I slap my forehead. How on earth did I end up with a hoity toity pretty boy who wears Brooks Brothers slippers? My dad would laugh so hard.
“Don’t tell me I’m your first boyfriend to wear Brooks Brothers slippers.” He smirks.
“I guess you’re my first boyfriend who can afford slippers. Have you taught Jackpot to carry your slippers to you when you come home?”
“Sure. He brings me my slippers and the New York Times and then makes me an Old Fashioned and curls up at my feet while gazing up at me longingly.”
“One day.”
“Yes. One day.”
I yawn. “Excuse me. I can’t believe I’m yawning when this conversation is so stimulating.”
“It’s because you’re no longer anxious now that you can see my face and hear my voice.”
Oh my God, that is totally what it is.
“Or it’s because…” Nope. I got nothing. My brain can’t even come up with a snarky response. I’m broken. Keaton fucking Bridges has broken my brain. I sigh again—a defeated woman. “Yeah. That’s what it is.”
“Sweet dreams, Ute. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait to see you either. Bye.”
He waves, and I tap the red icon before I say something stupid like I love you.
I made sure to leave my office earlier than necessary before lunch because I want to be there to see Keaton’s face when he walks into TGI Fridays for the first time in his life.
I wait near the hostess stand, facing the door and rubbing my hands together in anticipation.
I haven’t been here in so long. This restaurant chain has a special place in my heart because when I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and me there to meet up with my mother after work, every other month. When I was twelve, it seemed like such a fun place to dine, and I imagined hanging out there with friends once I was in college. They served every kind of food that my brother and I wanted to eat and all the cocktails I couldn’t wait to drink once I had a fake ID. When I was in college, Aimee officially became my BFF when she was the only person I knew there who would accompany me to the Ann Arbor location. Turned out TGI Fridays was not considered cool by many people over the age of fourteen in college towns—go figure. When she moved to Brooklyn, she became the only person who would ever join me at this location. I couldn’t even get people to come ironically. I mean, I don’t blame them—I wouldn’t come here by myself. But it says “home” to me, and sometimes a girl needs a slider or four and a margarita or six. I’ve only been able to get Aimee here once since she had Finn, and it’s probably just as well. Now that I’m in my thirties, I need to choose everything more wisely. Like appetizers and boyfriends.
I don’t even realize how nervous I am about whether Keaton will actually show up or not, until he actually shows up. I see him step out of his car as Manny drops him off. He’s wearing a charcoal gray wool overcoat and a long black scarf, and he looks so stylish and striking I actually catch my breath when he walks in.
“Mr. Bridges!” the hostess calls out before I can find my voice. “Nice to see you again!”
Keaton removes his gloves and holds his hand out to shake hers, nodding at everyone in the waiting area like he’s entering a country club.
TGIWTF?
“My darling,” he says to me, kissing me on the cheek and hugging me.
He smells so fucking good I want to bite his neck.
“You been waiting long?”
“Are you kidding me? You’ve been here before?”
His dimple pops out to make an unscheduled appearance. “Is that so surprising?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I call bullshit.”
“Okay, I came by when they opened and gave the hostess twenty bucks to greet me by name when I came back at lunch.”
I punch his bicep, very meekly, because I’m laughing so hard. “You went to all that trouble in the middle of your first morning back to work?”
“Worth it.” He claps his hands together once. “Let’s do this!”
“Right this way, Mr. Bridges,” the hostess says.
“She’s on to us, Shari,” he says. “You did great, though.”
When Shari shows us to our table, he helps me off with my coat and then places it on the back of a chair for me. Wow. Nanny Rey did a really good job raising this one. When Shari hands him the menu, he looks at me and says, “I already know what I want. I checked out the menu online.”
“I know what I want—I get the same thing every time.”
Shari sends our waitress right over. I order the spinach & artichoke dip, a bacon cheeseburger, and a margarita.
“That’s my girl,” he says. “I would like to try your mozzarella sticks, the filet mignon, medium-rare, topped with whiskey glaze, an Oreo Madness to share for dessert, and—what do you recommend as a cocktail pairing, Rachel? What’s your favorite?” he asks the waitress.
“I mean, you can’t go wrong with the Ultimate Long Island Tea.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Rachel! One of those for me, and you know what? I’d like to order a round of drinks for all the other guests here today!” he says very loudly. “It’s Friday, and we’re celebrating!”
The table full of office workers next to us cheers.
“TGI Fridays!” he says, raising his hands in the air.
“You’re insane,” I say, covering my face. “What are you celebrating?”
“Us, dummy.” He takes my hand from my face and kisses it. “We’re celebrating us.” He holds his phone up and leans in closer to me. “Stop looking all misty-eyed and smile. You need to send a picture of us to your parents.”
When he was halfway done with his Ultimate Long Island Tea, Keaton decided to send the picture of us at TGI Fridays to his parents too.
He said that a few hours later, his mother wrote back: What fun! You look very tan and fit. Dad agrees. The girl is very pretty.
Our friends’ responses on our group text were somewhat more amusing.
AIMEE MCKAY: Aww. You guys are adorable, and I miss that place. Say hi to the margaritas for me.
