A handful of words fit better—only the beginning. “It was really good.” For once, I don’t try to hide my enthusiasm.
“Oh yeah?” She wiggles a brow in the mirror, then gives me an eager, “Elaborate.”
Tell a stranger? No problem. “Well, let’s just say it’s not over yet.”
“I’m jealous. Let me know if you need a ride to your next stop,” she says.
“I would, but he’s sending me a car,” I say, and it’s so easy to drop these racy little details with her.
It’s fun too.
Soon enough, we’re at my place in Chelsea, and I thank her then rush inside, tipping her on the app as I greet the doorman on my way to my apartment.
Once inside, I lean against the door, catching my breath even though I haven’t done anything to make it speed up. Still, my heart is beating so fast.
I can’t believe I’m going to do this. This is so wrong. This is so risky. This is so…exciting.
I lock the door, drawing a deep inhale of the lavender bouquet I picked up earlier in the week, then get moving on my to-do list. I need to fix my hair, since it’s flat as a pancake under this wig, and take a quick shower since, well, playing piano for three hours makes me a little hot and sweaty.
I’m not going to let him undress me unless I feel good about what’s under the clothes.
After unzipping my dress and kicking off my shoes, I turn my phone back on, too, just in case Finn texted with info about the car he’s sending. Guys I dated in college never sent town cars. They barely sent texts longer than sup or hey.
And yes, the newest text is from him. But I freeze before I open it, dread prickling at me. What if he’s canceling? He probably changed his mind when he returned home, and the weight of his choice hit him. Guilt is a powerful downer. Expecting disappointment, I click open the text.
Finn: Do you like champagne, whiskey, wine, or something without liquor? Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.
I grin stupidly. Anything, I want to say. But that’s a boring answer. So far, Finn seems to think I’m sexy. He likes when I’m naughty. I like being this girl with him. And there’s one drink that lets him know I’m so ready.
Jules: Just water, Mr. Adams. I’m very, very thirsty.
Seconds later, a reply lands.
Finn: I’m hungry. I know what I want to eat. I thought about it all day at the office when you were bringing me contracts to sign, bending over my desk.
I gasp. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. And so am I.
Jules: Funny, I thought you were thinking about my tits then.
Finn: Watch that dirty mouth, or I’ll bend you over the table.
Jules: Like you wanted to bend me over your desk earlier today. Or maybe you wanted to spread me out on your desk?
Finn: Make that starving. You’d better get here very, very soon. I’m not a patient man, Miss Marley.
Jules: But I’ll be worth it.
With a delicious sigh, I clutch my phone. I want to linger in this heady moment where I’m aching for him. Only there’s too much to do, so I set my phone down on the bureau, but a text from my father from earlier blinks up at me.
Like a pair of eyes, watching.
He’d hate me even more if he knew what I was about to do. I spin around and ignore it, yanking off my wig and the wig cap. A minute later, I’m under the stream of water, scrubbing, washing, rinsing.
I’m out of the shower in no time, lotioning up, then swiping on lipstick and mascara.
Nothing more.
I grab a canvas bag and toss in a pair of panties, a tank top and leggings, then a toothbrush. He invited me to spend the night, so presumably, he wants to kiss me in the morning, but morning breath is real. I don’t like being dirty (except the good kind of dirty), and there’s no way I’m asking a guy I don’t know to borrow a toothbrush.
It’s just best to be prepared.
I want to be prepared to play our roles, too, so I dress the part, zipping up a black pencil skirt, buttoning a tight white blouse, and sliding into heels.
I twist up my hair, and even though I still have my contacts in, I grab a pair of costume glasses. They feel like armor.
I check the time. The car will be here in ten minutes, so I unlock my safe and take out my journal, reading the quote on the card. Then I answer the question Willa asked me every night when we were kids. What did you do today? Every night, I told her. I still tell her, but now I do it in a veiled way because I have to.
Stars on my ankle. A fist against the wall. Jay Gatsby, obsessed with me. A late-night invitation. A dangerous choice.
I close the book, lock it up, then grab my phone. A new message flashes on the screen.
Finn: You smell incredible.
I read it twice because that’s what it takes to absorb his meaning. Heat washes over me. What the hell am I getting myself into with this dominating, dirty man?
No idea, but I can’t wait to find out.
But as I race down the steps of my building, I keep thinking about my dad’s text. I should open it. I should write back. He’ll worry I’m dead.
I stop on the landing, closing my eyes briefly, breathing past the flash of terrible images from years ago.
I open my eyes and click on the text. He sent me an article about the best mutual funds, along with a reminder: We need to talk about your retirement planning soon. You started an account, right?
Um, no, Dad. I’m focused a tiny bit more on that little thing known as rent.
As I head toward the foyer, I dictate a reply. Working on it!
He replies immediately. We can talk about it in the morning. Do a Zoom call after I run, and I’ll share my screen and we can look at options.
Dude, I am not zooming with you in the morning.
Surely, I’m an asshole as I reply. Too busy with script reading tomorrow! Gotta work on that track record. Maybe Sunday.
My stomach twists as I reread my lie. But it’s the cost of a cover-up.
There’s a text from my mom from earlier too. She sent me a social clip of a fashion designer making a Regency ball gown, one of those sped-up videos that shows the arduous process in fifteen seconds. Saw this and thought of you! What are you up to this weekend? I’m at a wine festival and it’s fabulous!
Without answering, I head to the street, feeling like I’m sixteen again and sneaking out with Willa. But I don’t want to think about my family. I don’t want to think about me either. I don’t want to think terrible, annoying, awful thoughts.
I just want to…feel all the pleasure I’ve denied myself for the last few years.
I push open the front door of my building and dart down the steps, scanning for the black town car Finn’s sending—when I walk right into a man.
Oof.
I blink, then shake my head, relieved. “Oh. Hi.”
It’s Ethan. He’s one of Layla and Harlow’s besties, and over the last few years, he’s become a good friend of mine too.
I set a hand on my chest, where my pulse is still racing. “Thank god it’s you. I thought it was my parents,” I say, which sounds ridiculous to say out loud, especially at eleven-thirty on a Friday night.