Page 26

26

ANDI

I can barely walk out of the bathroom to collapse onto the bed.

“Holy shit, that was hot.”

Ford follows me, his jeans undone but his junk tucked back inside.

He’s hot.

What am I doing with this gorgeous man?

Here in the Plaza fucking Hotel, for fuck’s sake.

He walks over to the window and draws the curtains closed.

“In case of peeping Toms,” he says as he turns.

My heart trips.

“Thank you.”

He walks up to the bed, leans down and kisses me.

“Don’t be late.”

I manage a lazy smile.

“You just destroyed me.”

He smirks.

“You’re welcome.”

I take a few long breaths while my heart slows and strength returns to my limbs.

“Okay.” I sit up on the side of the bed.

“I’ll finish getting ready now.”

My makeup was done.

My hair is a disaster.

I fluff it.

Oh, well.

I move to the closet where I hung my dress earlier.

I step into it and pull up the side zipper.

It’s the other dress I bought before the awards dinner—midnight-blue, one-shouldered, with a big bow and trailing fabric on that shoulder.

Ford watches me.

“Wow. That is hot.”

“Thank you.” I move to the full-length mirror to check my appearance, turning in front of it.

“Yes, your ass looks spectacular.” He walks up behind me, cups my butt, and lays a kiss on my shoulder.

“The night we went to that awards dinner and you were wearing that red dress… I thought you were the hottest thing I’d ever seen.”

My lips curve up.

“Until now,” he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“You’re so beautiful.”

My heart expands.

“Thank you.”

He drops another kiss on my bare shoulder.

“Are we ready to go?”

“I am. I just need my shoes.” My sexy slingbacks with the sharpest pointed toe.

Outside on the sidewalk, he says, “This way.” He takes my hand and leads the way to Sixth Avenue and around the corner.

It’s a couple of blocks to the restaurant through busy Friday-night sidewalks, the city glittering and glamorous around us.

Pascal is a French bistro, a small place, with supposedly incredible food.

We’re seated at a table for two, me taking the seat on the red velvet banquette.

I look around in the low golden lighting, surveying the brass fixtures, white tablecloths, and lots of ornate mirrors on the wall.

“Very French,” I murmur, settling into my seat.

I look at Ford to see him staring at me I intently.

“What?” I smile.

“Just admiring you. You’re gorgeous. And…” He leans forward.

“You look freshly fucked.”

I drop my gaze, heat sliding into my cheeks.

“I wonder why.”

He chuckles.

“You know what was really hot?”

One eyebrow goes skyward.

“We could be as noisy as we wanted.”

His lips kick up in a smile.

“That is very true.” He leans closer.

“I can’t wait to make you scream later.”

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and resist the urge to fan myself with the menu.

“This place is so elegant.” I pick up a thick folder which contains the wine list.

“We could be sitting in Paris.”

“You fit right in.”

“Aw. Thank you.”

“I’d like to go to Paris.”

“Me, too. Holy crap, there are three pages of champagnes!” I look up at Ford.

“I don’t even know where to start with this.”

“We’ll get advice.”

We start with foie gras.

Ford requests the filet mignon au poivre, and I order braised beef in red wine.

He also orders a Ladoix premier cru burgundy recommended by the sommelier.

I almost choke at the price.

“You are going all out tonight.”

Ford laughs.

“Yeah. I calculated how much I would have spent if we’d been dating for the last three months and decided to spend it all tonight.”

My mouth drops open.

“Really?”

“No.”

We both laugh.

“But I like that idea,” he adds.

Before our food arrives, Ford takes out his phone, then hesitates.

I lift my eyebrows and restrain my smile.

“Go ahead.”

He gives me an innocent look.

“What?”

“Check on Tilly. I know you want to.”

“Sorry. This is supposed to be romantic.”

“It’s fine. If you don’t do it, I will.”

He grins and unlocks his phone.

But before he can do anything, he sees photos.

He holds the phone up to show me pics of Tilly being cuddled by Mabel, sitting on the floor with pillows, playing with a soft lamb stuffy I don’t recognize, and then holding a beer bottle.

Ford makes a strangled noise.

“I hope that’s Benny’s idea of a joke.”

I laugh.

“I’m sure it is. She seems to be okay.”

“Yeah.” He sends a quick text message anyway and they confirm all is fine.

We talk our way through dinner, sharing tastes, drinking the delicious wine.

We talk about travel and movies and TV shows, finding some things in common.

“What’s something you’re really bad at but you enjoy doing anyway?” I ask him, picking up my glass of wine.

“Hmmm. I’d say… bowling.”

I laugh.

“I can’t believe you’re not good at bowling.”

“I suck at it. I’m not that great at axe throwing, either.”

“Axe throwing! Ack!”

“We did it once last year, a bunch of us. Mabel almost got taken out by a wild throw.”

I make a face.

“I don’t think I’d be good at that either.”

“It’s kind of satisfying. Mabel was imagining throwing the axe at her ex-boyfriend.”

“Ah.” I purse my lips.

“I could definitely do that.”

“Trevor doesn’t deserve you.”

“Thank you.” He’s being so sweet tonight, with all these romantic gestures and compliments.

Although the sex in the bathroom was not sweet—it was dirty and hot and so, so good…

“I agree.”

“I’m glad you know that. So what’s something you suck at but like doing anyway?”

“Cooking,” I say immediately.

“You help me cook all the time.”

