She smiles again, more sympathetically this time. “Like I said, I’ll be here to catch you when you fall. Or if you fall.” She shrugs. “Who knows, it could work out great. Crazier things have happened.”
“That’s true,” I agree. “Crazier things happen all the time.”
“Especially in this city. Which reminds me, Roberto asked me to make sure you wanted to shoot the apron samples on that urban farm in Brooklyn,” she says with an eloquent roll of her eyes. “He seems to think aprons only belong in a kitchen.”
I cluck my tongue in exaggerated disapproval. “Silly Roberto. Of course I want to shoot at the farm. And I want the models wearing nothing but swimsuits and aprons. It’s going to be so sexy and fun.” I nod, thinking back to my conversation with Graham last night as I add, “And I want the girls to have such a good time that everyone who sees these photos thinks about what a blast they’ll have in an adorable, retro-style apron.”
Chloe’s expression takes on an appraising air. “Agreed. I like your embracing of the sexy. Maybe Graham will be good for you, after all.”
I cast my eyes to the ceiling with a breezy laugh, playing it cool. “Could be. Definitely a possibility.”
But inside, I’m not anything close to cool. I’m hot, bothered, eager, and so excited to see Graham again that for the rest of the day, time seems to crawl at a snail’s pace. A sea slug crossing the ocean floor against an incoming tide would move faster than the clock.
I’m beginning to think the day is never going to end when a text pops up from Graham at four thirty.
Graham: St. Regis sleepover. You and me. Meet me in the lobby bar at six, and we can go up together. Be sure to bring your new present so I can show you how to put it on properly. And of course, how to take it off . . .
I run my finger over those last few words, as tingles spread through my chest. How to take it off . . .
My heart beats faster, and my spirits lift. Only ninety more minutes and I’ll be seeing Graham again. Ninety more minutes.
It’s nothing.
It’s forever.
It’s going to be over in four more nights.
I close my eyes, trying to push that last errant thought out of my head. Of course it’s going to end. It’s designed to end. It’s a seven-day project, like a week-long sex-cation.
And on that note, I let my mind wander to the kind of sex-cation we might be having tonight.
As dirty, sexy images flash before my eyes, I’m pretty sure I just did that goofy lip-bite, smile-fighting, smile-anyway thing Chloe was teasing me about before.
But who cares? Ninety minutes . . .
I can’t wait.
Chapter Eleven
Graham
The St. Regis lobby bar is an old standby for me. With its vintage leather seats, warm wood accents, and art deco murals depicting sun-drenched vistas and a larger-than-life King Cole attended by fawning jesters, it’s simultaneously opulent and grounded in reality. Even kings fall prey to fools, and golden afternoons only last so long. For me, the St. Regis encourages thoughtful celebration.
I drank a Scotch here with Sean after we signed a lease on a new office space for Adored, courtesy of our stocks selling for more than we ever dreamed and our company expanding.
I had a martini with Luna here the night before her wedding and talked about what it meant to forsake all others, and how scary that was for her, even though she couldn’t imagine spending her life with anyone but Valerie.
Hell, I treated CJ to Sunday morning mimosas here on her twenty-fifth birthday not quite a year ago, back when she was just a friend I was proud to see becoming a strong, successful woman in spite of the hell she’d been through the year before.
It had seemed only natural to suggest we meet here in this luxurious, classy place where I come to celebrate. These lessons feel like something worth celebrating, and I would be telling dirty, filthy lies if I said I hadn’t been looking for a good excuse to rent out the Tiffany suite.
CJ is going to look fucking stunning framed by crystal chandeliers, priceless works of art, and Tiffany-blue walls, wearing nothing but Adored’s signature Madison Avenue corset, garter belt, and white silk stockings . . .
A moment later, as if summoned by my oh-so appreciative thoughts, a sweet voice calls out from the entrance to the bar. I turn on my stool to see CJ bustling toward me in a sexy little black dress—I’m a sucker for a demure collar and a hemline barely long enough to cover a woman’s ass—and four-inch heels that prompt erotic visions of her in those and nothing else.
“Hey there,” she says, pressing a breathless kiss to my cheek and pulling away with a flustered smile. She drops her black jacket on the chair next to me. “Sorry. Am I late?”
My breath catches as I spy a glimpse of lacy corset through the peek-a-boo paisley eyelets sewn into the bodice of her dress. That tiny window is even sexier than a view straight down the front of her shirt. It hints at things concealed under her clothes, things she’s going to share only with me. Like the corset I sent her yesterday, the one I chose just for her. All I can picture is how enticing it’ll look against her skin.