by Ava Cummings
“How good?” I turn to him and smile—and then cringe inside. Why can’t I be cool, for once?
“You’ll have to wait now, won’t you?”
I guess he didn’t mind it. I relax a bit. But I still feel out of my league.
When the movie is over, we walk outside, and Alec’s car is waiting. He opens the door for me again.
“So, can you tell me where we’re going for dinner?”
“Surprise, remember?” He looks at me, keeping a sexy poker face. His jaw flexes, like he’s holding something in.
“I know,” I start, changing the mood. “Ray’s Pizza.”
“Actually,” he says, joining in, “we’re going to Ray’s Original Pizza.”
“But my favorite is World-Famous Original Ray’s,” I fire back, laughing, as we go through all the dozens of pizzerias in New York that boast variations on “Ray’s Pizza.” We both marvel at why no one knows which one is actually the original.
We’re giggling now—breaking the first-date tension with my goofiness feels good.
“I’ll do you one better than pizza,” he says. “But—and here’s a hint—it is Italian.”
The car hurtles downtown toward SoHo. We cross Houston Street and head down West Broadway, pulling up in front of a glass-fronted restaurant that gives off a delightfully inviting glow.
“Barolo,” I say, reading the sign.
“And here we are.”
Before Alec can run around and open my door, I jump out reflexively. I like how he dotes, but it’s unfamiliar. I haven’t had a male presence in my life since I was nine years old, and I’m not sure how to handle it.
In the storefront next to the restaurant, I notice an unusual piece of art in the window—a large, blank white canvas with stalactites, also all in white, hanging off the bottom of the frame. It’s part modern, part organic; part sculpture, part painting. The combination, playing with conventions, strikes me as shrewd and ingenious. Its quiet beauty fills me with emotion, and I suddenly feel overcome. I’ve never felt a visceral connection to a work of art before, but I feel drawn to this piece and its strange power.
The illuminated sign above identifies the storefront as the Gary Lehman Gallery. It triggers a memory. As I step closer and look through the window, I see a small card to the right of the artwork that reads “Illusion,” by Damien Wolfe.
My heart screams. Suddenly, I lose all sense and want to run inside and grab any connection to him. I step closer to the window. He keeps crossing my path in these subtle ways, not letting me move on. I feel a strange thrill, as though he’s watching over me.
I check for Alec, who’s just getting out of the car. I look back and forth, from Alec to Damien’s painting and then back again, feeling oddly torn between the two.
“Ready?” He suddenly sidles up next to me, loops his arm through mine, and begins to walk me down the block.
“Yeah,” I say, looking back at the gallery as he pulls me along.
“You okay?” he says.
“Just saw a painting by a…friend. I hadn’t expected it. So…Barolo?” I say, gathering my wits, trying to brush the whole thing off.
“You got it,” he says, escorting me through the entrance.
“Hi, Mr. Conrad. Good to see you,” says the hostess. “Your table is ready.”
We’re escorted through the main dining room and out the doors in the back to a beautiful garden oasis in the city, verdant with trees, vines, and pots of blooming flowers. Cozy warmth emanates from the scene: the lighting, the shadows cast by the trees, the low hum of conversation, Italian lounge music softly playing in the background.
We’re led to a corner table with a little “Reserved” card on it, which the hostess deftly palms as she seats us.
“This is really lovely.” I smile up at him, driving conflicting thoughts of Damien out of my consciousness. The setting here is perfect; Alec is perfect. He’s successful, smart, gorgeous—and available.
“As soon as I step out here, it transports me out of New York and into a café in Cortona,” he says.
I’m silent. I don’t even know where Cortona is.
“To Tuscany,” he adds helpfully.
“Never been,” I say, embarrassed to admit I haven’t been anywhere. “But it’s on my list.”
“It’s my favorite place on earth. The food, the wine, the people…like a little jewel perfectly preserved in time.”
