Then it hits me, what I just said. I’m having a drink with Simon. I’ve never had a drink with him before, since I’ve been with his daughter every other time I’ve seen him. This is the first time we’ve been together like this outside of his home, sans Hayden.
The realization hits me hard.
This is a first time.
We’re at a restaurant.
At a table for two.
Try as I might to rationalize that one in the afternoon is an innocent time on the clock, when I take in the two of us at a sidewalk table, ordering wine and food, this feels distinctly like . . .
Nope.
Won’t go there.
Can’t go there.
Because nothing naughty can happen now . . . not with me drinking wine, and him looking gorgeous, and us far away from his home.
Uh-oh.
This has all the ingredients for a perfect dish of temptation.
I force myself to catalogue this hour with him as one-on-one language tutoring, not a date with the man I long for.
I break out my iPad, click on my French notes, and say, “Let’s get started.”
He nods and flashes me the smile of his that shows off his straight white teeth. His eyes lock briefly with mine. “Tutor me, Abby,” he says, and my stomach executes a loop-de-loop, because he just made those three words sound sexy.
I’m a teacher who wants the student, and I am so screwed.
9
Abby
* * *
An hour later, he’s learned several new key terms to use in his conversations with Gabriel’s business manager, and we’ve practiced other phrases that will be helpful to him, too, like “terms of the contract,” and “return on investment.”
“You’re a fast learner,” I say, and it’s true. While I don’t expect him to be holding entire conversations, he’s picking up new words quickly. “You definitely have a good base of knowledge.”
“Thank you. And I have a good teacher,” he says and raises his glass of wine, clinking it with mine. “Here’s to not inviting business partners to swim naked.”
“Exactly. My goal is no more verbal blunders for you,” I say with a smile, doing my best to keep it light.
He finishes his glass and sets it down. “That is an admirable goal. How many more lessons do you think I need to achieve that?”
Endless. As many as we can possibly arrange, because this last hour eating, and drinking, and dining, and talking has felt exactly like a date.
Oops. I went there.
I take another swallow from my second glass of wine. The drink has helped calm my jitters and so has the focus on French. “A few more,” I say with a jut of my shoulder.
Crap. That was a flirty move. Must. Rein. In. Desire. To. Launch. Self. At. Simon.
He leans back in his chair. “Then we should plan a tour of all the off-the-beaten-path French cafés and restaurants for our tutoring lessons.” He sweeps his hand out wide, as if he’s showing off a billboard. “Food and language.”
Yes, that sounds perfect. Take me out for delicious meals and let me teach you how to speak a fucking sexy language, because you sound so hot saying “terms of the contract” in French.
“That sounds like a fantastic plan,” I say, crossing my legs and hunting for a new topic that will be safer than this chatter about what the two of us will do. “So how did you get into the restaurant business? Were you just fed up with Wall Street?”
He hums then answers, “I had a good run in finance, but it’s a soulless business, and a potentially obsessive one, too. I wanted to get out before I became soulless and obsessive, too.”
“Were you starting to?”
“I was on the path, veering in that direction. I worked too many late nights. Definitely before Hayden was born.” He sighs heavily, and his voice is tinged with regret. “Maybe even after,” he says, as if he’s admitting something difficult.
“Were you a workaholic?”
He shrugs and quirks his lips. Briefly, he looks away. “I was called that.”
He doesn’t have to speak the words aloud for me to know who called him that. His ex-wife. My chest pinches painfully, and I wish he didn’t have an ex-wife. That I could wave a magic wand and she’d simply vanish into thin air. That’s a terribly unfair thing to wish, for Hayden’s sake. But even so, it’s what I feel—the desire to erase his history. To take away the hurt she inflicted on him. But then, his hurt brought him into my life. It’s part of who he is—the single father, doing most of the work raising his daughter.
I run my finger along the edge of my glass then meet Simon’s eyes. “Do you think you are now? A workaholic?”
