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“That will be wonderful. Thank you so much.” I have to cut her off or risk feeling like I’m taking advantage. “Let me help you pack up these catalogs.” I beg her pardon, telling her I need to make it to the hair appointment that’s been set for me.
We tiptoe past Damian’s still-closed door. I hold the front door open for her, like a queen hosting at her castle. I whisper words of thanks, and she whispers back that everything will arrive in packages while we’re at dinner, ready to travel to the Village with us tomorrow.
I dress in jeans and a white button-down shirt for my hair appointment, so I can undress without messing up the updo I plan on requesting.
The salon is on the second floor, a chic facility in black and white, just like the floors throughout the hotel.
“Hey, hey, hey. The name is Crystal and I’ll be helping you today.” A woman with purple hair and matching nails greets me, pushing me down into a big salon chair. She rakes her fingers through my hair, smiling at me in the mirror. “These curls? I’m in love! What do you think of some fresh highlights to brighten your blonde, then a little trim to freshen up the ends?”
“I thought it was just an appointment for a hairdo. Or a blowout,” I say.
“Really?” Crystal gives a loud, long laugh. “I can see by your ring you’re engaged to a Bachman, but you must be new to the lifestyle. He booked me for three solid hours and told me to do whatever you wanted.”
“Okay.” I stare in the mirror, thinking over her plan. I usually have an aversion to having my hair done—residual bad memories of my mother tugging my hair up into tight updos with too much hairspray for the pageants—but today, here in this beautiful salon, I’m all about it. Not sure why, but the moment I met Crystal, I not only liked her, I trusted her. “You’re the boss. Whatever you think is best.”
A few hours later, I’m standing on the private rooftop terrace of the top floor of the hotel, gripping the metal railing as I gaze over the inky night, the lights of the city skyline twinkling like stars. A cool wind blows through my glossy, smooth hair that’s been straightened and left down for the evening.
The hem of my short red dress flutters in the breeze as I wait for Damian to arrive.
He comes to me, looking so handsome in the outfit I chose for him, I find my breath catching in the back of my throat. He takes me in his arms, greeting me with a kiss.
“You made it,” he says, always surprised I’ve accepted his invitation.
“Of course. I always do.”
For a few, bustling moments, staff dressed in their red sweaters surround us, laying layers of linens, lines of white candles, glasses for wine and water, plates, bowls and flatware on the table.
When they step away, the table is elegantly set.
He takes my hand, leading me to the table. He pulls out my chair for me. Takes his seat. Another wave of staff arrives before we can speak. They offer sparkling or flat water, white or red wine, slices of warm bread with crocks of butter, and our first course, a watermelon microgreens salad.
We make small talk between courses, remarking about the view, the beautiful weather, being back in the city. I avoid the topic of his father, wanting the evening to be restful and restorative for him.
For our main entrée we have a buttery filet of beef on a bed of red cabbage slaw, then finish the meal with a dessert of a hard chocolate shell you break with your spoon, a pudding-like cream oozing out onto the plate.
The first group of staff returns, clearing the table and refilling our wine.
We’re finally alone.
The night air has a feeling of magic, the city our backdrop. The wine’s made me feel warm and loose as he stares at me across the table, eyes shining in the flickering candlelight. I lift my glass to my lips. One more sip.
I can’t take my eyes off his lips, the fullness of his mouth, that little grin turning up at the corner. I want to kiss him. Not that I’m counting the days or anything but he hasn’t touched me in way too long.
I want more.
Should I go there?
twenty-five
Lindy
Itip my glass back, finishing the wine. I need a little liquid courage. Setting the empty glass on the table, I run the tip of my tongue over my lips, gathering the trail of wine left there.
I glance at him.
He’s watching me closely, a dirty little smile on his face.
“You like that?” I ask. “When I lick my lips?”
