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When Friday evening rolls around, I pick her up at her place in my town car. I do the same thing I did last time, buzz her from the outside intercom, wondering if this time she will invite me up so I can do this properly, but she doesn’t. I’m not surprised. I wait by the town car, and a few minutes later, she emerges from the doors of her building, wearing a black, form-fitting dress and smart black patent pumps. She looks sophisticated and sexy as she makes her way toward me, the waves of her dark hair bouncing with each step.
“You look…wow,” I say, taking her hand and helping her into the backseat of the car.
“Thank you,” she says. “I like the new suit.”
How did she know it was new? I try not to think too far into it. Maybe she had seen it in my calendar to go to the tailors, or maybe…just maybe she notices the small things, just like I do with her.
“Thank you,” I say, hiding a smile.
“So, what’s tonight’s event about exactly?” she asks, as the driver pulls away from her apartment.
“It’s the Living Landmarks Celebration, honoring those who have made significant changes and contributions to preserving the city’s historic homes and neighborhoods. I make donations each year. Plus, it’s a good place to catch up with potential business partners.”
“What can I do?” she asks.
“Just work the room, like you did last time. Have fun.” I shrug.
“Okay,” she says, settling into the backseat comfortably. The rigidness in her has faded, but I can feel her nerves. Or maybe they’re mine. I notice she doesn’t pull away when our legs brush against each other. This town car is much more intimate than a limo, but I try not to notice it. I don’t want to push her away again by succumbing to my desires that are now subdued screams, even as I breathe in her perfume.
When we arrive at the party, I realize that even though it’s not a ball with a midsummer night’s dream theme, the museum is transformed with a large bar and dance floor centered inside walls of the current exhibit on New York architecture. A live band is playing current hits, but in their own style. They’re really good.
I suggest we go to the bar first, and to my surprise, Erica agrees. I order an old fashioned and she orders a cosmopolitan. We both take generous sips before we make our rounds around the room. I’m happy to see Jacob isn’t there to give me shit about bringing her tonight. I catch up with a few colleagues, and again, Erica holds her own in the conversation. She’s confident even with strangers, and I find it incredibly sexy. I can see how people hang on her every word, and it’s not simply because she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. It’s because she’s smart and has a wit about her that keeps others on their toes.
“How do you two know each other?” asks the wife of an old colleague, looking at us both curiously.
“Erica is a writer atThe NY Daily News.Recently, she’s been working with me through this acquisition,” I say with a firm nod, to let her know it’s just business.
“He hasn’t scared you off yet?” says my old colleague.
“Not yet,” Erica replies. “There have been a few close calls, though.”
This makes the couple laugh, and I give her a slight smirk. She’s feisty tonight. I feel like I’m seeing more of the woman I met on the rooftop. I wonder if it’s the second cosmopolitan she’s on, or if something has changed. Whatever it is, I’m not complaining.
We say our goodbyes to the couple and find a nearby cocktail table to take a break from schmoozing. We sip our drinks and listen to the music. I can’t get over how good this band is.
“You know,” says Erica with a wry smile. “They don’t hold a candle to that eighties cover band.”
“I really miss them,” I say, looking reminiscent as I play along with her joke.
“We should hire them for your next event.”
“Definitely.”
She laughs softly and takes a sip of her drink, looking out at the dance floor. I follow her gaze and see other couples taking to the floor to dance. I remember our dance at the jazz club. It was just one dance, but it was the catalyst for what was to come. I think about it often. I wonder if there’s a chance tonight we could share a dance again.
“Would you…” I start.
She looks at me curiously, her head tilted just so. “Would I what?” she asks.
“Like to dance? With me?” I gesture to the dance floor, feeling my heart begin to pound against my chest as I wait for her answer. Did I push too far?
“Okay,” she says, putting down her drink.
I nod and hold out my arm, trying to play it cool, even though it feels like my insides are doing the jitterbug. I lead her to the dance floor, and as the warm lights above wash over us, she places her hand in mind as my other hand finds a place at her back. Not too low. Not too high. It’s like I’m afraid to touch her, afraid it will scare her.
Our movements are rigid at first, like we’re first-timers at a middle school dance, but her eyes find mine as if they’re giving me some sort of silent permission. Soon our bodies settle into the music, and my hand strays slowly to her lower back as she pulls her body closer to mine. She doesn’t lay her head on my shoulder this time. Instead, she keeps her eyes on mine. There’s a different shade of green to them, like a forest just after it rains. Awake. Wanting.
As a slow song comes on, she settles in against me. I lean in, my face brushing against her soft hair.