His gaze locks with mine. “Do you?” His question is laced with worry, and I can tell he desperately hopes I’ll say no.
Saying no is easy, though, because it’s the truth. The man works hard, but I don’t think he’s dangerously addicted to it. A reassuring smile tugs at my lips. “No. You’re not a workaholic at all. I also think you’re a great father to Hayden.”
He matches my grin with one of his own. “I can’t tell you how much I love hearing that.”
“Watching the two of you warms my heart. It’s the sweetest thing in the world to see you together. You’re crazy for her, and she adores you so.” He can’t stop grinning, and then he lowers his eyes, but the smile remains. “Did I embarrass you by saying that?”
He raises his chin and shakes his head. His blue eyes sparkle. “No. You didn’t embarrass me. You made me happy.”
Oh God. Oh hell. My heart pounds wildly, the relentless beating a reminder of how utterly foolish I am. It’s one thing to banish thoughts of sex, but talking about the things that endear him to me? That’s far riskier, because now my heart is swinging back into the zone of longing. This conversation has become just as risky as picturing him unbuttoning his shirt for me.
And now I’m thinking about Simon undressing. Great. Before I drool on the table, I slam on the mental brakes and swerve the car in the other direction. Work, work, work. “Tell me then—if finance was soulless, is the restaurant business full of soul?”
He runs a hand through his thick hair and smiles that wide, beaming grin that I adore. “Definitely. Great food ultimately needs to be made with both heart and soul, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t thought about it before, but that makes sense, I suppose.”
“Food is a sensory experience. It can be sensual, and it should be delicious, right?” he asks, his eyes locked on mine.
My skin tingles from his intensity. So much for his career being a safer topic. “Of course. Like the lunch we just had. That was fantastic.”
“My point exactly. Food like that, amazing, mouth-watering, eye-rollingly good cuisine, has to come from here.” He taps his breastbone. “It has to come from passion. From the artist inside the chef.”
A grin spreads on my face. His enthusiasm is infectious, and my resistance to his charm is futile. I might as well wave the white flag now. “Have you never wanted to cook?”
“I’m terrible in the kitchen. But I love good food, and I crave the rush of investing, so this is the perfect combination for me. I get to be part of a business I love and participate in a way that fits my skills. Plus, I can spend more time with Hayden. Though this deal has taken more hours than I’d expected.”
I lift a hand, meaning to rest it on his arm and reassure him. To tell him he’s doing great, he’s managing with just the right balance. But I stop, returning my hand to the table as I answer, “You know, I’m happy to help if you need me. I love hanging out with Hayden.”
“You already do so much. And you’re absolutely amazing with her. You must have been incredible with all your brothers.”
“They were my little pack. I was their alpha dog,” I joke, though it’s true. “I’m the oldest of four, and the only girl, so helping raise kids comes naturally to me. Even though I was the Chihuahua-size leader of a pack of German Shepherds.”
Simon na
rrows his eyes as if he’s appraising me. He makes a so-so gesture. “Give yourself credit. I’d say you’re more of a”—he taps his chin—“a Fox Terrier.”
Holy shit. Did he just put the emphasis on fox?
I blush and try to think of something clever to say when the waiter arrives.
I offer to pay, but Simon shakes his head and peels off a few crisp bills. “You all set?”
I nod as I stand, shouldering my bag.
Looking at the remains of our meal, a wave of disappointment smacks me. The time with him is over. We had our tutoring, we had our chat, and now we will go our separate ways. I’ve had such a good time with him, and I don’t want it to end. I want the afternoon to keep unfurling.
We step away from the café, and I find myself wondering what he’ll do during the rest of the day, where he goes when he’s not with his daughter. He’ll probably work, but what if he doesn’t? What if he’s met someone? A lovely single mother who has a little girl, too? The thought horrifies me, and already I want to tackle that unknown woman and tell her to stay the hell away from him.