CHASE MCKAY: Did she kidnap you, Bridges? Is this a cry for help?
NINA DEVLIN: I am so jealous of your tans. And how cute you guys are. And that you’re getting drunk while I teach kids about fractions.
VINCE DEVLIN: Hey Rox, when he agreed to meet you there, did you explain to him that a slider was an appetizer and not a sex thing?
BERNADETTE FARMER: Can you guys bring me a bucket of ribs? I’m starving.
BERNADETTE FARMER: Also #ROXTON4EVA
MATT MCGOVERN:
MATT MCGOVERN: Also #ROXTON4EVA
Keaton was so upbeat and polite while we were at the restaurant, but I could tell he didn’t really like the food and that he didn’t feel great once we were finally done eating and drinking. His delicate little rich boy’s digestive system isn’t used to handling so many calories and so much saturated fat all at once. Instead of letting him take me to SoHo for dinner like he was planning to, I insisted on bringing him peppermint tea and the ingredients for a chicken and rice soup that my mom always makes when a loved one has an upset tummy.
I was not prepared for how freaking gorgeous and huge his townhouse is.
Keaton was not prepared for how freaking delicious my homemade soup is.
Neither of us were prepared for how enthusiastically and relentlessly Jackpot would hump my freaking leg. He is neutered, but Keaton thinks it’s the cocoa butter lotion I’ve been using. I just don’t want to stop using it because it reminds me of the vacation. But the skin on my shin actually started to chafe. The door to the bedroom is closed, and we try to ignore the dog, who is scratching at and around outside it.
“I feel so much closer to Jackpot now,” Keaton says as he peels off my cardigan and kisses my shoulder and my neck before pulling off my camisole. “We finally have something in common.”
“An aversion to shitting in the snow?” I have t
o place my hands on his chest to keep from swaying. His kisses still feel new and unnerving in the best way.
“Good point. We now have two things in common. That and an irresistible desire to mount you and claim you for our own.”
“I appreciate that you yourself haven’t made me chafe yet.”
“Yet.” He traces along the scalloped edge of my bra with his fingertip and then unhooks it at the back. I watch his face as he watches my breasts spill out and into the palms of his confident hands. There’s a reverence in his expression that humbles me while also making me feel so much more than foxy. I feel like a queen.
In many ways we’re so familiar to each other, but the sense of discovery is still thrilling, and I hope it lasts. I hope all of it lasts. I’ve even started to imagine what he’d look like as he gets older, and I want to be here to watch him become a silver fox. I had my career mapped out before I graduated from high school, but this is the first time I’ve really thought about what the future would look like with a man, beyond a few years at a time.
In just a few days, I’ve gone from being shocked that he could be The One to being shocked that I had spent so long convincing myself that he couldn’t be.
I undress him just as slowly and attentively as he undressed me, paying special attention to his chest—the one that I now absolutely believe most women can’t handle seeing. It is perfect. His pecs are beautifully formed and covered with a sparse layer of light-brown hair that gradually became more golden in the sun, and I can’t keep my hands or my lips off it.
“Fucking hell,” he says in a totally different tone from how he usually says those two words when we’re getting naked with each other. “I’m sorry. I have to put him in his room.”
“Yeah, that’s getting hard to ignore.” Jackpot has been whining and whimpering and rattling the door.
“You might want to hide in the bathroom before I open this door.”
I do.
By the time Keaton returns, I am in his bed, completely naked between the most luxurious sheets I have ever luxuriated in. The big, sturdy, and reliable bed frame and the heavy masculine headboard with these billion thread count sheets is a heady combination that sends all the blood straight to my lady parts in the same way that his refined but fearless hands do.
“Well now. Don’t you look right at home in my bed.”
“What kind of sheets are these?”
“Magical. Because they’re mine.” He drops his pants and boxers to the floor and climbs in with me.
We both groan because the feel of skin on skin and skin on sheets is so exquisite. The weight of his body on mine is what I’ve been missing since last night. That’s a lie, I’ve missed every single thing about him, everything he says, everything he does to me.
My hands are roaming all over his back when he hikes my legs up and pushes inside me. I’ve been wet for him since last night—since last week, really—and everything about the way we are together now is smooth with just a hint of the friction we used to have, and it is delicious and wonderful.
“Fuck, I’ve missed being inside you,” he mutters. “I don’t know how I made it through the day.”
“Make up for last night,” I say. “Make up for all the lost time. Don’t hold back. Just break the fucking bed if you can.”
I hear air blow out of his nostrils, and he says, as he presses down into his hands to raise his torso up, “This bed was custom-made, and I said to the guys who installed it that I wanted it to withstand King Kong-style jungle sex. But you’re the only woman I’ve ever been with who’s asked for it.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Fucking hell, you are my kind of lady.” His thrusts come at me slow and strong and then hard and fast.
He wasn’t kidding about this bed; it isn’t moving, even though I am pretty sure if it weren’t for the two pillows behind my head, I’d have a concussion already.
He grabs hold of the top of the headboard for leverage, and I grip the sides of the pillow, both of us panting and crying out.
I’ve never wanted so badly to feel like someone’s becoming a part of me.
