by Jana Aston
“It’s a little bit slutty.” Chloe’s finished chewing and has given me her verdict. “You really should buy him dinner first.”
I nod. “That’s fair.” I pull on my favorite jeans and then survey my choices before pulling on a sweater over a lacy camisole. He said casual. This one is the perfect chocolate brown and makes my eyes pop, and the lace camisole peeps out of the bottom. Perfect. The weather is nice for early December and the snow that was threatening earlier today never materialized. I’ve got a cute camel-colored pea coat that will complement the sweater, in case I want to leave it unbuttoned. Finally, I pull out the Louboutin box from under the bed. He did specify that I should wear them after all, and I’m a very accommodating girl. Most of the time. Hardly ever.
I use a fat curling iron to add a few big waves to my hair and then complete my makeup with smoky eyes and dark, chocolatey-red lipstick. He’s definitely going to want to skip dinner when he sees me, I decide, looking myself over before I head out.
At five to seven I tell Chloe I’m going down to the lobby to wait for him and she groans.
“He’s not coming upstairs? I was gonna take pictures,” she jokes, holding up her phone. “Maybe I’ll just come down with you and grab a few before you go.” She pretends like she’s getting off the bed, making a big production out of it.
“Zip it, roomie. I’ll see you later.”
“By later, you mean tomorrow?”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Twenty-Six
Sawyer is waiting for me when I get downstairs. He’s leaning against the wall with the mailboxes, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed while he surveys the hustle and bustle in the lobby. Based on his expression I’d say he’s amused. There are a couple of guys lounging on the sofas, tossing a basketball between them. Two different pizza delivery drivers waiting for students to meet them in the lobby to collect their orders. A couple having an argument near the elevators. And at least four girls who are eyeing the fuck out of him.
I see him before he sees me. I use the time to take him in. He’s painfully good-looking. He’s changed since I saw him this afternoon. The suit is gone, replaced with faded denim jeans and a grey v-neck sweater, the collar of a white button-down shirt appearing underneath. His dark hair is tousled, as if he showered after work and just ran his hands through it while it dried. I cannot wait to get my hands on that hair. I know it must be as thick as it looks, and I’m a bit fascinated with the barely-there wave. It’ll definitely be something to hold on to later.
He sees me coming and his eyes do a slow trail down my frame and then back again. “You pick up all your dates here?” I quip.
He exhales slowly and shakes his head. “I didn’t think there was a woman alive who could have me waiting on her in a college dorm,” he replies. “But then again, I wasn’t expecting you, Boots.”
Well, hell, I don’t have a reply for that. I stare in his eyes for a moment and nod, the moment strangely intimate. He has the most devastating blue eyes, and I’m finding I really like having their attention on me.
He helps me into my coat and we head out. As he holds the car door for me I realize I still don’t know where we’re going, and it’s nice. Not planning the date is fan-freaking-tastic. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to ask him what he wants to do and worry about him having a good time. I just get to have fun. Sawyer might be right about being pursued versus doing the pursuing. Unless he’s about to take me to a strip club.
We make it as far as 5th Street, which isn’t far at all, when I remember that I Googled him today. And that I know too much. Like his middle name (Thomas) and his birthday (January twenty-seventh) and his net worth (a lot). All stuff I should not yet know. It’s probably no more information than he’s dug up on me, but still, it feels weird. It might be the billions part that makes it weird. It’s definitely the billions part.
I fidget in my seat and then ask if he had a good day at work.
“The afternoon was pretty tedious. I had to sit through a meeting with a raging hard-on.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. I don’t even mumble it sarcastically.
“What’s going on here, Boots? No snappy retort from you?” We’re stopped at a light by the hospital. An ambulance whizzes past, the red and blue lights slicing through the car.
“Nothing is going on.” I shake my head and sit up straighter.
“Ah, you finally Googled me, didn’t you?” he says, smirking.
“Um, yeah.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t act differently.”
“Is that why you like me? No one else will call you an asshole to your face?”
“It’s a struggle, Boots, a real struggle to find that kind of honesty. I cry into my thousand-thread-count custom-made Kleenex all the time. Sure, I can get Siri to call me an asshole, but it’s hard to take a phone seriously, you know? She lacks the acrimony.”
“Siri does no such thing,” I respond, but I’m smiling.
“I do not lie, Everly Jensen. Do it right now.”
I’m laughing now, but I’m game. I swipe my phone and hit the home button, summoning the Siri feature, and request that she call me an asshole. When she responds in her pleasant robot voice, requesting confirmation that from now on she’ll call me “Asshole,” we both completely lose it.
I’m still calming myself from my giggle fit when we pull into a parking garage. I see a logo for the Ritz-Carlton as we glide past it. Seriously? Okay, yes, I was sorta hoping we could skip to this part, but a hotel? Billionaires are all the same. I’ve only met one, but they’re probably all the same. Arrogant. And weird. A hotel? His house would have been fine.
