by Karen Booth
Four Seasons, Rm 4908. Can’t wait. XXX
Never before had a text made me so excited. Or sick to my stomach.
Amy craned her neck to see the screen. “Triple-x? Is that some sort of sex code between you two?”
I rolled my eyes, but it wasn't that absurd an idea knowing Eamon and me. “No. It's like kiss, hug. Except it's kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“What are you going to wear for your coffee date?”
“It's not a date.”
“It's a date. He was not about to take no for an answer.”
Oh, crap. “I have no clue. You have to help me figure it out.”
“Of course. Even if it takes all night.”
Chapter Four
Jeans. After an hour of trying on clothes last night, Amy and I had arrived at jeans.
“You sure I shouldn't wear a skirt?” I asked as I tugged on my black wool coat and buttoned it up.
Amy rolled her eyes and jabbed the button on the Keurig to brew another cup. “I’m officially tired of talking about this. Your ass looks amazing in those jeans. Especially with the boots. End of discussion.”
The boots had been my next question. Even with heels on, he'd still tower over me, but it would be less exaggerated, and I loved the way I felt small when I was with him. The advantages Eamon had were too numerous to count, but I didn't begrudge him a single one. “You sure they don't make me look like I'm trying too hard?”
“He's used to women trying. He probably won't even notice.”
Too much of this made it difficult to swallow. The idea of trying, the idea of him not noticing, the idea that he was practically a different person now. I wasn't sure I was truly entitled to share the same air anymore. It wasn't that I was preoccupied with his fame, it simply felt like confirmation from the universe that he and I were not from the same galaxy. “I’m nervous.” I had hoped it would make me less anxious if I said it out loud. Now it was worse. Every skittish cell in my body had completed mitosis and split into two.
“Yeah. I bet. I would be, too.”
Gee, thanks.
Amy leaned back against the counter, still in her PJs, the nice ones from Garnet Hill with a colorful print of tiny Japanese fans. I was more of a sweatshirt and undies kind of girl. “I guess my question is, what exactly are you so worried about? What are you hoping to get out of this little exercise?”
I had no idea. It was the strangest feeling, being petrified by something you desperately wanted to do. I needed to see him and be alone with him, even when it brought back the butterflies. Mine weren't just regular butterflies, either. They breathed fire.
But what did I want to have happen? I'd thought a few hundreds times last night about what it would be like to have s-e-x with Eamon again. And was that what he wanted? Just an extra-hot trip down memory lane and nothing else? Or was there something important he wanted to say to me?
“Honestly, I don't know. I'm just going to go with it,” I said.
“You. You're going to just go with it? You haven't thought about what you'll do if he kisses you? What if you feel like kissing him? I mean, you told me how amazing it was when you two were together, but you didn't say if you wanted him in your life again.”
I wanted to laugh. That wasn't really one of my choices, was it? It wasn't even that I'd blown it with Eamon all those years ago. It had mostly felt inevitable. He and I were never meant to be together, and I didn't think we were capable of being just friends. That left us where we'd been before last night—two people walking the planet who managed to bump into each other, connected by a few hundred things we'd done together. It was a tenuous connection, those memories like the exhaust left behind by a spent tank of gas, or in our case, rocket fuel.
I stood there and stared at Amy, wondering how she always got me looking at things in a different way. Maybe it was the lawyer thing, turning an argument on its head. It was beneficial though, since I was chronically guilty of putting on blinders. She and I had only a few more weeks of these morning meetings of the mind. She'd be gone soon and I'd be forced to internalize my neurotic thoughts, and even worse, try to sort them out on my own. We would undoubtedly still talk every day, but it wouldn't be the same. It would be the way it was when I went to college, when the days and weeks apart started to dull the brightness of our sisterly bond.
“I have absolutely no idea whether I want him in my life again, but I'm sure he's just being nice. He probably doesn't run into old friends very often, especially not in the U.S.” I popped up onto my toes and pressed my lips together. “I guess I should get going, huh?”
“Take a cab. Nobody walks up to the Four Seasons,” Amy added as I reached for the doorknob.
I almost always did everything Amy told me to do, so I hailed a taxi out on the street. It made me feel more prepared, but as soon as my driver pulled up in front of the hotel, I learned the real truth. Nobody takes a cab to the Four Seasons. Everyone takes a limo, or at the very least a town car.
I climbed out and the doorman smiled at me thinly, like he knew I didn't belong there. Part of me wanted to pretend like he should know who I was, but I said thank you and shuffled through the revolving door. I pulled out my phone one last time to look at the text Eamon had sent last night. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't read it a few dozen times. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous as hell.
I walked tall through the lobby, wearing my sunglasses. I didn't want to get stopped by security and have to explain that I was there to see Eamon. They probably wouldn't even let me explain. Between the cab and being there to see a rock star, I'd get shown the back door, where the bellmen took smoke breaks and homeless guys napped. Luckily, no one said a peep and I safely reached the elevator. Up I went, but when I arrived on his floor, it was only 7:58. I didn't want to be early, so I took half steps, like I was a teenager tiptoeing past her parents' bedroom in the middle of the night. One door away, I came to a full stop and waited for my phone to tick over to 8:00. I knocked. It was a heavy sound, definitive and final.
