it. I have no one at all, not even my abusive, adulterous husband.
I’m basically a ghost. Why Noah Richards would ever want to call me is beyond any rationality.
Don’t worry. He won’t.
I’m in my studio, putting the finishing touches on a piece I’ve been working on for weeks. The canvas is covered in bright yellows and oranges, a swirling black and brown mass in the middle with eyes. Before today, the eyes were sort of shapeless and plain. But now they’re deep, dark and curious.
They have a touch of desire in them, and some visible humor. They’re alive as I’m looking at them.
They’re calling to me.
Life isn’t as awful as you’ve made it for yourself. There’s still hope out there.
I bite my lip, touching the oil paint with my finger.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my reverie. I huff and dunk my brush into the jar of mineral spirits, spinning over to the table to grab my phone. When I pick it up, my eyes narrow at the screen in confusion.
It’s a number I don’t recognize. My heart leaps in my chest as hope blooms around it like a wildflower. But I quickly smother it and swipe to decline.
Nope.
I toss the phone down and return to my station, grabbing the container of gesso for my blank canvas. I open it up and sniff; not up close or anything, but I just love the smell.
My phone chirps behind me and I roll my eyes. Distractions. I should have turned it off.
I stomp back over to the table and pick it up again. This time there’s a text, from the same number that just called me.
Unknown number: Hey it’s Noah! I just tried calling you but it occurred to me you don’t have my number saved & you might screen. Anyway hi! :) I hope your day is going well
I gulp, staring vacuously at the message in my hand. Another one pops in before my eyes.
Unknown number: I had fun last night… I know I said that already but I just wanted to remind you. Maybe we could hang out again…
Is this really happening?
I’m beyond confused right now. Why in the world would he be texting me? What is he getting out of this?
I desperately want to respond and ask him just that, but I force myself not to. I can’t give in to the false hope. Noah Richards is not a friend, nor will he ever be anything more. The sooner I get that through my head, the better.
I put my phone down and slowly walk away, glancing over my shoulder at it to pout. I really want to talk to him, and it’s bafflingly stupid. What the hell is wrong with me?