by K. Bromberg
But you’re a guy, I want to say. Guys don’t do stuff like this.
“What about the events?” I ask, suddenly panicked.
“I had Zoey come up here and sit in here with you while you slept so I could do it, and then we postponed today until tomorrow so you could rest.”
“That must have cost you money to do. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Shush.” Another soft kiss to the top of my head. “We’ve been seeing so many people—shaking hands, hugging—going in and out of air conditioning from city to city. Getting sick was bound to happen to one of us. I’m just sorry that it was you.”
Tears fill my eyes and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m sick or because he’s being so nice, but I don’t have the effort to fight them and one slips down my cheek.
“Why are you crying?” he asks with a soft smile on his face and pulls me in against his bare chest as I try to reign in my sudden hurricane of emotion.
“You shouldn’t have stayed. You’re going to get sick,” I say against his chest.
“Whatever you have, I’ve already been good and well exposed to it.” The trail of his fingertip up and down my back. “Can I get you anything? I have some soup ready for you. Can make you a bath if you want. I even have some coloring books to color in.”
“Coloring books?” I chuckle and lean back so I can see. The nightstand he’s pointing to is covered in four or five coloring books and crayons.
He shrugs. “I promised the doctor I’d make you rest the full forty-eight so I was determined to keep you here and well . . . you can color in bed.”
There’s something about him saying that simple phrase without any sexual innuendo that catches my attention. And means the world to me.
“Bathroom,” I say after a minute of listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear.
“Let me—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, pushing him back as I take a minute to stand, steadying myself with my hand on the knob of the headboard. Then I walk to the open doorway where I find my toothbrush and the rest of my toiletries lined up on the counter and a fresh change of pajamas folded neatly beside them.
And this time when the tears come, I let them fall.
I take my time to shower and clean up, feeling marginally human when I open the door to find Zane sitting cross legged on the bed with a coloring book open, and coloring a page.
There’s something about seeing him—this powerful business man—reduced to gym pants and coloring a picture of Scooby Doo that melts my heart.
“Zane?”
“You feeling better?”
“Much. You had all my things brought up here.”
“It was the least I could do.”
I just stand in the doorway and stare, unable to move, unable to prevent my heart from tumbling out of my chest and onto the floor.
He glances up from his project and when he sees me standing there stills. “What is it?” he asks.
“I—I—” I’m falling for you, I want to say. It’s absolutely ridiculous in this short amount of time, but I think I’m in love with you. But instead I tell him, “—I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of me.”
Chicken.
“What did you think I was going to do? Leave you up here to fend for yourself?”
God, that smile gets me every single time.
“No but . . . I know you’re crazy busy with work and this—”
“What do you mean by this? Compassion? Domesticity? Playing nurse to you?”
“All of the above”—I smile softly—“aren’t in your typical wheelhouse.”
“For you, they are,” he says, holds my gaze for a beat, and then looks back down to his picture and begins to color.
Unable to speak, I stare at him for a beat before climbing into bed beside him and watching him color. And later when I doze off to sleep—my arm across his abdomen, my cheek resting on his chest, and his lips pressing a kiss to the top of my head again—I know I’m a goner.
“ROBERT! GOOD TO SEE YOU.” And it is—for once—because there is nothing else he can throw at us or make us do since we’re a few days out from this promotional tour being over.
Robert walks across the lobby and reaches out to shake my hand. “You look good,” he says with a firm shake and broad smile.
“I am good,” I say with a definitive nod as we take a seat at my table in the bar. It’s modern and sleek and representative of everything about New York: style, a touch of the city’s history throughout, and a ton of people talking passionately about whatever their subject is. “I’ve survived an almost cross country bus trip without going stir crazy. I’m in New York City. And SoulM8 is looking like it’s about to launch to numbers we only could have imagined.”
“The numbers are incredible. I’m excited for the official launch to see what numbers we capture.” Robert lifts his finger to the bartender and after placing our order for drinks turns back to me. “I mean, the amount of attention we’ve cornered for this market blew my projections out of the water. The numbers you’re sending me, they’re just incredible and the official launch isn’t even until tomorrow.”
I think of the pending subscription numbers we have ready to go live when we push go and all of the positive feedback we’ve received from the new round of beta testing and the numbers guy in me gets excited.
I lift my glass to clink against his. “Cheers, mate. A lot of that has to do with you. Your ideas. Your connections. Even the things I bucked back against. Thank you for that. It’s truly been an experience.”
“An experience you didn’t want to take.”
I nod slowly and take a sip of my drink. “True . . . but in the end, you were right. Promoting us as a couple. Doing the reality TV excursions. They connected people to us and in turn made them interested in the platform.”
“I’m sure you swore at me a time of two.”
“Maybe.”
Robert laughs. “And how is Harlow feeling about all of this?”
