Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Jessica Hawkins

  “Like my nightstand?” I tease.

  She maintains eye contact, even as something darker passes over her face—desire? Fear? I’d pay a mint to read her thoughts at the moment. “If that’s where you want to keep it . . . I won’t stop you.”

  “I can’t be responsible for what it makes me do,” I say more gruffly than I mean.

  “Then I’ll be responsible.”

  God.

  Damn.

  This is the ultimate test of willpower. She’s flirting with me. She likes the idea of me reading her words at night, touching myself, and fuck if it doesn’t make me sort of crazy with lust. It’s best she leaves now before I make a huge mistake.

  I look out the window. Days are getting shorter, and it’s already dark. “I’ll walk you downstairs,” I say. “You should get a car home.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I insist.” I put the journal down. “Come.”

  I ride down the elevator with her and put her in a taxi. As she’s driven away, as my warmth cools, I begin to dread what’s ahead of me. Another night alone. I know her now. Her secrets, her small protests against what she thinks she’s supposed to be, the bow of her lips.

  Being alone when I don’t want to be is hard enough.

  Knowing everything she is, all that I won’t have next to me tonight, will make it worse.

  7

  One indication this won’t be a normal day is the fact that I’m the one who wakes up first. Seven minutes before Rich’s alarm goes off, I’m completely awake, as if I’d only blinked and hadn’t actually slept. Maybe I didn’t, because I’m still having the same thoughts I was as I’d drifted off last night.

  Finn read my journal, and he wasn’t repulsed.

  He was so un-repulsed, that he masturbated to it.

  He understood it. He felt inspired. Is there any higher compliment?

  Then, he almost kissed me. Finn almost kissed me.

  I look over my shoulder. Rich is fast asleep beside me, up to his nose in sheets and blankets despite central heating. I wouldn’t have stayed here last night, but I’d already promised him I would. The sheer white curtains glow with morning light, the opposite of Finn’s place, which is older than this apartment, more lived in, darker. Finn doesn’t have much, but his space seems to expect clutter.

  I won’t be alone again until Rich leaves for work. That’s only an hour away, but I don’t want to wait. I take my phone from the nightstand and sit up against the headboard. After pulling my hair back off my face, I check to see if Finn posted to Instagram. His username is already in my recent history from last night. There’s nothing new.

  I have four minutes until the alarm, so I search hashtags for erotic photographers. The results are graphic, not artful like Finn’s work. I angle my phone completely away from Rich and try #sexypoetry. More nudies. Most photos are of actual words typed out or handwritten on scraps of paper. I scroll and scroll and scroll. Some of it isn’t bad. Some is even beautiful.

  Rich wakes up with his alarm and turns over. “You’re already up?”

  “I’m checking for an e-mail.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  I keep my eyes on my phone. “Just a client thing.”

  “Oh.” He throws off the covers, stands, and stretches for the ceiling. Dark hair curls from under the hem of his t-shirt. “Need the shower?”

  “Go ahead.”

  When he’s in the bathroom and the water’s running, I return to my phone. I check Finn’s profile again, and there I am, forty-seven seconds old. At 7:01 A.M., he posted the first photo. Right underneath my coffee-soaked fingers and curled lip are my words.

  Rough me up, dark as coffee.

  Burrow deep, make me drip with it, get me so high,

  I forget how it feels

  to crash.

  It has no likes. No comments. Only sixty-one people follow Finn, so that shouldn’t bother me. Still, my disappointment surprises me.

  I go into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee before heading to the bathroom. Rich holds open the shower door for me, and we switch places. I scrub and shave while he dresses in a suit and tie.

  I wrap a towel around my hair and body and return to the kitchen for what’s usually the best part of my morning—my first cup of coffee. Today, though, I’m more eager about the photo. Outside of a few speeches and performances in middle school, I’ve never put myself on display this way. For people to judge. What if they think I’m unattractive? Or my caption is lame? I don’t know the first thing about real poetry. I just write what feels right. Somebody could easily call me out for that, and they’d have a point.