I want to feel him between my legs all day tomorrow—or for the rest of my life, maybe.
This orgasm is a jolt to the system. It shakes me to my core and shatters my soul and reassembles me into a person who can tell this man exactly what I’m feeling. Or I wish it would, anyway.
When he comes, he makes a sound that’s so masculine and primal and vulnerable, I hold on to him tight, soothing him so he knows I’m here with him, taking all of him into me.
He collapses onto me so beautifully, slick with sweat, warm, and emptied out.
I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.
I know we’re both thinking the same thing. It’s in the silence and the way we run our fingers through each other’s hair so tenderly but possessively. It’s in our labored breaths and the air around us. Maybe there’s some untranslatable word—Japanese or Swahili—that means all the things I’m feeling for him and I just haven’t learned it yet. I’ll find it. I’ll find some perfect thing to say to him that I’ve never said to anyone else before. He deserves it.
“I didn’t even come close to breaking this bed” is what he finally says when he catches his breath.
“You will. You’ll wear it down eventually. I have no doubt.”
23
Keaton
Roxy Carter and I have spent the last ten nights in a row together, in the same bed.
We still haven’t broken mine, but it’s not for lack of trying. Apparently the only thing stronger than my primal drive to screw the living daylights out of my very willing hot girlfriend is walnut wood, bed bolts, and expertly crafted mortise and tenon joint connections. Interestingly, she wanted me to go easy on her when we stayed at her place.
It has been fun and blissful, despite that awkward falling-in-love problem of deciding when to say “I love you” for the first time. Not saying it right before coming has become the best kind of daily struggle. We still banter and talk like friends, but the quiet moments between us echo with unspoken words.
Incidentally, there is a word for what’s happening, courtesy of the indigenous people of Tierra del Fuego. I can never remember how to spell it and I have no idea how to pronounce it, but it’s a single word that describes the wordless, meaningful look between two people who both have a desire to initiate something but they’re both reluctant to start. It’s a beautiful and fragile time, not bad at all, and I have savored it.
But I have to leave for a three-day business trip tomorrow morning, so I’m planning on telling her tonight when we see each other.
My ex-girlfriend Tamara has been texting me every day for the past week, telling me that she’s moved back and asking to see me. I kept telling her I was busy—and I am—but I can’t put it off any longer. I don’t particularly want to see her, but there’s something I’ve wanted to ask her for years, and besides…I don’t want her showing up unannounced when Roxy’s with me. I agreed to meet her for coffee at a place near my office in DUMBO.
I text Roxy while I’m waiting outside the café, telling her that Jackpot and I can’t wait to see her tonight. I not only smile whenever I receive a text from her, I smile when I write to her. I’m fucking adorable. As soon as I’ve sent it, I look up and see a ghost crossing the street toward me. Not of the demon variety, but one who haunted me gently and tenaciously for a lot longer than she should have.
Tamara is about five years older since I last saw her, I guess. She doesn’t walk as quickly as a native Manhattanite anymore, and she’s adopted a more casual West Coast style, but she’s still as put-together as ever. I suppose, if things were different right now, she’d still turn my head. But she doesn’t. Or rather, I turn my head to look around the area to make sure Roxy isn’t there. It’s not that I feel guilty. I just don’t want any misunderstandings now that things are going so well for us.
Tamara flings her arms around me without hesitatio
n—another sign she’s adapted to the LA lifestyle. “Oh my God, it’s good to see you.”
I pat her on the back and pull away. “Hey, you. Welcome back.”
“I am so glad to be back—you have no idea. Have you been waiting long? I’m not late, am I? I’m not used to walking everywhere yet.”
“Just got here. Shall we?” I open the door to the café.
She touches my waist as she passes through the door. I used to love how relatively touchy-feely she was for a New Yorker, but now it just seems presumptuous.
The only free table is by the window, and I don’t realize until after I’ve sat down that Tamara was waiting for me to pull her chair out for her. I always used to. She doesn’t make a fuss about it, though. She wouldn’t. That’s why I liked her. Low drama.
We don’t say anything to each other until after ordering coffee from the waitress.
“You look really good, Keaton,” she says, leaning forward, like she’s confiding in me.
“Thank you. I just got back from vacation.”
“Really? Where’d you go?”
“Antigua.”
“I’d love to go there! We had such a good time at St. Barts. I still think about that vacation a lot.”
Yeah. I should have known that from all the nothing you wrote in your annual e-cards.
“So what’s up? I saw your brother at the airport a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know if he mentioned it.”
“Really? No, he didn’t tell me that—you know how he is. So you knew that I was moving back? He told you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She reaches across the small table to touch my hand. “Moving was so crazy, I didn’t have time to get in touch with people.”
I pull my hand away to pick up a sugar packet that I won’t be using for the coffee that hasn’t been brought to me yet. “It’s not a problem, I totally get it. What’s up? I have another meeting in less than half an hour, so…”
“Right. So…” She waits until the waitress finishes placing our coffees in front of us. “So, I wanted to talk to you because I was hoping you would give me some business advice. I’m setting up a new company—publicity for feature-length documentaries.
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