“Help is the key word there. I just follow your orders.”

“Hey. Are you implying I’m bossy?”

I lean forward.

“You do like to be in control.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He meets my eyes and sparks crackle between us.

“Perfectionism and control issues,” I say lightly.

He contemplates me for a long moment, then picks up his glass of wine and takes a sip.

“Yep,” he agrees.

“But I’m working on it.”

I tilt my head, smiling slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve gone for therapy. I still go, sometimes.”

I nod.

I told him that I went for therapy after the divorce.

It’s not something to be ashamed or embarrassed about.

Sometimes we all need help with our health—mental or physical.

“That’s good.”

“I was developing some unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mainly my superstitions. They were starting to rule my life.”

“Oh. That sounds like a problem.”

“Yeah. Sometimes superstitions help us, but if they start interfering in our ability to function, that’s not good. My therapist pointed out that if you think your successes are lucky because of the things you do, or don’t do, it negates all your skill and hard work.”

I consider that.

“That’s interesting.”

He nods.

“And you can’t rely on luck to be successful.”

“Absolutely.”

“Also…” He drops his gaze.

“When it gets compulsive, it’s usually because you’re trying to avoid something. In my case, it was anxiety. I had a lot of thought distortions. Obviously. About what would happen if I didn’t drive the exact same route to the game every time, or if I didn’t park in the same spot every game.” He looks up at me, his expression guarded.

“My shrink actually put me on antidepressants to help with it.”

I make a face.

“I know. I saw them in your bathroom. I wasn’t snooping!” I hold up a hand.

One corner of his mouth lifts.

“You can snoop all you want in my place.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say.

“Medications for mental health are just as necessary as antibiotics or painkillers for physical health.”

“Yeah.” His expression slides into relief.

“Exactly. Anyway. Therapy helped me understand the impact my parents’ way of life had on me. Why I need to feel in control.”

“Because things were out of control when you were a kid.”

“Right.” He pauses.

“Tell me about your family. You’ve mentioned they live in Illinois.”

“That’s right. Springfield. That’s where I grew up. There’s not much to tell.” I smile.

“My parents are very nice and normal—they’re both teachers, although my dad’s a principal now—and my life was pretty average. I guess I was lucky.”

“Yeah.”

“My mom and I text all the time. She sends me cute dog videos because she knows I love dogs.”

“You had a dog growing up?”

“Yes! We always had a dog. There were Barkley and Homer, and they still have Daisy. I’ll show you a picture!” I pull out my phone and swipe through the photo gallery to find a recent pic of Daisy.

Leaning closer as I swipe, Ford says, “Are those all pictures of Tilly?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I stop scrolling and give him a toothy smile.

“I like taking pictures of her.”

He grins.

I find a picture of Daisy and show him the camera.

“Oh, wow. She’s beautiful.”

“She’s an Australian Shepherd.”

“Look at those eyes.”

Daisy’s eyes are a pale blue.

“I love them.” I put away my phone.

“We also had a few cats over the years. Rabbits. Guinea pigs. Mom drew the line at hamsters. They were too much like mice. I was always rescuing strays and injured animals. Once, a racoon.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“And a feral pig.” I pout.

“That didn’t go well.”

“Jesus.”

“I wanted to keep him as a pet. He was young and small. And really cute! But they told me he was going to get huge and also could carry brucellosis or pseudorabies. And that if he got angry, he’d fight like a wild pig, not a domestic pig. It could be dangerous.”

“I know you like animals, but a feral pig…” He shakes his head.

“You’re making me nervous.”

I laugh.

“You think I’ll expose Tilly to brucellosis?”

“I don’t even know what is.”

“It’s a bacterial infection. It can infect dogs, which was what convinced me to give up the pig.” I pause.

“Also, I didn’t want to get it.”

“Good decision. And no… I don’t think you’d expose Tilly to that. Do you want a dog of your own?”

“I would love it. But pets aren’t allowed in our building.”

“Right.” He nods, lips pursed.

“I tried to tell Trevor I wanted to live somewhere pet-friendly, but he really liked this place, so…” I shrug.

We finish our meal with crème caramel that we share, and then walk leisurely back to the hotel, this time going over to Fifth Avenue.

The air is crisp, the city still vibrant and bright.

“How about a drink in the lounge?” Ford says as we enter the hotel.

“The Champagne Bar.”

I really want to get up to our room and jump him.

I bite my lip and look at him through my eyelashes.

He leans down and murmurs in my ear, “If you keep looking at me like that we’re fucking right on that table over there.”

“Oh.” My belly flip-flops and I blink rapidly at him.

“I might let you do that.”

He groans.

“Champagne?” He nuzzles my hair.

“Or sex. Hell, let’s do both. Come on.”

He leads me to the bar and when we’re seated, orders a bottle of Louis Roederer—what is happening here?

“A whole bottle?” I ask.

“We just had a bottle of wine at the restaurant.”

“We can take it up to the room. Have a glass of champagne in the bathtub.”

“Ohhhh, God.” I shift in my seat, my inner muscles tightening low inside me.

I press a hand to my chest.

“I am dying. Like, I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to compose myself.”

He laughs softly.

“I don’t want you to die. I want you to enjoy this.”

“I am enjoying it. So much. I’m just… overwhelmed.”

He kisses me softly.

“Good.”

The champagne is bubbly and bright.

“I love it.”

“I’m glad.”