The wine list is the size of a small novel, with barely a bottle under one hundred dollars. Alec peruses it with confidence. The waiter comes over, and Alec orders in Italian.
“Hey, close your eyes,” he says, leaning in.
I obey, trying to relax into the evening and the joy of being in this world, with him, and being taken care of, by him.
“Tonight, we’re going to imagine we’re in Italy, together. I’m taking you on a culinary tour—I ordered all of my favorites. It will almost be like being there.”
“Okay” is all I can manage to say back, embarrassed that I don’t know more about Italian food and wine.
“So, what did you think of the movie?” he asks, leaning in, giving me that seductive smile again.
I’m still searching for something to say that’s not socially awkward or gives me away as unsophisticated. Then Aunt Sylvie’s words surface in my consciousness. Just talk to stars like they’re real people. Alec may not be a celebrity, but I feel just as out of my league with him. I take a deep breath and silently thank her, again.
“Funny. Myers as Mr. Shaggy—I haven’t laughed out loud like that at a movie in a while.”
“Me, neither.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“Would have to be Wall Street.”
“Greed is good,” we both say simultaneously, quoting the famous line spoken by Michael Douglas’s character, the corporate raider Gordon Gekko.
“You don’t want to get into a movie-quote battle with me,” I say, teasingly, loosening up a bit. “Because you will lose.”
“Oh, really, now?”
“Money is an illusion. It just transfers from one person to another,” I say, citing another line from Gekko. Illusion…Damien invades my thoughts again. Maybe the title of the artwork next door is a sign. The real Damien has a girlfriend. I vow to myself to be present for the man sitting across from me.
“The main thing about money, Bud, is that it makes you do things you don’t want to do,” he says, quoting yet another line.
We both pause, looking at each other. His eyes bore into me with a feral intensity. I fidget in my seat. He grabs my hand, nods his head toward my wine glass.
“Drink,” he says. “Barolo. The best.”
I take a sip and let the rich, nutty liquid spread over my palate.
“There must be lot of Gordon Gekkos in your office,” I say, wanting more of a window into his life and the culture in the financial world. I want to know how he avoids letting money lure him to the dark side. How it never seems to be enough.
“It’s not about the money,” he explains. “It’s the power.”
“Do you have a number?” I tentatively ask.
Alec looks at me, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
“A number, a dollar figure, that, if you reach it, you’re out, you’ll retire?”
“I know what you’re saying,” he says, with a serious, thoughtful tone. “And the answer is no. This is what I do. I bring certainty to the completely uncertain business of global markets.”
“You’re the all-powerful Oz behind the curtain.”
Alec continues talking about money reverentially, as if it were religion. As he explains market machinations and deal flow, I listen, fascinated and, frankly, a bit dumbfounded, like he’s speaking a different language. Running the register at my mom’s food co-op doesn’t exactly count as financial experience. Besides, I can barely balance a checkbook—and don’t have any funds with which to balance anyway.
He looks so at ease and in command, leaning back in his cha
ir, his arms on the armrests, gently touching his fingertips together, making a steeple with his hands, as if he’s actually building something. My mind floats to a fantasy of being Mrs. Alec Conrad and living in a Park Avenue floor-through apartment, having unlimited credit at Bergdorf’s, doing the circuit of charity benefit parties—a cozy little bubble of privilege.
“What you do isn’t so different. Celeb wields a lot of power, too,” says Alec, pulling me back from my thoughts.
“True.”
“I’ve seen Celeb tear down Hollywood’s A-listers, destroying their careers. You guys can be vicious,” he says.
I take a sip of wine and tell him about the Robert Lawson story—and exposing the affair he’s having with his nanny. “I know he shouldn’t have done it, but he and his wife have young kids,” I explain, “and us going public with it has done a number on them.”
Suddenly, I’m stung by my misplaced empathy—knowing that my dad did almost the same thing. I look away from Alec, as I feel a sadness build behind my eyes. I swallow it down, embarrassed at my emotions that lie simmering just under the surface.
