Zia untied Clay’s wrists from the slats on his headboard, still slick with sweat and breathing hard. “Is it just me,” she panted, “or does that get better every time?”
“It’s not just you.” Clay rubbed his reddened wrists, then wrapped her in his arms, nipping at her neck. She giggled, squealing. They rolled over, kissing, laughing, completely lost in each other. Their experiments with power play were a revelation for Zia. As a man, Clay was respectful but inherently powerful. As a lover, Zia was in charge. She settled in the crook of his arm, warm, solid muscle secure around her. She’d never felt so safe. So comfortable. Clay had been in LA the past few weeks, and she’d missed him. Her fingers found the gold necklace resting in the dip of her throat. The Japanese symbol for light. She never took it off.
Outside, the sun was setting, and the city looked like a giant glowing picnic basket. So many different things would be happening that evening. A thousand different adventures, just waiting to be had.
“Let’s go out,” Zia said.
“Bed. Must stay in bed.”
“We’ve been in bed all day. It’s a miracle our muscles haven’t atrophied.”
Her lover groaned, stretching. Every muscle in his body was toned and taut, like a jungle cat. “You’re right. Need sustenance. I’ll cook for you!”
“You don’t have any groceries. We could go pick some up?”
“Not a good idea, unfortunately.” Clay pulled on the briefs that’d been torn off when the sun was still high in the sky. “I’ll order some. How do you feel about… Italian?”
He made it sound like a spontaneous suggestion, but Italian was the only food Clay liked to eat, order, or cook. And he wasn’t a particularly gifted chef. At first, keeping the relationship discreet suited Zia. But she was starting to feel claustrophobic. She wasn’t entirely certain why Clay wanted to keep a giant wall between her and the rest of the world.
“Let’s go out. There’s a free jazz show in Central Park.” Darlene and Zach were going, allegedly to maintain a trust fund–related ruse, but actually to film themselves making out while denying the fact they were into each other.
“Sounds like it might be crowded.”
Zia slipped on one of Clay’s T-shirts and followed him to the kitchen. A wall of windows offered a 180-degree view over lower Manhattan and the glinting Hudson River. “Baseball cap and sunglasses. It worked at Bembe.”
“Bembe is a tiny underground club in Brooklyn. Central Park is… central. It’s right there in the name.”
“Okay, how about this Ethiopian place in Bushwick? It’s so good: you eat with your hands, all vegetarian.” Plus, there were always tons of leftovers that she could drop off to Layla the next day. She’d probably never tried Ethiopian. And it’d ease the guilt Zia felt over still dating “Tom the hot gardener.”
“We could hit a few bars—”
“Babe,” he interrupted her gently. “How many times do I have to say it—we can’t go out in public. I want space for us to grow.”
“There’s no paparazzi in Bushwick.”
“This”—he held up his cell phone—“is a portable film studio. That almost everyone owns.”
“Then let’s go somewhere romantic.” Zia hopped up on one of the stools at the kitchen island. She spun in a circle, eyes closed, one finger outstretched. As the stool settled, she set her eyes on: “The Freedom Tower! I’ve never been on the observation deck. Maybe you could pull some strings. Go up after they close.”
Clay was focused on his phone, tapping silently. She knew he was ordering groceries.
A strange, unsettled emotion unspooled in her belly. They hadn’t finished discussing their plans, and he was already making them. She wanted to show him New York, her New York. He didn’t seem even tempted by the idea.
Logan’s face flashed in her mind. Square jaw. Cold eyes.
“Baby?” She hopped off the stool to circle her arms around Clay’s neck. “Doesn’t that sound fun? Apparently you can see all the way to Philadelphia.”
Clay’s attention was on his phone. “I’m actually not great with heights.”
“What?” She laughed in surprise, unsure if this was an admission, or an excuse. “Seriously?”
“I mean, I’m not afraid of heights,” he amended quickly. “I just would prefer not to be able to see Philadelphia from anywhere other than Philadelphia.”
“But you live all the way up here in the sky!”
“Where no one can see in.”
And where Zia was all alone. A prisoner in a gilded cage.
Clay tapped his phone triumphantly and held it up. “Done! Groceries will be here in an hour.” He put on a very bad Italian accent, pulling her into his arms. “I’ll make-a you a delizioso lasagna.” He planted a kiss on her mouth, and then another. And another. A look of wonder warmed his gold-green eyes. “You make me so happy, Zia Ruiz.”
She knew he cared about her. Clay wasn’t Logan. Logan was hard and cruel and troubled. Clay was a giant marshmallow in the body of a Greek god. Last week he cried at the end of Thelma & Louise and wasn’t even embarrassed. If she told him she was going out with Darlene and Zach, he’d tell her to go and have fun, and mean every word. But she didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want to be apart. Her worry was erased, gradually but certainly, by the sweetness in his gaze.
“I just want to be out in the world with you. For you to see my real life. I love your place, but we spend a lot of time here.”
Clay relented, tucking an untamed curl behind her ear. “How about dinner next Friday? I’m shooting all day but no plans at night. I’ll find somewhere… discreet.”
“Next Friday, I’m working.” Zia padded toward the shower. “Wedding at the Harvard Club.”
“Get someone to fill in for you.”
“I need the money!” she called back, closing the door to the bathroom. The white marble glowed in the soft lighting.
Zia knew Clay respected that she worked. He let her pay for things whenever she wanted: splitting the bill for takeout or picking up their cappuccinos from the café downstairs. But the difference of their incomes was like the difference between the earth and the sun. It wasn’t easy to understand or look at directly.
And adding to her stress was the fact Zia hadn’t found a way to bring up the overdue bill she’d seen in Layla’s trash with her sister. She’d done some research about the cost of a broken leg: even in New York, fifteen grand was high. Layla was cagey about money, and proud: she’d never admit outright that she needed help. The gentle prodding Zia tried—How’s everything going with the insurance claim? Any complications with his recovery?—had been shut down. But it was obvious there was a problem. Her sister had stopped buying name-brand food. Broken things went unfixed. Layla never spent a dime. Zia wanted, even needed, to tell her sister about dating Clay. Ever since they were small, new to the city with only one parent, the sisters had been charged with taking care of each other. Not telling the truth felt like failing some sort of test. But Zia felt strongly that confiding in Layla would unequivocally be a disaster. Just as she knew the longer the relationship was kept secret, the worse it’d be if Layla ever found out.