As we walk toward the subway station, Simon clears his throat. “There’s a theater in Tribeca. It’s showing nature documentaries as part of a film festival.” His voice is dry, with a hint of nerves. He lifts his wrist and checks the time. “There’s a film on zebras.”
Then he blinks and shakes his head as if he just heard himself. “Wow. Did that ever sound weird?” His words keep tumbling from his lips as if he’s never asked anyone to the movies before.
His awkwardness warms my heart and makes me beam. He’s not seeing another woman. He wants to spend more time with me.
“But would you like to go see a film about zebras? I have a free afternoon—”
Before he can say another word, I clasp my hand on his arm and say yes. He wants what I want. “I would love to see a film about zebras.”
10
Simon
* * *
When the young zebra is separated from his family, she gasps and clutches my arm.
When he evades a lion, she digs her nails into my bicep.
And when he’s reunited with his striped friends and family, she clasps her hand over her mouth and turns to me. “Oh my God,” she whispers through her fingers.
I calculate how big a check I should send to the Zebra Foundation because this hour-long documentary has turned out to be some kind of foreplay.
It’s better than taking a woman to a horror flick in the hopes that she jumps into your arms. Not that I like horror films, and not that I’ve done that. But I had no clue the zebra’s tale of survival would elicit this sort of reaction from Abby, who seems to feel every moment of what’s happening onscreen deep in her bones.
I just wanted to do something nice for her, since she took the time out of her day to help me. But honestly, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t want to say goodbye to her. Little did I know a nature documentary would lead to her busy little hands squeezing my arm in a dark theater.
As the credits roll, she says, “My heart is still beating a hundred miles an hour.”
“That’s faster than a zebra at top speed.”
She smiles and takes a steadying breath. “That was so good. Thank you for taking me,” she says, and pride suffuses me. I love that she had the best time at this unexpected afternoon outing.
“My pleasure,” I say, then my eyes stray to her hand, still wrapped around my arm. Some of the other moviegoers shuffle up the aisle, heading out of the darkened theater.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she says and yanks her hand away.
“I really didn’t mind,” I say softly. “Glad my arm could be of service.”
“I don’t think I was even aware that I was gripping it like a lifeline during the film.”
I was completely aware, and truth be told, it was my favorite part of the movie.
“I was just so into it,” she says with a shrug. “I guess now you know why I like the eagles so much.”
“I do. But I understood it before, too.”
She tilts her head to ask, “Yeah?”
I nod. “You kind of light up when you watch them. Just like how you do when you talk about the Museum of Natural History. There’s a sparkle in your eyes,” I say, gesturing to those gorgeous amber-flecked eyes.
Her lips part. “I do?”
“You do, Abby. It’s an innate part of you. Separate from languages, separate from your talent with kids. It’s part of what makes you tick.” Even as I say it, I worry this is where we’re in real danger—talking about who we are, what we love, what makes us happy.
Maybe this is even riskier than my hands in her hair, or secret touches that hint of more. More dangerous than naughty little comments on skinny-dipping and lubricant. Perhaps this is the real fire—how I feel sitting here with her, our knees nearly touching, our elbows aligned, our gazes locked.
Everyone else leaves, and we don’t move.
She licks her lips, swallows, and casts her eyes down. When she raises her face, she speaks softly. “You’re right,” she says, and her voice sounds vulnerable.
But inviting. Like she wants to talk, to get to know each other even more.
I tilt my head, curious. “Why do you like shows about wild animals so much?”
She seems to consider my question for a moment, then she answers, “For the same reason I like working with kids. It’s real. No falseness. No pretense. That, and I’ve always been at home with wild dogs. Three brothers and all,” she adds with a curve of her lips.
I return her smile with one of my own. “I like that. No, I love that. And that’s what I loved, too, when you first showed me the Eagle Cam, and what I enjoyed about this film. They were never my thing before. Weren’t even on my radar. But because of you I pay more attention, and when I do it’s fascinating to watch what’s truly real.”