Slowly I feel the heart of the issue rising in my awareness. When families get torn apart, an endless trail of hurt follows. Maybe it would have just blown over if we hadn’t published anything? Maybe it was a short-lived thing and Lawson and Celine would’ve stayed together, with no one the wiser.
“To be honest,” I continue, bringing myself back to Alec, “I never thought I would end up at a celebrity magazine. I always pictured myself walking the hallowed halls of The New Yorker, The New York Times, or even someplace like Life; my Great Aunt Sylvie worked there for many years.”
“You’ll get there,” he says. “You’re young, you have lots of time.”
I nod, soaking in his words, wanting to believe them.
“And in the meantime, I’ll get really good at answering phones and fetching double skim lattes. I can see it on my resume now: Knows every coffee combination at Starbucks by heart and willdeliver hot and freshbefore you can say double half-caf macchiato.”
“It’s all part of it. We all pay our dues,” he says.
I understand the truth of that statement more than he knows.
Alec pauses and looks deep into my eyes before continuing.
“Anna, I see it in you. The drive and desire to make your dreams come true,” he says, with the command of someone used to taking charge. “I have no doubt. In a year, you will be on top. I guarantee it.”
His conviction is intoxicating. No one has believed in me like that before—certainly no male figure, not even my mom. I remember when I left for New York my mother saw it as a grand experiment. When I got the job at Celeb, she didn’t hide her surprise that I had actually landed on my feet. I think she expected me to try out the city for a month and then head back home after I came to my senses. Drinking in Alec’s confidence in me and my goals—the goals I’ve always imagined for myself—sparks a deep well of warmth.
“I’ll try not to let you down, then,” I tease, as we toast and take a long, slow sip of wine.
Alec quietly pulls out a wad of cash and pays the bill. As I enthusiastically thank him, I consider offering to pay the tip and then realize that scrambling in my wallet for some crumpled bills or, worse, running to the cash machine when I realize that I don’t have enough would ruin this blissful feeling of satiety—and safety.
I revel in the moment. How his caretaking makes me feel like it’s all going to be okay. And how for what feels like the first time, I can relax and let someone else be in charge, knowing it will be all right.
“That was amazing,” I say, as we make our way back to Alec’s waiting town car, a symphony of flavors—from prosciutto a la melon, spaghetti all’Amatriciana, and the famous Barolo veal chop—still dancing in my mouth.
“It was. And not just the food,” he says. “You make me think about things in a new way. Not many people do that.”
“Well, I had to step up my game—being with a real Gordon Gekko and all.”
My stomach flutters at the thought of him touching me with his strong hands, which have been holding mine, on and off, all evening.
“I would like to take you home now,” he says.
“I can take a cab.” I move to hail a taxi.
He grabs my arm and pulls it back. “Anna, I’m taking you home.”
The forcefulness of his move startles me—a deep well of power underneath his warmth coming surging out. When we pull up to my building, I don’t know if I should invite him in.
“I had a really good time, Anna,” he says, taking my hand.
I feel a pulse of electricity between us as he squeezes my fingers gently, while he turns his body toward me and looks deep into my eyes, giving me a strong, intense stare. I start to tingle all over, and I’m shaking ever so slightly. I realize that it’s nerves. Alec makes me nervous.
“Me, too,” I say, smiling. Why can’t I think of anything better to say? I want him to kiss me. I’ve been staring at that gorgeous mouth all night, wanting to experience again the firm softness of his lips that I felt on my cheeks when he kissed me hello.
He grabs my shoulder and pulls me toward him, while his driver sits quietly in the front seat. He takes his time as he leans into my lips, touching them with his for just a moment before pulling back, making me wait for more. Then he goes in again, and again he pulls back. Again and again, just giving me tiny drops. It’s driving me wild inside.
Finally, he melds his lips to mine, letting me have his mouth, pressing his lips to mine with a passionate fury that verges on roughness. I feel an eruption inside me, spreading warmth throughout every inch of my body.