“I cannot believe you brought me to a hotel.” I gasp. “Is this your version of Netflix and chill? It’s not cool, Sawyer. Not cool.” I’m getting really into it now, waving my arms around. “A hotel? Are you one of those weird billionaires who can’t even take a woman to their house? You said we were going on a date.” I finish in a huff, dropping my hands in my lap.
Your move, Sawyer.
He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine before turning to me and resting his arm over the back of my headrest. He leans in and meets my gaze head on, pausing for a second before responding.
“I live here,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Not in the hotel, that would be”—he pauses, recalling my wording—“weirdly billionaire of me. I live in the residential tower. In a condo, not a hotel room.”
Oh.
“Also, I’m just parking the car. We’re going to Love Park. It’s a couple blocks”—he points over my shoulder—“that way.”
Well, shit. I’m tapping a finger on my chin trying to think a way out of this fake tantrum when he can’t keep a straight face anymore and grins.
“You are the worst actress, Everly.”
“Am not!” I cannot believe he just said that to me. My drama is on point.
“Are so.”
“Trust me, you would not believe the stuff I get away with,” I boast. Wait. I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud. I frown and bite my lip.
“I don’t doubt it, Boots. You’ve been a constant source of entertainment in my life, that’s for sure. Yet now that I’ve met you, I can’t get enough of you.”
“You don’t think I’m a bit much?” I hold my breath. Everyone thinks I’m a bit much.
“Never.”
Twenty-Seven
We exit the parking garage and he takes my hand like he’s been holding it my whole life, and it’s nice. I’m not sure where we’re going, but as soon as we round the corner from Penn Square to 15th Street I see the lights from Love Park straight ahead.
“You’re taking me to the Christmas Village?” I can feel the grin spreading across my face. Every December there’s an outdoor market reminiscent of the traditional Christmas Villages popular all across Germany. I’ve heard about it, but in my three and a half years living in Philadelphia I’ve never gone.
“I thought we co
uld walk around a bit and then get dinner.”
It’s perfect. The weather is cooperating tonight, and it’s just cold enough to make it feel festive without being miserable. The park is lined with wooden booths, featuring an assortment of crafts, pottery, jewelry, toys, almost anything you could think of. And food. Pretzels, strudel, gingerbread, crepes, stollen, bratwurst, chocolates and Belgian waffles. Round that off with a couple of wine booths and a hot chocolate stand and what you have is pure joy.
We walk the booths lining the perimeter of the fountain, currently replaced with a giant Christmas tree that must be two stories tall. It’s packed with people, and we dodge other patrons with my hand still firmly in Sawyer’s. At one booth we find dog treats for his parents’ dog, whose name is Sam, by the way. We compare notes on growing up with mothers so obsessed with reading that they name their children and pets after literary characters or authors. About how much it annoyed me as a first grader to be saddled with an old-fashioned name like Beverly, so I dropped the B and insisted everyone call me Everly until it stuck. But that secretly, I loved every single book ever written by Beverly Cleary and still have each paperback stashed in the attic hideaway above my childhood bedroom.
We try Glühwein, a spiced mulled wine which I love and Sawyer wants no part of, and stollen, which I assume will be dry like a biscotti but turns out to be closer to a heavy cake—and delicious. We laugh when we stumble upon Christmas ornaments made from old library cards and immediately buy them for both of our mothers.
The atmosphere is undeniably romantic, the city lights a backdrop to this little slice of the North Pole, popped into a city park as if by magic.
I spot a tent selling bratwursts and drag Sawyer over.
“When I said dinner I meant a reservation at Del Frisco’s,” he says, looking a little bewildered by my request.
I shake my head. “Can you cancel it? I want to stay here and eat brats standing up in a crowd of people,” I plead.
He agrees, and I order two brats, mustard only for both of us. He steps back with his hands up when I elbow in front of him to pay.
“Sorry, I had to buy you dinner,” I explain while I unwrap half of my brat, like a burrito.
“Why’s that?” he asks, taking a bite of his.
“My roommate insisted it’s the polite thing to do before I fuck you.” I say it just loud enough for him to hear. He clears his throat, mid chew, then swallows before speaking. A slow, sexy grin follows before he speaks.
“Will you call me in the morning?” His eyes flicker with amusement.
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I won’t have left yet, as I’ll be expecting you to make me breakfast after I bought you this expensive dinner”—I signal the brats—“and made you come.”
He nods, and suddenly the mood changes from lighthearted to intense. His gaze on my face is all-consuming and the crowd of people and lights and noise is reduced to a dull buzz on the periphery of my mind. I like the way he looks at me, like he gets me. Like he wants more of me. Like I interest him.
He slides a hand around my lower back and bends closer. His breath brushes my ear and it sends a shiver through me. “I’d be happy to,” he murmurs and then brushes one kiss on the skin behind my ear.
I’m wet. Like I’m gonna have to ditch these panties before he sees them wet. From a simple kiss. He didn’t even say anything dirty, but my heart is racing.
I want him. Right now. And the fact that we’re outdoors in a public park is slowly coming back to me. I’m doubtful I can convince him to have his way with me behind Santa’s workshop surrounded by a crowd of people, so I better pull myself together.