“I can’t speak for her, but I think she’s been pleased with the experience.” It’s an odd question and there’s something in his tone that I can’t put my finger on.
“Is she here?”
“Not at the moment. I know she has an agent, but I looked into them and they’re small time. I figured since we’re here in New York, I might as well send her over to a friend of mine at IMG Models to see if she could give her some advice.”
“You say that like you’re not going to be seeing her again. It’s my understanding that IMG has an office in Los Angeles too.”
He fucking catches everything, doesn’t he?
“Yes, they do, but this is a personal friend. She offered to give her some advice and in that industry, advice from an experienced person who isn’t looking to undermine you is gold.”
“As with any business.”
“True.”
“Harlow is good at what she does.”
“She is,” I say with a nod.
“Sending her to IMG is a surefire way to lose her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, hating the sudden tightness in my chest that those words bring. The knowing that this whole tour is basically over. The waking up to her every morning and sliding in beside her every night is done. The seeing things through a different pair of eyes—ones that look at everything as fresh and new and exciting—is over.
This weird, new normal I’ve gotten used to will be over.
“She’s good at what she does. At being who she is.” Robert looks down to the bottom of his drink for a beat before looking back up. “You know as well as I do that she’s going to be snatched up quicker than you think. How are you going to handle being apart from her?”
I grit my teeth because that’s all I’ve been thinking about the past couple of days . . . being apart from her.
I swear to God it’s like he knows this has been all fake, and is baiting me with each of his questions.
I take my time and look around the bar before I ans
wer. “It took this long to find her . . . if it’s meant to be, mate, then we’ll see our way through anything.”
“True, but let me give you a little bit of advice”—he leans in a little closer—“if you don’t want to let her go and are considering keeping her on, I suggest you have a contract drafted for her to sign sooner or later.”
“If I plan on keeping her?” I ask through a chuckle.
“For SoulM8, of course.” He laughs.
“Everyone loves her, why wouldn’t I keep her?”
“Because her contract was for the tour and that’s it. Remember how adamant you were that we only hire for the tour and nothing further in case it just didn’t work out?”
I nod pensively. “Has this whole thing—working together when you’re dating—been that rough on you that you’re considering not hiring her again?” he asks when I scrub my hand over my jaw and stare at my drink instead of answering.
How do I explain that these past two months have been so much more than just that—dating and working? It’s been being forced to see things through a whole different set of eyes. Ones unjaded and willing to see the good in everyone, even assholes like me.
“No—I—It’s definitely been a learning experience.”
His smile is slow and even. “Isn’t that what life’s all about?”
We part ways a little bit later, him to go meddle in other business affairs that he has going and me to work. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t concentrate for shit.
My mind keeps going back to where it’s been way too much this past week: Harlow.
I pick up my phone and dial.
“Hey!”
Christ, just her voice does it to me.
Every.
Single.
Time.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s been—I can’t even put into words what today has been like.”
“That good, huh?”
“Yes. I’m just—it’s just—thank you. Today was because of you. All of the tips, all of the insight, all of the contacts, it was all because of you.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
And see you, and kiss you, I mentally add.
“You’re never going to be able to shut me up.” She laughs and the sounds of the city—a horn blowing, the cursing of someone, a passing siren—filter in through the background.
“I may have a few ways that I can,” I murmur and lean back on my stool at the bar. A woman across the way catches my eye and smiles. I nod and then turn in my chair some, not interested.
“Is that so?”
“Dinner with me tonight?”
“I’d love that.”
My penthouse is quiet when I enter. I set my keys on table in the foyer and am about to jokingly call out, “Honey, I’m home,” when I see her.
The words die on my lips.
She’s standing at the wall of windows with a stunning night skyline in the background, but all I see is her.
The curve of her neck. The slope of her shoulders. The swell of her hips.
Every part of me aches to touch her and yet I feel like I can’t move. Like I can’t breathe. The sight of her here in my place, in my home, makes me feel things I’ve always sworn weren’t real.
Things I’m not quite sure I trust myself to believe.
MANHATTAN STRETCHES OUT FOR MILES before me. The silhouette of the Freedom Tower is on the right, the Empire State Building on the left, and below is the hustle and bustle of a city that never seems to slow down.
Like a little kid, I press my face to the window and take it all in. The constant push of taxis through the streets. The muted lights of the food vendors on the corners. The honking of horns that filter up every now and again to remind me this is real. That I’m here and that today actually happened.
I hear Zane when he comes in—the toss of his keys, his relieved sigh after a long day, the sound of his shoes starting and then stopping on the hardwood floor—but I don’t turn around. I’m still in denial about what’s going to happen in three days’ time.
The weight of his stare only heightens my anticipation to see him again, but there’s something about the moment, about the surge of emotions flooding through me, that has me waiting for him to make the first move. That has me wanting him to set the tone for tonight.
