Page 27

I’ve lost my mind.

Because nothing logical can explain why I’m doing this to myself. Why I took one look at his face, seeing the weariness he’s trying to hide, and decided to take matters into my own hands.

When I heard outside his door it’s his birthday today, I just knew he would spend it alone, surrounding himself with his work like armor, like it would save him from truly living and enjoying life.

Friendship or no friendship, I couldn’t bear to see him spend this special day by himself.

Like it’s somehow the greatest sin to live for himself. To be kind to himself.

And so, I’ve given one more of my days to him, my mind trying its best not to think about what he’d do when he ultimately cashes in.

Fevered eyes. His pupils dilated, ensnared on my lips as I swiveled my tongue around his finger. The way his nostrils flared when Hayley interrupted us when we were moments away from kissing. How his large hand palmed the sizeable tent in his trousers, his gaze never leaving mine.

My core clenches at the heady memory. My heart stirs into a rapid rhythm, much like this morning when I laid in bed, my sheets twisted around my waist, my panties wet, after a blurry dream featuring a beautiful man with soulful, sad eyes, and a banked fire inside him.

It has to be the heat of the moment .

I can’t fall for him, the rich, powerful man with an equally important last name. He’s everything I swore to myself I’d avoid because I’d rather commit myself to a nunnery before following in my mom’s footsteps.

My heart kicks harder against my rib cage in protest as anticipation zaps through me like electricity from a live wire.

Now, I’m standing at the front door of our office building at three fifty-five in the afternoon, watching tourists strolling by, toting colorful gift bags inscribed with “I love NY” on them.

The air is sticky today. Humid. The golden sun beats down on the ground, and the swirling heat traps the scents of street dogs emanating from food trucks or exhaust from cars speeding down the streets.

I regret not wearing a short-sleeve shirt today and I roll up my sleeves to the best of my abilities, the sweat plastering to my back and my foot thuds a nervous rhythm on the ground.

The automatic glass doors slide open, a burst of air conditioning blowing from behind me, the sudden chill eliciting a shiver down my back. My favorite scent of the ocean and worn leather travels to my nose.

My heart twirls in my chest.

“You got me where you want me.” His deep, husky voice rakes down my body like a caress and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Even though it’s work hours, I’d consider this to be decidedly not work, so what plans do you have for me, friend? ”

His tone is mocking in self-derision at the word “friend” and a sharp ache slices through my chest. He is correct.

Whatever we have…it’s not really a true friendship.

It is something different all together, a purgatory in between heaven and hell, our feet dancing on a tightrope where the smallest slip would have us plummeting to our deaths.

It’s something infinitely more. Something I don’t want to identify or recognize.

And yet, my heart can’t take anything less. My mind seeks these passing interactions with him, these fleeting moments when he lets down his guard and shows me a version of him the world doesn’t see often.

My mom is addicted to love, and I wonder if I’m heading down the same path, but instead of love, I’m addicted to him.

The way his smiles make my heart seize, and I want to keep doing whatever I have to do to keep that expression on his face.

The way his words only make me crave more time with him to understand the inner workings of his mind.

The way my body hungers for his nearness, his touch, even the smallest graze creates the greatest highs for me.

The way he makes me feel—safe, respected, admired.

“Well, unlike you, I’m not a billionaire, so don’t expect to be wined and dined by me.

But I’m a firm believer I can’t have my friend working to death on his birthday.

He only turns…” I glance at him, waiting for his response, realizing I still don’t know a lot about him even though there are moments when I feel like I’m the only person who has seen the true him behind his masks, when I feel like I’m the only person who truly knows him.

“Twenty-nine.” His eyes are covered in dark sunglasses, but his lips curl up in a sexy grin. The freaking man looks like a model for luxury menswear and doesn’t seem at all impacted by the heat. Butterflies flutter in my stomach.

“Yes…twenty-nine once. So, I propose enjoying the city on a poor girl’s…aka myself,” I point to my chest, “budget.”

“You know, I could just take us somewhere—”

I frown. “No. The birthday boy isn’t spending a dime. And I don’t need anyone spending money on me. I can very well have a fun day with my budget. Trust me.”

