“A no-longer-virginal twenty-five,” I say.
His eyes gleam with possession and pride.
“And I got to be the one,” he says, and I love that he seems as pleased by that as I am.
Soon, the food arrives, and after he pays and thanks the guy, he gestures to the stairs. “Want to eat on the balcony? It’s my go-to dining room on warm nights. I call it my outdoor café.”
No fucking way.
But I don’t want Finn to read this part of me. I absolutely don’t want to admit to him that I have OCD. So I try my hardest to put on an easy smile. “Kitchen is fine,” I say, breezily. “I mean, I’m half-naked.”
Like that matters. But maybe it’ll distract him from asking more.
Something flashes in his eyes, though, as he opens the fridge. Something like understanding. “I should have remembered. You don’t like heights?” he asks, grabbing a jar of chili flakes.
Oh.
Wow.
He remembers the rooftop, and how I said no to it. I cycle through my options—I could deny, or I could make light of it. But he’s been open when I’ve asked questions about his son and about his best friend.
I want to give him a morsel of honesty in return. “You’re right. I really don’t like heights.” That’s a true thing. I won’t share the scope of my dislike. That’s part of the side of me that goes to therapy, the side my family doesn’t even know about.
“That must be really challenging,” he says thoughtfully as he sets the flakes on the counter. How is this guy a sex master and super understanding?
“They make me really uncomfortable,” I admit. Apparently he has truth serum powers too. “They kind of freak me out.”
Wow. That was…sort of cathartic. I didn’t know I’d needed to say those words.
Irrational fears are so embarrassing. So hard to admit. But a tiny weight’s been lifted now.
“Is it just heights outdoors? Or was my third-floor bedroom uncomfortable for you too?” he asks, and I rush to reassure him.
“Bedrooms are fine. Indoors is fine. It’s just things like balconies, bridges, and rooftops.”
“I get that. I do. Everyone has fears. We all have things we try to avoid just because…And it works just as well to eat here,” he says with kind eyes and a welcoming smile.
That’s not at all how he looked at me when he was seducing me. That’s not how he looked at me when he fucked me either.
It’s a new look, and it makes my heart speed up. How is it possible that in a few short encounters, I’ve glimpsed so many of his sides? His determined side, his hungry side, his dominating side, his loyal side, and then his guilty pleasure side that said fuck the world, I want her more.
Now I’m seeing another side, and I bet this is the man he is with his son. Kind, thoughtful, big-hearted, and accepting.
“I guess that’ll be our secret too. My fear of balconies,” I say, and I’m sure this one is as safe with him as the others.
“I’ll keep them all, Jules. Every single one,” he says, and there’s resignation in his voice.
In my heart too.
He hands me a plate, and I scoop some noodles onto it, but when I open the jar of chili flakes, I arch a brow, then show it to him. “Empty.”
He peers inside. “Then these noodles better be spicy on their own.”
They are, and we rate them a five out of five for spice.
Later, we’re back in bed and it’s past two, but I don’t feel anxious about the rest of the night. I’m not playing out scenarios or worried about what I’ll say. Here, in bed, I feel like I can speak my mind, and do it safely. “Kiss me,” I say softly.
He covers me with his body, kissing me deeply till I’m arching, writhing, and asking for more. I whisper his name, savoring how it feels on my tongue, like the last bite of a fine dessert.
His scent envelopes me, but it’s like another version of his cologne mixed with notes of sex and me, the fading embers of a fire, and the last lingering hints of orchids before the flowers crumble.
Darkness wraps its arms around the city, the moon sealing up our stolen night, racing too fast to dawn.
12
THE MORNING AFTER PINEAPPLE
Finn
No meat. No problem.
An Adams man knows how to improvise. On Saturday morning, I bound up the steps to my brownstone with the bag of groceries from my early morning run to the store around the block. I punch in the entry code, and once the door closes behind me, I listen for the sound of Jules. It’s early, not even seven-thirty. I don’t know a ton about the habits of twenty-five-year-olds in the city anymore, but when I was that age, no fucking way was I awake this early on a Saturday morning.
Bet she’s still sound asleep, chestnut hair fanned out on my pillow, eyes fluttering, like they were when I left a little while ago. She looked like she belonged in my bed maybe another morning too.
I entertain that thought for a few dangerous seconds before my chest tightens like a belt has been cinched around it. The idea is foolish for many reasons. First, there is no another morning with my best friend’s daughter.
You crossed a line, man. Don’t even think about crossing it again.
Second, there is no next time with anyone right now.
My goal is to be the best father I can be. To give Zach all my love, all my attention. Even if Jules weren’t connected to my life in a twisted way, I wouldn’t be able to strike up anything more than sex with her.
Romance is a lie.
A year ago, Marilyn and I were in couples therapy for fuck’s sake—arguing about everything. We’d stopped sleeping together. Stopped going on dates. Stopped having meaningful conversations.
We’d already argued about whether she’d ever want to have a family. She’d wanted one when we met, she’d talked about kids just after we’d married, but it was all a lie. A cold, cruel lie. She married me for money, not for love, and not for family. Pretty sure she only stayed in the marriage for her own financial gain.
I grind my teeth, and that dark cloud tormenting me turns blacker and colder as I head to the kitchen. I’ve got to get her out of my mind.
I’ve got to remember, too, that great sex is just that—great sex.
Nothing more.
Doing my best to shove my ex-wife far away from my one and only morning with Jules, I empty the bag, setting a pineapple, a container of blueberries, and a carton of granola on the counter. Then, I wash my hands. When I hear footsteps approaching, my heart lightens and my lips curve into a smile.
Great sex, buddy. That’s all.
Jules turns into the living room, meeting my gaze from across the space, she’s dressed in a tank top and leggings, her hair twisted into a messy bun, her face fresh. But there’s a bag on her shoulder and a ready to bolt look in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, arching a brow. “Going somewhere?”
She gestures to the window behind me in the kitchen, bright morning light streaking through it. “Well, the sun is up. I think I turned into a pumpkin hours ago.”
She’s trying to make light of her departure, but I don’t think that’s why she’s up so early. “Did you think I just…left?”