"Okay."
"You want to fuck him?"
"He's attractive."
"What's the holdup?"
"It's too complicated."
"No. It's not. You fuck him. You say goodbye. You fall asleep satisfied. The end."
"It's different for me. I'll get attached."
"Why can't you get attached?"
"He's a customer."
"So then he's hot and rich. Sounds like a win-win."
That's true.
"Do you have a picture?" Remy asks.
"Why?"
"I want to get a vibe."
"No. You'll say something weird."
"Like what?"
"Like when you said my prom date looked like he had a small dick."
"Did he not?"
I clear my throat.
"I can tell. It's a sixth sense."
"A dick sense? Really?"
"Really," he says.
"I'd rather be surprised."
"What if it's a micro-penis?" he asks.
My laugh gets louder. "Oh no, a micro-penis."
"Have you even seen a micro-penis?" He shakes his head it's sad, truly sad.
"Women don't care about dick size."
"Women. Or you?"
"Both."
He stares me down. "Really? If Mr. Suit had a micro-penis, you'd still want to fuck him?"
"I don't care how big his dick is. I'm not fucking him."
Remy looks at me incredulously. "There's something you're not telling me." He studies me, looking for cracks in my story. "Did you blow him in his limo?"
"No."
"The backroom? Next to Mr. Davey's office? Risky. That's what makes it hot."
"Gross. And no."
Remy shakes his head. "But you did fuck him."
"Can we talk about something else?"
"Is it your technique, Danny? Are you worried you don't know what to do?"
"Oh my god, please stop now."
"I can show you with a cucumber. It doesn't have to be weird."
"That's the definition of weird."
"A link to some instructive videos."
"I'd think about you the entire time!"
"And channel my skill," he says.
"You're disturbed." My laugh breaks the tension in my shoulders.
My little brother is disturbed.
But there's a method to his madness.
Adam is handsome, rich, in control.
Why not indulge in a few fantasies, when I'm alone, by myself?
I'm a grown woman. I can see Adam Pierce without melting into a puddle of desire.
No problem.
For the first time in ages, I sleep late. Wake to the smell of coffee.
Mmm. I put my steel-cut oats on the stove, pour a mug of drip, add plenty of almond milk and honey.
Not syrupy, not bitter, not too bright and not too creamy.
Balanced. Like a perfectly composed photograph.
I eat a quiet breakfast, don my nicest dress and a pair of riding boots, fix my hair and makeup, find a gift on my stoop.
A long-stemmed rose on top of a folded envelope.
Lush red petals. Sharp green thorns.
And the letter sealed with red wax.
All straight out of a fairy tale.
Adam.
Who else could it be?
I break the seal, open the handwritten card.
Danielle,
Please join me for dinner tonight.
I have an offer for you.
One I'd rather not put on paper.
Sincerely,
Adam Pierce
So he does want something from me. Something besides advice on where to hang his art.
There's no way he's this formal about sex.
It must be something else.
But what?
What the hell does a billionaire tech mogul want with me?
Chapter Four
Danielle
"I should officially introduce myself." Adam's driver smiles as he pulls the door open for me. "Louis Diaz. Everyone calls me Lou."
"Danielle Bellamy. My brother calls me Danny. Everyone else calls me Danielle."
"It's a beautiful name."
"Thank you." I slip the envelope into my purse.
Louis notices, but he doesn't mention it. He helps me into the car without a word on the rose, the invitation, the man who employs him. "Do you have everything you need?"
"Do I need something special?"
"It's a long drive. I can stop for coffee first."
"I never turn down coffee."
He smiles and slides into the car.
For a few minutes, we talk caffeine options. He's used to Adam's standards and Mr. Pierce is exacting. Only single-origin beans or premium blends.
We compromise on a hipster coffee joint down the street. Then we pick up the photos at the gallery and settle in for a long drive.
For a little while, I make conversation with Louis. His family moved here from Puerto Rico when he was a kid. He's the oldest, with three younger sisters, each more difficult than the last.
My family is from Trinidad, but we only visited once before Mom let her strained relationship with Grandma fracture. I remember their arguing—over my father, who bailed after Remy was born—more than I remember the beer-cap covered beaches.
Mom wore her home on her sleeve. She drank a lot of Sorrel and played too much bad reggae music, but she was a New Yorker too. She loved every inch of the city, from the tip of the Empire State Building to the basement dive bar around the corner.
She was vibrant and alive, the same way the city is.
And then she was gone.
And I still don't know how to survive without her.
But I can't tell Louis that. I can't even tell Remy. So I mention something about my heritage—we're Indo-Caribbean, but most people assume I'm from India—then I claim a need to take a nap, don my headphones, watch the city whiz by the windows.