We finish our brats and walk the booths aligning JFK Boulevard, grabbing hot chocolate at one as the temperature starts to dip. I wrap my hands around the paper cup, watching the steam rise off and dissipate in the cold air. I scrunch my shoulders to ward off the chill and take a sip.
“You’re cold. We should head out.”
Yes! Yes, yes, all the yeses.
I play it cool and simply nod in agreement, turning to the direction we came in from. It’s a short walk, and in minutes we’re inside the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. A moment later, before I know what’s hit me, we’re being seated. In the lounge. For drinks. Why? Why are we having drinks? This is not where I thought we were headed. I thought we were on the same page, the sex page. A really hot, dirty sex page that’s earmarked so you can read it again and again.
I have to actively stop myself from sighing as I take a seat. It’s nice in here, pretty swanky. We’re seated around a small round cocktail table in matching leather club chairs. The kind of chair you can comfortably cross your legs in, which, no, that’s not helping. I clench all the spots that so desperately want attention right now and bounce my foot.
A waiter arrives, placing bar napkins on the table top and asking what we’d like. Sawyer tilts his head in my direction, indicating I should order.
“I’d like a screwdriver,” I say, looking at Sawyer, not the waiter.
His lip curves upward in amusement before he turns his attention back to the waiter and orders himself a whiskey, neat. The waiter leaves and Sawyer rubs his chin, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his amused eyes on my miffed ones.
Then we talk. We talk and I’ve got to admit it’s nice, sitting here with him, even though I know this little pit stop was just designed to make me crazy. He’s not checked his cell phone once tonight, I realize, and neither have I. I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a date that didn’t involve a cell phone before.
Our drinks arrive and we both take a sip, Sawyer inquiring if the drink is to my liking. It is. He is. I like spending time with him. He’s easy to be with—it’s easy to be myself with him. He’s attentive, and I’m interested in everything he has to say. The chemistry, this pull I feel towards him, I can’t put into words. It’s almost too good to be true. And that therein is my fear. What if we’re sexually incompatible? It happens.
I take another sip of my drink and contemplate downing it in one gulp. But no. That’d get me tipsy and I’m pretty sure Sawyer will not put out if I’m anything close to drunk. I tap my finger against the side of the glass and estimate that it’s going to take at least twenty minutes for us to finish these drinks. Then a worse thought occurs to me. What if he orders another round and we’re stuck in here for an hour or longer? I wrinkle my nose and set the glass down on the table, then lean in closer to Sawyer, my fingers stroking the arm of the chair, and drop my voice.
“It’s so loud in here. Maybe we should go someplace quieter,” I suggest. But I realize too late, as it’s coming out of my mouth, that it’s not too loud in here. In fact, I’d describe the sound level as distinctly subdued. Damn it, I can’t take it back, I already said it. Maybe he hasn’t noticed how quiet it is, so I add, “Don’t you think?” in a whisper.
He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. I’m watching him—he’s physically rolled his lip inward to restrain himself.
“Everly?” He leans in closer, his voice soft, seductive.
“Yes?”
“Did you want to be done talking now?”
I nod, relieved. “Yes.” I sit up a little straighter, ready to grab my bag and hoof it out of here. He relaxes, sitting back in his chair. I stifle a groan.
“You’re awfully anxious to get in my pants, Boots.”
I slump back into the very comfortable chair and cross my arms, shrugging. “You might be terrible in bed,” I admit.
He coughs and that turns into a laugh that he covers with his fist. “Might I?”
I nod, my mood serious. “You might.”
“Your seduction techniques are something, Everly.”
Oh, my God. He’s not denying it. Maybe he has an erectile dysfunction. He’s a premature ejaculator. Or he’s got a micropenis. Or he’s a eunuch. That’d be just my luck, wouldn’t it? Wait, I could feel his erection this afternoon in his office. So scratch those last two worries. Still, so many possibil
ities. I’ve read articles.
“Do you take any medication?” I blurt out.
He tilts his head and looks at me, “No,” he says, then shakes it slowly. “Do you?”
“Just the pill. But you’re still wearing a condom. I’m not catching any babies from you.” I shudder.
“Assuming I’m able to perform.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Finally we’re on the same page.
“Yet again, I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”
“I’m an enigma, Sawyer,” I say, throwing up my hands, palms up.
He pulls his wallet out and drops cash on the table, then stands, holding his hand out to assist me from my chair.
“Are we going back to your place that is not a hotel room now?”
“We are,” he says and continues holding my hand as we walk to the residential tower at the Ritz.
He lets go when he holds the elevator door for me, and then he sticks his hands in his pockets, leaning against the side of the elevator, staring at me.
“What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Just deciding what I’m going to do with you first.”
“Do with me?” I’m nervous now. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.
He nods, then runs a hand across his jaw, thinking. “Breeding role-play okay?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re cool with video?”
“Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “But I’m open to trying whatever your thing is. Unless it’s anal. I’m saving anal for marriage.”
“Saving anal for marriage,” he repeats back to me. “Is that an actual thing?” He’s incredulous.
“It’s a thing.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“Well, I think it’s a thing and it’s my ass.”