  Still, even though it makes my stomach churn, I grab my phone and type in my passcode. I can’t not check. Finn believes in me. Maybe he’s right, and I do have talent. Either way, I have to know.

  Before I check, I pour coffee to the brim. Just the smell, the warmth, settles my nerves a bit.

  “No e-mail yet?” Rich asks, drying his empty mug.

  “Mhm.” I refresh Finn’s profile. Twenty-four likes and two comments. In forty minutes. It’s not a ton, but for the small number of followers he has, it’s something. His other photos have much less, even the ones of pretty women.

  I hold my breath and read the comments.

  Fucking hottt

  What’s this quote from?

  My face warms. Strangers. They’re looking at my body and reading my words. My journal entries have always been provocative, but private. I’m someone’s art. Will Finn post all three? The last photo he took included part of my face.

  He has the power to expose me.

  A man I met only a week ago.

  Goosebumps rise over my skin. Would he do that? Last night I trusted him not to, but things aren’t as cut and dry in the light of morning. I should be worried. I’m just tense, though, anticipating, wondering what he’ll do next.

  “Earth to Halston.”

  I look up. Rich has his briefcase in hand. His chestnut-colored hair is neatly trimmed and styled. I can never tell when he gets it cut, because it always looks the same. “Sorry. Did you say something?” I ask.

  “Did I leave the water too warm? Your face is red.”

  I’m hot, and I’ve been hot since I left Finn’s last night. Since I arrived there, actually. I touch my throat. “A little.”

  “Sorry.” He checks his watch. The gold glints under the kitchen lights. “When will you be in today?”

  “Soon. I’m not ready yet.”

  “That’s okay. I’m a little early, so I’ll just see you at the office. Anyway, I was just asking if you’re staying here tonight?”

  “Oh. No. I haven’t been home in a few days.”

  “But you will tomorrow night, right? We have the Dietrich thing.”

  “Right.” I’d rather have a few days to myself, but I’ve already committed to the client dinner. Whether it’s Rich’s account or my dad’s, I’m still expected to show. Clients appreciate that we’re both a family business and a mid-size agency. The three of us are a package, Rich and I more show ponies at these dinners than valuable team members. “I’ll be here.”

  After Rich leaves, I remove my towel and look myself over in the bathroom mirror. I still haven’t gotten used to this body, how my curves are still there, only slighter, or how my smaller waist makes my breasts look larger, even though they’ve shrunk a bit. My nipples are swollen, as pink as my lips, but Rich and I haven’t had sex in weeks. I hadn’t noticed until last night. Until golden-haired, tall, muscular, attentive Finn leaned in. Until the way his one hand engulfed my coffee cup when he passed it to me, or until his magnificently green eyes lit up when he asked me to read to him. And his lips—God, his lips. They’re unreal, so pouty they’re almost feminine, except that the rest of his facial features are strong, his jawline sharp. It’s the most inviting mouth I’ve ever had the pleasure of almost kissing.

  I’m tempted to ease the ache between my legs, but there’s no time. I’m presenting data
in a meeting this morning, and final touches still need to be added.

  When I’m near work, I stop at Lait Noir. It’s crowded, but the black-and-white café is small enough that I can see every table from where I stand in line. People are working, creating, connecting, right in front of me. Three girls share a table, but despite their open laptops, they’re all on their phones. Probably checking social media.

  My heart skips at the thought of them coming across my photo. They’d never know they were in the same room as the person they were looking at. The author of the words they were reading. That would never happen—what are the odds they’d ever come across such a small, obscure account? But the thought alone excites me.

  I take my coffee to go, and two hours later, I’m sitting across from several chuckling men in suits. My dad is always making grown men chuckle, a skill I wasn’t blessed with and have made no effort to cultivate.

  “Let’s move on to campaign idea number three,” I suggest, plastering on a smile that’d put a contractor to shame.

  “In a minute, Halston,” Dad says, tapping the table. “We haven’t even gotten to last night’s game.”

