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And, well—
I hate how much I want to feel those heels digging into my back.
Before, I was—
Fuck. Why is she so sexy when she scowls? There's something about her anger. The pure, honest passion of it.
Nathan is right.
I'm a masochist, plain and simple.
"Are you ready, Romeo?" She shoots me and the cabby the world's sweetest smile.
The driver, a guy about her dad's age with brown skin and a thick accent, responds with a smile of his own. He's charmed by her. Most people are.
She almost sells the smile too. I only barely see the cracks at the edges. The stiffness of her brow. The hate in her eyes.
"You know it's Rome." Short for Roman. As in the Roman Empire. But she finds the nickname hilarious. She especially loves referring to my current girlfriend as Juliette. Not that I have a girlfriend at the moment. Or an interest in a girlfriend.
Work is my life.
When would I find time to date, talk, fall in love?
I don't even have time to fuck myself.
Also a problem. Especially right now, with Laurel's gorgeous brown eyes fixed on me. She's a beautiful girl. Dark, wavy hair, full, red lips, slim curves, long legs.
The line of her calves in those shoes—
Fuck me.
"Yeah." I nod. I'm ready. Ready enough. I pay with the company credit card—this is a work trip, after all—get out of the car, help the driver with our bags.
It only takes a minute for me to work up a sweat. It must be eighty degrees. Maybe ninety.
Even though it's past midnight, the street hums with energy. Conversations from a rooftop restaurant. Music from a barpatio. Two women around our age, laughing as they walk down the street.
It's not what I expect from midtown Manhattan—isn't this where people go to work and shop?—but it fits the city that never sleeps. The sky does too. It's not the same deep, almost black-blue it is in Laurel's backyard.
It's a softer shade. A warm indigo.
Not that I'm thinking about Laurel's room.
Laurel's bed.
The things I did to Laurel in her bed.
The low, deep sound of her groan. It was music. Some of the best I've ever heard.
It's too hot.
What sort of place stays hot all damn night? That's unnatural.
Laurel taps a code into the electronic lock and leads me through the white and gold lobby to the elevator bank.
The place looks like it belongs onSex and the City. It's got that perfect mix of old-money New York class and up-and-coming energy. Somehow, it's understated and vibrant at the same time.
It's different than where Laurel lives. It's a fucking world away from where I grew up, in a dilapidated house, in a shitty neighborhood.
