CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bridget knows better than to text me again. Her interference in my life and livelihood, this time, is unforgivably past the line. Not only did she maroon me at the table and steal my truck, she also duped Mason with what I presume was a decoy message left by one of her friends. She disturbed the dinner at which I might have received my promotion, all because of some misguided impression that I like this girl and need a shove for my own good.
I’m teetering on whether or not to strike back at Bridget. Only the fact that I’m actually not mad keeps me from hurling the first stone.
I get up from the table, knowing I should use my phone to get a couple of Uber cars sent this way: one for me and another for Riley. She needs to get home, and I should brush up on some stuff before our 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. The meeting is surely the final test. If I impress the investors — who will be surprised when Mason approaches them tonight bearing Bridget’s manufactured bad news — then I’ll be home free. At that point, nothing could stop me from getting the vice presidency and everything I want out of life.
Nothing except for something catastrophic that makes Mason change his mind about me.
I’d have to … I don’t know … sleep with his daughter or something.
The thought occurs to me, but I laugh it off without letting the humor touch my lips. Because the idea of sleeping with Mason’s daughter, once whispered inside me, is delicious but absurd. I’d never do something so stupid. At the same time, I have to admit that she’s impossible not to look at.
She’s not my type. I wasn’t lying about that. She’s too bubbly. Too perky. Too full of sunshine and seeming naiveté. Doesn’t matter that she does krav maga. Doesn’t matter that she’s into (and I verified this on my phone when I ran to the bathroom) a lot of the same music as me. Doesn’t matter that the sunshine and naiveté, based on what LiveLyfe has to say, is blended with something darkly intriguing. She lists Salvador Dali as an interest. She’s liked a bunch of Tarantino films. I’d have imagined her as someone who likes roller skating, wine coolers, and … little else. But no. She was in a Young Entrepreneurs club. Looks like she even won an award, or a contest, or something.
But now, because that’s all a bit too obtuse to generate this warmth I feel inside watching her, my mind wants to focus it into physical stuff. Her body is too small for me, but suddenly it feels like the thing that’s been missing from my bed. Her hair isn’t just pretty; now it seems elegant. The way she walks isn’t just sexy. To me, with all these confused thoughts running rampant through my mind, even her gently swaying rear is fascinating.
Even the joke — the certainty that I’d never sleep with this girl if she’d let me, if she’d beg me — forces my heart to beat harder. It makes my face flush, shortens my breath, and causes my words to consider a stutter. It makes thoughts run through my mind — all sorts of do not images that nonetheless make me hard. Everything my brain carefully outlines as forbidden and stupid and of-course-you-can’t-do-that, another part of me watches with a salivating tongue.
I’m thinking this as I hand the house jacket back to the maître d’, careful to slip Mason’s credit card into my pants pocket.
I’m thinking it as we exit the restaurant, with me in the lead … lagging back to open doors so I can watch the way she moves and hope she’ll accidentally brush against me as she passes.
I’m thinking all of this as we step into the cool night. If I were still wearing a jacket, I’d offer it to her for the short walk. It’s not that I think she’s cold. I want to give her something for a reason that feels primal. I want to protect her whether she wants protection or not. Even those wants feel wrong, but I allow them to happen.
Riley stands outside the restaurant’s entrance, three feet from me, mostly looking out at the lights of Old Town, half-turned. Her little red dress is modest enough, but still I can only think of how it’s pressed tight against her naked skin. I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra because I can’t see lines. Her hand is just a bit away from her body, and it’s as if she wants me to take it. But in this little farce, we’re two people marooned together, nothing more. I wouldn’t take Mason’s hand, so of course I wouldn’t take hers.
“Where to?” she asks.
I nod forward and walk, not yet indicating our destination. She follows a half step behind then catches up. She’s on the roadside, so I switch around so she’s nearer to the buildings. Putting myself between a woman and the road is either chivalrous or chauvinistic, and I’m not sure which applies. I guess it depends on the woman. I look over to see, but really I want to watch her for the seconds it takes to notice my stare.
This is a mistake.
Or is it? We’re killing some time together. No big deal.
But I can tell, watching my own responses as if from the outside, that this is what I’d do if I wanted to take a girl home. If Riley were a date, I’d prolong our evening, play to our mutual interests. I’d work hard to find common ground while not being too analytical about it all. I’d try to read her cues, like I’m reading them now. I’d banter. I’d see where things went.
There’s no reason to kill time with Riley. Dinner was supposed to be between me and Mason, not us. She’s an add-on. She didn’t even participate in the business parts of the discussion — though to be fair, Mason never gave her a chance. She was almost as mute as Bridget. When he left, it was my job to be polite, finish up, and see his daughter home.
There’s nothing between me and Riley.
There can’t be anything between me and Riley.
I’m thinking this while we walk, listening to the click of her low heels, enjoying the feeling of Riley beside me, and the surety that other men seeing us together will think she’s mine.
Before we get to where we’re going, I’m thinking it’s objectively smarter for me to end the evening.
And yet something keeps me walking. Something keeps my lips closed. Something keeps whispering that this is all for fun, that I’d do the same if Mason had a son instead of a daughter — a lie I allow myself to believe.
We arrive at a set of big wooden doors. Riley walks a few steps past before realizing I’ve stopped. She turns around to look at me with genuine surprise. Her blue-green eyes follow my white-sleeved arm to its end, settling on the hand I’ve used to grasp the big brass door handle.
“We can’t go in there,” she says.
I knock.
There’s a click from inside, and the door opens.