The door opened and Eamon poked his head out from behind it. “You're here.”
“I am.” I was just as amazed as he was.
He let me in and closed the door behind me. I then absorbed his state of dress. I wasn't sure what I'd expected Eamon to be wearing when he answered the door, but I had assumed clothes.
Nope.
“So sorry.” His voice was sweet and breathless, and he was all smiles and bare skin, clutching a fluffy white towel at his waist. A nice towel, the kind you only get at an expensive hotel. His hair was dripping wet, depositing droplets of water on his shoulders and chest. I knew every contour of his trim torso, not an ounce of body fat, right down to that narrow trail of hair leading beneath his towel. It was a miracle I didn't attack him right there. “I slept through my alarm.”
And I'm painfully punctual. “No worries.” I laughed it off, wanting to be carefree Katherine, whoever in the hell she was.
“Come on in.” He led the way, which left me to study his broad back and the way it narrowed to his waist, the way the towel hung loosely at his hips. Our coffee date might end up leaving a bigger scar than I'd anticipated. But that was Eamon—beautifully dangerous without trying at all.
His room was the uncommon meeting of pure luxury and a musician who wasn't keen on picking up after himself. Last night's clothes were in a pile next to the rumpled bed. I was foolishly relieved to see that only one side of the bed had been slept in. We hadn't really talked much last night, and I had no idea what the current state of his life was, let alone his love life. He could've had a girlfriend on the road with him and I never would've known. But he didn't. And I was stupid happy about it.
“So sorry. I really should've tidied up before you came.” He began plucking clothes from the floor while tugging back the duvet, still holding up the towel, his hair hanging heavy with moisture.
“Eamon. Eamon. It's okay. You don't have to make things nice for me.” I made the mistake of grabbing his arm,
the one holding up the towel no less. We were mere inches from each other, nothing but white terrycloth and jeans between us. It took real, concerted effort not to touch more of him, not to rise on my tiptoes and kiss him, lean into his bare chest and let his wet hair brush the sides of my face. It took an iron will.
“I want it to be nice for you. And I'm pissed at myself for sleeping late.”
I shook my head and let go of him, as hard as that was. “You worked your ass off last night. I'm surprised you can open your eyes before noon.”
“You mean that? Did you really like the show? I couldn't tell last night. To be honest, I couldn't sleep because of it. I kept wondering if you were just being nice.”
Oh, good God. Nice? “Eamon. I'm almost never nice. The show was unbelievable and incredible. Truly.” I sucked in a deep breath, looking up into those cool gray eyes of his. Just watching the flutter of his long lashes as he blinked was so surreal. I was being pulled between two worlds—the past and the present. We could've easily been standing in the bedroom back in Ireland, talking about his show at the pub last night. He was ridiculously talented, but there was a very real part of him that questioned himself. It wasn't an act. He wasn't digging for compliments.
He smiled. “It only takes a few words from you and I feel better.”
Knowing I still had the power to reassure him was almost too much to comprehend. Who had been reassuring him all these years? Or had he just forged ahead, feeling uncertain after every step? “Good. I'm glad. Because you should never feel badly about your music or your ability to put on an amazing show.”
He shook his head. “I’ve had some bad stretches over the years. You just weren't around for it.” His voice was rich with disappointment.
The air in the room went dead for a moment. I wasn't around for it. Had I let him down? I'd always felt like I'd let him off the hook.
He cleared his throat and looked down at his own bare stomach. “I should probably get dressed. In the bath, I suppose.”
“Right. The bathroom.” I was stuck with that feeling of wanting something desperately and knowing that what I craved was bad for me, if only because losing it made you feel hollowed out. Still, I wanted him to cup the sides of my face, dig his fingers into my hair, and kiss me. I wanted him to let the towel drop to the floor and I wanted him to want me naked. I wanted him to throw me down on the messy side of the bed and be reckless. I wanted him to weigh me down and let me feel him. Make me unravel around him and then roll me on to my stomach on the tidy side of the bed and do it again, this time from behind, with his arm curled under my belly, pulling my hips into his.
I wanted him to ruin me.
A knock came at the door. “That'd be room service,” he said.
“I’ll get it. You get dressed. You don't want to answer the door half-naked.”
“Not that I haven't done it before.” He laughed and disappeared into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.
I let in a young man with the name Edward embroidered on his uniform. He smiled, but was all business, charging into the room with the clunky cart. He earnestly began setting out plates, glasses of juice, a carafe of coffee, napkins and utensils on a table in a corner seating area. Leave it to Eamon to order way too much food for two people.
Edward turned and presented me with the leather folio. “Ms. MacWard? If you'll sign, I'll be on my way.”
I looked at him, dumbstruck, then realized Eamon was standing there watching the exchange. He'd put on dark jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, but he'd only fastened one button so far and I was so close to blurting that he really shouldn't bother with the rest.
“I’ll take that,” Eamon said, signing the check and letting Edward know with a nod that he should clear out. “Right then. Breakfast. I don't know about you, but I could bloody use some coffee.”