  Grayson Dietrich, a CEO client, groans. “What a disgrace.”

  My assistant and I exchange a look. She knows how my dad’s interruptions irritate me. Right about now, steam usually starts billowing from my ears. I’d hoped a promotion to Agency Analyst would stop my dad’s routine condescension toward me in front of others, but he’s shown no signs of slowing. He doesn’t see himself as patronizing. The clients want face time with the founder of The Fox Agency, and that’s what he gives them, regardless of how it makes me look to have my daddy sit in on meetings.

  I can’t say much more about it than I already have, though. When I graduated college and told him I wanted to help artists reach the masses, he created this position for me. Every time we verge on an argument, I remember that and surrender first. He cares about me—I know he does—but when he thinks his way is best, there’s no alternative. Even if I want something different, I end up giving in.

  My frustration quickly runs cold and soon, my thoughts pick up where they left off earlier. With just his words, his commands, Finn touched me. Having his camera on me was no less intimate than if it’d been his hands. Which isn’t a claim I can make yet.

  Yet?

  I’m as attracted to Finn as I am curious. There’s no question. He listens. Watches. I think he even understands me, or else he would’ve just turned my journal in and walked away. I don’t worry that he’s at home, flipping through it, laughing at parts. He gives me confidence and at the same time, the thought of seeing him again tightens my insides. He has a distinct pull, and that’s dangerous, because I can’t do anything about my draw to him.

  Can I?

  I shudder. Noticeably. The table vibrates. I’m about to blame it on the weather, but nobody’s paying attention to me, not even my assistant Benny, who’s using her pen to turn Dietrich’s logo into a penis. The men are still talking basketball.

  I wouldn’t normally get out my phone in a meeting, not even during one of my dad’s infamous steamrolls, but I’m having trouble following protocol today. Work seems less urgent. My dad is less threatening. I’m running out of meds, so I only took half my dosage. I even skipped my third cup of coffee.

  Finn’s profile is already open. There’s been hardly any activity since I checked this morning. Did he not use enough hashtags? Were we wrong, and the photo sucks? Or the caption? That could be the problem. I tried to warn Finn. It’s not like I have any business writing anything. My hand sweats around my phone.

  Those comments, though.

  Fucking hottt

  What’s this quote from?

  I want more of that. More of Finn and his ideas and his attention—even though I know it’s risky. Or because it’s risky. For so long, I’ve been moving through days, not rocking the boat, not taking too many chances. Anything more than that can result in mistakes, pain, loss. But maybe taking that photo last night woke up a side of me I put to sleep a long time ago. And maybe I want to do it again.

  8

  Less than forty-eight hours after I took her photograph, I wait for Halston under some trees on a park bench. Union Square was my suggestion. It’s not only close to her office and the job I had this morning, but it’s always busy here. There are crowds, but also privacy, and I think we need both. She seems to be acting out of character around me, and I’ve already gotten too close. I shouldn’t have admitted to jerking off. Between the light stalking, the photos, and that confession, she’ll think I’m obsessed. Even if we do have chemistry, I wouldn’t blame her for staying away. And if she doesn’t . . . she might be just as fucked up as me.

  I spot her headed my way. She gnaws her bottom lip and surveys the crowd, holding two coffees and a shopping tote. She’s in black tights, a purple scarf, and click-clack Mary Janes. I only know what those are because my daughter wears them. When Halston spots me, she walks faster.

  “I brought special coffee,” she says. She flings her stuff and herself onto the bench before handing me a cup and pastry bag. “Snacks too.”

  “Thanks.” I set them on the other side of me. She takes in the bare branches over our heads, the skateboarders riding from one end of the square to another, the prep school teenagers nibbling on each other’s ears. At least, I think that’s what she’s seeing. I haven’t taken my eyes from her profile. Her soft, feminine features are only interrupted by a slight bump to her small nose. There’s a dusting of freckles by her hairline, and I get a better view of her tattoo—a small, multi-colored pastel feather that curves behind her ear. She crosses her legs. “This was a nice suggestion.”