“Anna. You are so sweet,” he whispers, pulling back, leaving me breathless and hanging.
I finally open my eyes and look at him, as I nervously fix my hair and smooth my shirt.
“When can I see you again?” he says, with a commanding note. Hearing those words warms me inside. It seems I’ve finally found someone who is available and who’s interested in me for more than just a fling, thank you very much, Jesse Martin.
“Whenever you want,” I respond maybe a little too quickly.
“Good. Anna Starr, we’ll do this again very soon.”
He pops out of the car and strides quickly around to open the door for me.
“Good night, Anna the great,” he says, as he takes my hand and helps me out.
“Good night, all-powerful Oz.”
The night doorman opens the door for me, and I disappear into my building, floating on air, with a grin from ear to ear. I’m thinking about the perfect headline for tonight: Starr-Crossed Lovers—Celeb Assistant and Wall Street Financier Fall Head Over Heels.
11
Caught in the Act
“To us,” Alec says, holding up his glass of sake.
“To us,” I say, beaming back. As we clink glasses, I toss back the tiny cup of warm, bitter rice wine and privately wonder if that means we’re a couple, officially.
As we make small talk about the day, I feel…lucky. There’s no other way to describe it. Things are pretty good. Not perfect, but being with Alec smooths the rough edges. Getting the royal treatment everywhere we go doesn’t hurt. When we arrived at Nobu, we were escorted to a prime table. People looked up as we walked by, wondering who we were. Being on Alec’s arm is like an instant injection of confidence. For the first time, I feel glimpses of that sense of ease that I’ve always envied in others.
When the waiter comes by, Alec orders for us in Japanese. “I lived in Asia after getting my MBA,” he explains. Being in his presence, I feel my world expanding. He has so many experiences under his belt and new perspectives on how the world works. When he talks, I want to soak it all in like a thirsty farmhouse kitchen sponge.
I’m nervous to use the chopsticks and secretly hope that someone comes by with a fork at some point during the meal. Maybe sensing my inexperience, Alec begins to feed me, sliding the fish into my mouth, handling the
chopsticks expertly. The raw tuna feels slippery and cool. The tastes and textures are all new, and they awaken my palate, putting it on high alert, ready to experience each bite.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I obey, and he deftly places another sensuous bite-sized morsel into my mouth.
“Keep them closed,” he says.
I begin to chew, slowly.
“What do you taste? How does it feel?”
“Soft, wet, cold.” As I continue to chew, it changes. “Now, spicy, salty, even sweet. It’s heaven on earth…and sex on a plate.”
Instantly I open my eyes, did I really just say that? My heart palpitates and insecurity starts to creep in. But when I meet his eyes, he’s looking at me with rapt intensity. I’m suddenly tingling all over, and a heat grows inside me. His dark eyes are like lasers homing in on me. I start to get nervous again. He’s a force, and I’m never sure where he’s going next.
“Now drink the sake. Taste the bitterness and sweetness of it as it sluices through your mouth. It’s the perfect complement to the sushi.”
I’ve never had such a sensuous meal. Taking the time to experience the unusual tastes and textures, it’s all so different.
He nudges his chair closer to mine and starts to caress my thigh. He takes my hand and places it on his. He’s lightly stroking it as we stare intensely into each other’s eyes. Fire grows between us, and Alec dives toward me, suddenly kissing me hard and passionately, swirling his tongue with mine—exploring my mouth.
I get a flush of nervousness—and excitement—thinking that people may be watching us and can see the passion. I follow his cue as his hand climbs higher and higher; I do the same with mine. I can feel his erection straining against his pants. I move my hand up and down along its length, outside the fabric. We’re moving together now, mouths as one, hands all over.
He pulls away.
I pull back, every part of my body aching for this strong, sensuous, exciting man.
I turn my head to survey the crowd around us, wondering what kind of scene we created.