Everything about him is hard and masculine. The rumble of his bike, the scent of soap and cotton coming off him, the way he sits comfortably in the seat, and the ease with which he turns the bike around and accelerates down the street. I hold on tight, pretending I'm not impressed with how hard his abs feel against my wrists and how perfectly my front fits to his back.
I like this. Too much.
I can never have it. My father and brother would never approve of Foster or me riding on his bike.
By the time we cross over the East River, and the stench of the city changes to the salty ocean air, I've forgotten to care what my dad or Donnie would think. I've forgotten Rocco's horrible attack. I love being on the back of Foster's bike, pressing my hands to his hard stomach and hugging him from behind, letting him guide the way, and enjoying the rough bite of the wind. This trip home from the Bronx will always be the most memorable experience of my life.
I'm not sure how he knows which way to go, but he chooses the right turn onto the Long Island Expressway. We pass under tree-lined canopies, and the moon guides the way into the quiet and secluded resort town of the Hamptons.
"It's in Bridgehampton." I speak to him for the first time on our ride. It was too loud and windy before, but he stops at a light and I break the silence. He nods and heads the correct direction again.
I tell him the last few turns to get to my family's summer home and he stops at the bottom of the driveway.
My legs ache and my heart is sad when I climb off the back of his bike. I hand him his helmet and he holds it under one arm. The hardest part is saying goodbye to his denim jacket. It's been like a friend, buffering me from the wind all the way home.
"Keep the jacket."
"Oh no. I…"
"Keep it. Looks good on you." The corner of his mouth turns up in an adorable grin.
"Thank you."
"Welcome." He says it casually like it was no problem for him to fight a guy off me, drive me all the way out here, and give me his jacket.
I wish this wasn't goodbye. I want him to come inside and have something to eat and drink, but I can't do that without causing a scandal I'll never live down.
"I'm having a party." It came from my mouth before I could stop myself, but now that it's out there, I'm going with it. "Next weekend. You should come." I might completely lose my cool if he shows up, but it would be so exciting.
"I'm not exactly a party in the Hamptons kind of guy." He grins, but it's bittersweet. He's putting himself down, referring to the class difference between us.
It's so stupid that we can't make everyone feel welcome. Why do we have to have curated guest lists and strategic invitation timing? Why does money create such boundaries between people who want to be friends? In a brief moment of rebelliousness, I stick to my guns. "I'd really like you to come. Next Saturday. It's a pool party."
His eyes widen and his mouth turns down. He sits back on his seat and he looks at me with eyes a thousand meters deep. "Pool parties in the Hamptons are on my avoid at all costs list."
I want to fight him, but he grabs his helmet roughly and jerks it on his head, creating a barrier between us.
Now I feel stupid. Of course the Unstoppable Foster Dunham wouldn't come to my elitist pool party in the Hamptons. He's much too good for that. He's too human. Too kind and much too gorgeous to be seen with the likes of my family's circles.
It was just an idea, a bad one, but something I thought might give me a chance to see him again.
"Okay. Well, thank you, Foster."
He nods and starts up his bike.
A ball of regret and sorrow collects in my throat as I watch him ride away. I didn't want him to leave angry. It was such a magical night.
I sigh like a schoolgirl and hike up the hill of the driveway.
Reality awaits.
Chapter 3 Hurricane
"I'm sorry we're not going to be able to make it. The tunnel is closed because of the hurricane." The DJ for my party sounds genuinely sorry, but that doesn't help my situation.
"Can you take a helicopter in?"
"Uh. Even if I could find one right now, the storm is moving toward land, and you'd be crazy to risk it."
"Okay. Okay. Thank you."
"Stay safe out there on the Sound."
I hang up on him and survey my family's house in the Hamptons. Less than half of the guests have arrived.
My father walks up with his disappointed glare on his face. "Milana. What the hell is wrong with you? Get some music playing right away."
"Yes, Dad."
When I suggested we cancel due to the storm, he wouldn't hear anything of it. He said there's always storm warnings to scare people. It never hits as hard as they say it will.
So, here I am. Forced to play music while the Titanic sinks.
"There's a stereo in the entertainment room," he says like it's obvious I should have thought of that. My dad has old-fashioned TVs and a vintage stereo receiver in there that I have never touched and have no idea how to make work.
"I'll try, Dad, but please go talk to the Sinclairs. I worked very hard to get them here and they braved the storm to come."
He glances over at them with his nose up. "They're too artsy."
"They are influencers, and they'll donate generously to the charity. Please be nice to them. Others will follow their lead."
He grumbles and looks away from them. "Get some goddamn music playing right now, and stop telling me how to work a room."
I bite my lip to hide my anger. He disregards my opinions and all the effort I put into planning this because of his ego. He won't take any direction from me and he ruins everything.
Following instructions, I march into the entertainment room and study the antique stereo. The knobs, meters, and weird letters on the big wooden box mean nothing to me. Pushing the Power button causes the whole thing to light up. Good. Progress. Is there a stream music button? This thing is so old it probably doesn't even have Wi-Fi.
Oh, here's one that says Play. I press it even though I have no idea what will happen. I just need music!
"Near… Far… Wherever you are… " Celine Dion blasts from the speakers.
The guests look around confused, as if they expect the world-famous diva to actually appear and start singing live. Although a celebrity like that would not be unusual here, it's just an old cassette tape of my mother's. She used to listen to 80's love songs before she died.
A collective "ooh" floats up from the crowd as the outdoor pool flamingos and the catering tent take flight and sail away like Mary Poppins. This same caterer had an employee fall in the pool the last time they catered this event, and now they are dealing with another fiasco. They'll never work for us again.
The catering staff runs and jumps, trying to grasp the trays and plates before they fly away. One woman is holding a flailing giant flamingo in her arms like her job depends on it.
Oh, this is terrible.
In the midst of all the chaos outside, one person isn't scrambling. One man stands tall against the wind. He's looking inside through the glass of the solarium window. The wind pushes his hair up and flattens his shirt to his chest.
My heart thuds and my breath hitches.