  “I love the parks in this city. I need them. Or rather, I need a break from all the chaos.”

  “I never thought of it that way. I always saw them as a more scenic route to cross a block.” She smiles. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Anything else nice you want to mention?”

  She laughs. “I’m too nervous to think of other adjectives.”

  “Nervous? You seem like you’re in a good mood.”

  “Do I? I guess I am. I don’t mean nervous in a bad way.” She cups both hands around her drink. “Coffee just makes me happy.”

  I arch an eyebrow. She’s been drinking coffee since the moment I met her. “Are you sure there’s no other reason for your cheerfulness?”

  She suppresses a smile. “No. Yes. I mean, it’s just the drink.”

  “I was glad to hear from you.” I’d been home editing photos, wondering when or if she’d tell me whether she’d seen the post, the precise second Outlook had pinged with new mail. “Did you see the photo?”

  Her breath fogs between us. “Yes.”

  “And? Do you want me to take it down?”

  “No.”

  I smooth my hair back. I was worried. The photos are raw. I’ve grown attached to them, and I want to post the others, but only if she’s comfortable. “So it’s not as scary as you thought?”

  “It’s . . . weird. And exciting. Weirdly exciting.”

  “I’ve gotten more followers over the last day than I would in a month.”

  “Really?” she asks excitedly. “It must be the time of year.”

  “It must be you,” I say.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do.” I get out my phone. “I edited the other two photos just in case you wanted to see them first.”

  She leans into me, peering over my shoulder, nearly in my lap, smelling like a spicy fall day. Suddenly, I can’t remember where the photo app is on my phone. I swipe between screens while she waits. Fuck. She’ll think I’ve lost it; I can’t even navigate my own phone.

  “There it is.” She taps my screen and my camera roll pops up.

  “I have captions picked out too,” I say. “If you agree.”

  “I’m just not used to this. Seeing myself so . . .” She studies the screen a few seconds. “I used to be fat
.”

  I freeze, stunned by her bluntness. “I-I’m sorry?”

  “Not obese or anything. But I just lost thirty pounds. I never considered myself sexy.”

  I stay frozen. I don’t even blink. I was married long enough to know I’m in dangerous territory. Both speaking up and staying silent could be deadly decisions. I swallow. Twice.

  “You’re turned off, right?” she asks. “It’s okay if you are. I don’t plan on gaining it back.”

  “I’m not turned off,” I say. Wait. Shit. I walked right into that one. “I’m not turned on, either, I mean, that’s not—fuck. Never mind.”

  She laughs. “Are you okay?”

  I take a breath and start over. “You look great. You’re not planning on losing more, though, are you?”

  “No. I actually wasn’t trying to lose it at first. It just started to come off.”

  “How?”

  “Stuff.” She holds her coffee up to her mouth.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Work. Stress, that kind of thing.” She takes a sip, returning her attention to my phone. She taps the screen a couple more times, but I keep my eyes on her. I don’t know what stuff means. I’m not sure we know each other well enough for me to press her, either. She smiles. “You got a couple more followers.”

  All the times Kendra accused me of hating her body come bubbling to the surface. I was never turned off by my ex-wife physically, especially not post-pregnancy as she’d suspected. I’d found her even more beautiful. No, my disinterest in her all came down to her behavior. It was hard to get excited by someone I’d grown to resent. Kendra knew I was susceptible to guilt. Hell, I married her because of it. The longer we were together, the more she relied on that to get what she wanted. And the more I pulled away.

  I give Halston the phone and pick up my coffee and pastry. If she re-opens the topic of weight, having food in my mouth will give me time to think of a potentially lifesaving response.

  “I want you to post the second photo,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  She nods.

  I’m glad. Not only do I like seeing her on my account, but since she bruised my ego the other day by implying my earlier photos were boring, her stamp of approval means even more. I tear off some pastry and pop it into my mouth. “Then I’ll post it to—” I jerk forward and spit croissant onto the sidewalk. “Fuck. Is this . . . it’s—”