“I can’t wait,” he drawls, his head dipping down to stare at me. Damn it, I wish he would remove his shades so I could see his eyes. “Can I at least drive?”

“No. Your day is mine.”

“Who knew you were so bossy?” He scowls, but I hear the laughter in his voice.

“What, uncomfortable with relinquishing control?” I taunt back.

He steps closer, his alluring scent raising the stakes. “You have no idea. And I like my women bossy. All the more satisfying when they bend to my will later on.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but I can feel every word between my legs.

I fight an urge to clench my thighs. My blood heats and I rake in a breath, watching his corded throat ripple. His cologne surrounds me, and I can feel his bodily warmth seeping through the layers of the clothes, as if the distance between us is nonexistent.

“No one is your ‘woman,’” I mutter, turning away to face the street, hoping to hide the flush no doubt spreading like wildfire.

“No,” he murmurs softly. “You’re my friend.”

Friend. Yes, that’s what we are. If even that.

“Which is much more important than my woman,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, but my heart heard him loud and clear.

He’s staring away, refusing to look at me, but his words cloak me in a soothing warmth, which feels nothing like the sticky heat of the summer.

I glance at him, noticing his tense jaw, his still as a statue bearing, his hands fisted by his sides.

He’s struggling with something. I only wish he’d tell me.

I’d understand.

Taking pity on him, I pretend not to hear him, even though my heart is tunneling its way out of my chest.

“Come on, we’re going to grab an early dinner in Central Park and then watch a movie.

” I beckon him to follow as I speed toward the nearest subway station, navigating the throngs of crowds no doubt headed toward the iconic bull statue a block over, drawing some much-needed distance away from him, hoping the physical exertion will dull the heated sensations flowing through my body.

“What are we going to eat?” His footsteps thump behind me, reassuring like my heartbeat.

“You’ll see.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. ”

“Nope. Take a bite. Be a team player—we’re a team, remember? Come on, it won’t kill you.” I quirk my brow at him as we sit on a bench, facing an endless expanse of green grass and towering trees, blocking most of the surrounding skyscrapers.

It never ceases to amaze me how in a large city filled with millions of people, where every square foot of land costs an exorbitant amount of money, there’d be this huge park, filled with nothing except carefully manicured Mother Nature, located smack in the middle of Manhattan, where all the action is.

Steven grumbled the entire half-hour ride on the 2 train to the park.

The man has never taken public transportation before.

Not when he was younger in LA, which made sense, since I heard there were more cars than people over there, and definitely not when he moved here after college because he either drove or had a chauffeur at his beck and call.

These little vignettes he shares continue to make me wonder what we are doing.

And yet, like two magnets driven by invisible poles, we’re drawn to each other.

For the first time in my life, I want to throw caution to the wind, to spend these moments with him as my “friend,” ignoring what my mind is telling me, the hypocrite living in delusion.

I want to collect all these memories because I’ve been in the ugly, dirty trenches of life, and I know happiness is hard-earned and fleeting, and some day, this friendship or whatever we have will fizzle out, like the men in Mom’s past who’ve ultimately deserted us, leaving us to tend to our wounds in the confines of our small apartment.

I want to be irresponsible, to be selfish, and to ignore all the red flags my mind is waving in front of my face—the erratic heartbeats in his presence, how my body becomes heated, no doubt a flush spreading on my skin, the way my nerves spark with electricity even when we aren’t touching.

I laughed at how he dusted off his pants after taking a seat on the train, his fingers flicking off invisible lint or dirt.

He looked so uncomfortable and out of his element as his eyes darted around the surroundings, like he was cataloging every scratch or blemish on the well-used seats.

I saw how his hands swept over his slate gray tie, like he wanted to yank it loose from his neck to take a calming breath.

Now that we are settled on the park bench, watching the world go by, his tensed shoulders slowly relax. He has long given up on wearing his entire three-piece-suit. His jacket, a deep royal blue, is draped over his lap as he stares at the staple of the city in his hand like it offends him.

A hot dog.