Business or pleasure.
We’re in his house. How is he going to play this?
My breath hitches when his lips press ever so softly to the slope of my shoulder and stay there. The simple touch is so intimate yet arousing that I close my eyes and just memorize the feel of it.
Pleasure.
“How was your day?”
“Mmm.” His hands slide around my waist.
“Mmm?” The sound vibrates against my skin and sends shockwaves through me.
“It was good. Wonderful. Long. I could go on.”
“I see you got my text.”
“And your gift.” I run a hand down my abdomen to smooth the dress down and my hand hits his and stays there. “Thank you. It was unnecessary.”
“A lot of things are . . . that doesn’t mean you still don’t deserve them.”
“Your place is gorgeous.” I say looking at it through the reflection in front of me. Dark blues, soft greens. Masculine but cozy.
“I’m here nowhere near as much as I used to be, but it’s nice to have when I am.”
“Thank you for letting me stay here.” I feel silly for saying it, but it’s true. I was expecting the coach or a hotel . . . not his place. Not with him.
“After everything we’ve been through?” He chuckles and moves his lips to the side of my neck. “I figured we at least needed to go out in style.”
His words make my stomach lurch into my throat. I’m sure he didn’t mean them how I took them—one last tryst before we part ways—but it’s where my mind went with it and hell if it’s not hard to remind myself to separate my feelings from it all.
Enjoy the moment, I remind myself. Breathe it in. Live in the now.
“I tell you to pick any restaurant in the city, money’s no object,”—he laughs and points at me with his breadstick—“and you ask for takeout on the rooftop.”
I look up from my half-eaten piece of pizza, smile softly, and wish I could take a snapshot of him like this right now. Seated cross-legged on the ground, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, bare feet sticking out beneath his slacks, hair disheveled, eyes ablaze, and that shy smile of his I love directed straight at me.
“Sometimes simple is better. No frills. No pretenses.” I shrug and feel ridiculous as I point to the scenery around us from the rooftop patio that I assume is highly coveted in this concrete jungle. There’s a covered trellis overhead giving us privacy, an expansive patio set we’re resting our backs against, a soft rug beneath us, and the city laid out around us complete with twinkles and moonlight.
“That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“I’m surprised you like any of me after being stuck on a bus with me for two months.”
“You and your slurping straw,” he teases.
I stick my tongue out at him and take another bite, realizing that no matter how many times I look away from him, when I look back his eyes are always on me. Always looking closer than I want them to. The question is, what exactly is he hoping to find? “How was your day?”
“Good. Busy. Some meetings in the morning for some of my other businesses. A quick drink with Robert to go over some last minute details. Some time spent catching up on the day to day.” He reaches out and fills my glass of wine without asking. “How about you? I want to hear all about your meeting with Essie.”
“Where do I start other than to say it was incredible. She’s absolutely wonderful and charming and nothing like I imagined she’d be.”
He chuckles. “That’s only because she sees tremendous potential in you. If she hadn’t you would have found her curt and bitchy and aloof with not much to say, so that’s
a good sign she liked you.”
“She was a fountain of knowledge. I think my head is still spinning. Trends and markets and exposure and, gah! I’m still trying to process it all.” But even the mention of today, of the once in a lifetime opportunity he set up for me with one of the biggest modeling agencies in the world, has me feeling like I’m floating on air.
“How’d you leave it with her?”
“She wants me to forward my contract with my existing agent to her when I get home so she can see the terms. She thinks it’s possible to get me released from it so I can sign with her.”
I’m still in shock over that. Freaking IMG Models wants to manage me.
“I didn’t expect any less,” he says, pride owning his voice. “Do me a favor and let a lawyer see it first before you send it to her. I can even have mine take a glance at it for you so that you’re given a neutral opinion. If Essie wants you that bad, her bias will be a little slanted, and I just want to make sure you’re protected.”
I want to protest and say I can hire my own attorney and yet I wouldn’t know the first place to start. “Thank you. I don’t expect you to do it for free . . . I just wouldn’t know where to even begin.”
“Not a problem on all fronts. Anything I can do to help you, Harlow . . . please, feel free to ask.”
“Again, thank you.” It’s all I say, nerves jumping out of control for some reason at the simple compliment exacerbated by the guarded look in his eye.
Tell him, Low.
I stand without talking and pad around the small space.
Don’t be a chicken. Tell him how you feel. That you’re scared of leaving this bubble the two of you have created. That you have feelings for him and aren’t sure what to do with them or if he feels the same.
Fingertips trailing over pillows, hands touching the coarseness of the brick patio wall.
“Harlow?” he calls my name, sensing there is something on my mind.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to steel myself to tell him but realize I’m petrified of ruining the night, the mood, the vibe between us. If this is one of our last nights together in our cocoon, do I really want to do this? If he cares for me, won’t he tell me eventually?