We sat in comfortable upholstered chairs and I watched as he filled the white room service mugs. This was so normal, it was still hard to wrap my head around it. He reached for the tiny pitcher of cream, adding the just-right amount before handing me my cup. The coffee was delicious and hot, which seemed apropos considering the person who'd served it to me.
“I enjoyed meeting your sister last night. She's funny.”
“Funny strange or funny ha-ha?”
“Humorous. She seems to enjoy embarrassing you.” A few strands of his hair fell across his forehead as he removed the metal cloche from the plate before me. He knocked it back with a flick of his head.
“It's practically her hobby, but we've been close since we were kids. It just goes with the territory.”
“What does she do?”
“She's a lawyer. And she's getting married in December. That's like a full time job right now. Or at least a preoccupation.” I picked up a piece of toast and took a small bite, still feeling nervous and on edge.
“Good for her. And what are you doing for work these days?”
This. This I could talk about. “Do you remember when I told you about my eyesight?”
His face lit up with recognition as he scooted forward on the edge of his seat and tucked into his eggs. “Oh, right. Tetra something. The colors.”
“Tetrachromacy.”
“That's the word.”
“Well, as it turns out, there's an actual use for it. I work as a color expert at the North American Color Institute. We consult with companies on product development, advertising, and marketing.” It always sounded so dull, but I had no idea how to make it sound interesting. I only knew that it was. To me at least. “And what about you? How's the career stuff going?”
He let loose a heavy sigh. “It could be better, honestly.”
“What? The house was packed last night and the crowd loved you.”
“The last record did not do well. It sold about half of what the record before it did. So the pressure is on, you know? I need to write another hit.” He dropped his fork for the sake of making air quotes. “I go into the studio in January. Upstate New York. We'll see. Hoping I can turn it around.”
“I’m sure you'll do great. You always do.”
He studied my face, making the creases between his eyes more prominent, then wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Maybe I need a change of scenery. I'd do anything to climb inside your head and see the world the way you see it.”
“I don't know what to tell you. I can't really explain it. The world looks the way it looks to me. It's no more beautiful or ugly to me than it is to you.”
“Somehow I doubt that's true.”
“I could say the same thing about you. Writing music is mind-boggling to me. I could never do that. You put sounds into a pleasant arrangement and tell stories over the top of it. It's magic. I could never make beautiful things with words.”
He took a sip of his coffee and shot me that disarming Eamon look, leaving me ready to surrender. “You make beautiful things with words every time you speak to me.”
The heat rose in my cheeks the way an electric burner glows red. Forget temptation or desire, I needed him. He was pulling my very being straight out of the center of my chest. “I worry you think too much of me.”
He shook his head. “Not possible. You've always had my number. You knew that from the moment we laid eyes on each other.”
Once again, the air around us stood perfectly still. It still seemed impossible that I had his number the way he had mine. “It was a special time, wasn't it?” My voice was only slightly more than a whisper. The new direction of our conversation was peeling back the layers of my shroud.
“It wasn't the time. It was us. I knew that as soon as I saw you last night. I had wondered a million times if I'd built it all up in my head, but I knew last night that I hadn’t.” He pressed his lips together and choked back a quiet laugh. “Well, I didn't know it fully last night. We only got to talk. We'd need to do some other things before I could say with certainty that the magic is still there.”
It was like a sprinkle of fairy dust fell on me. Magic wasn'
t quite the right word, but it was close. Add in some kismet and fate and alchemy. “We'll always have a connection. You can't undo what happened between us.” That was exactly what I'd been feeling last night. There was an invisible tether between us, now pulling on me again. Maybe even pulling on him.
“Which is why I asked you to breakfast. I couldn't just see you last night and let you go.” He nodded as if he needed to confirm this to himself. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the years and I'm not getting any younger.”
“Don't be silly. You turned forty this year, didn't you? Don't tell me you subscribe to that bullshit about getting old. Forty is not old.”
“It's not about the number. It's about the minutes I spent walking this earth without the one person I always felt understood me. Plus, there's no escaping the fact that you and I knew each other before I was anything to anyone. That means a lot. I know that what we had was real.”
My brain was reeling so hard it was like I'd been kicked in the head. Looking into his eyes didn't help me decipher any of it. It only left me that much more vulnerable. “What are you saying?”
“I want us to know each other again, Katherine. For real. Like last time.”
I must've blinked one hundred times in the span of ten seconds. “Really?” I knew how horrible it sounded as soon as it left my lips. “I’m sorry. I mean, really? Then why didn't you look for me? Ever.” It wasn't like I'd been hard to find over the last eleven years. And he had means that I didn't. Didn't people hire private investigators? He could've at least spent twenty minutes with Google.
“Because I'm guilty of being a hopeless romantic. I always wanted fate to bring us together.”
From any other man, this could have sounded sappy, but he was sincere. I could hear it in his voice. “Well, here I am. And there you are.”
“I know.”
I had a detail perched on my lips, but I wasn't sure I should share it with him. Call it embarrassment. Or maybe it was something else. “I wrote you a letter, you know.”
His eyebrows drew together, forming a crease between his eyes. “You did? When?”