She nods enthusiastically. “Did you know eagles can sleep with one eye open?”
“Like a mobster?”
“Exactly! They’re unihemispheric, I learned. They can sleep and be awake at the same time,” she says, her eyes sparkling as she explains. “They truly do keep one eye open, and the awake part of the brain watches for predators. Dolphins are the same.”
I wink slowly, showing her one closed eye.
She wags a finger at me. “But you didn’t put half your brain to sleep.”
“No, but I’m working on my unihemispheric potential.”
She laughs, then says, “See? The natural world has so many wonders, and they’re all real and true.”
Real and true. I love the sound of those words. Especially because pretense was all I knew from Miriam during the last few years of our marriage, and especially the final months when she conducted her affair with a coworker. When her transgressions came to light, I was hurt. No surprise there. No one wants to be cheated on. But I wasn’t as devastated as I thought I’d be. I met her shortly after college, but we’d been drifting apart for a long time. Honestly, I’d already pulled away from her emotionally, burying myself in work rather than dealing with the reality that we weren’t right for each other anymore.
Maybe that was what had made it so easy to say what I did when I saw the text messages between her and the guy she worked with.
“Sleeping with your coworker, Miriam? That’s a bit cliché.”
“Working so hard you ignore your wife? That’s a bit cliché,” she’d fired back.
Neither one of us fought for the marriage. She was ready to leave. I was ready to let go of her. Now, a few years later, I don’t pine for her at all. I’m just glad she’s no longer my wife. I don’t want her brand of pretense in a relationship.
I want this honesty, this openness—this realness.
That’s what makes my longing for Abby so much tougher to manage. It’s rooted in who she is. She’s not fake. She’s not phony. She’s so fucking real and that makes me fall harder for her, and I wonder if she can tell. Seeing as I knew the show times for a zeb
ra documentary, I’m not sure how it could be any more obvious that I’ve got it bad for her.
But I’ve played hooky for long enough. I need to catch up on work so I can devote my attention to Hayden come Monday morning when I have her for the week, as I usually do. She’s with me most of the time, but we try to stay flexible, and Miriam plans to bring our daughter back early so she can jet to the nation’s capital for business. She’s a lobbyist, and her job suits her since she loves to make people’s lives miserable.
The lights flicker on in the theater. An usher enters to pick up popcorn buckets and candy boxes.
Abby stands, smooths a hand over her yellow sundress, and grabs her purse. “Thank you for taking me to the movies,” she says sweetly, but I swear the only words I truly hear are taking me.
God, how I want to take her. I want to take her to dinner, and I want to take her to my bed.
She walks up the aisle, and for those few seconds, I don’t fight my lust. I check her out the entire way. Her legs are smooth and toned, but not too muscular. I bet they’d feel spectacular wrapped around me. Her hair glides down her back, and I want to rope my hands through it when I’m not practicing a braid. And then, there’s her ass. I think—no, I’m sure that I could worship it. Plant kisses all over it, then spin her around, cup my hands on those luscious cheeks, and yank her close to me.
Fuck, now my dick is imitating an iron spike, and I might as well get a megaphone and announce that I’ve got a very big thing for her. In case that wasn’t self-evident. When we reach the lobby, I find myself wishing I’d bought Junior Mints, just so I had a box of candy to cover up the salute in my jeans. And I don’t even like mints.
Out on the busy street, Abby doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t say anything. I hail a cab quickly, and we head uptown.
“We can drop you off first,” I say, since she lives on the west side, and I’m on the east. That means the ride is up for her, and then all the way across town too, for me. New Yorkers never do this. We hate going up and over, but I’ll gladly take the inconvenience for another few minutes with her. Then, it hits me. “Wait. I didn’t even ask if you were heading home.”
The Sexy One Page 6