Simon: What else would I wear?
Vanessa: Did anyone look at you funny?
Simon: I see your point.
Vanessa: You do?
Simon: We can meet at your place next time.
My place. That would be scary under normal circumstances. Right now—
Well, I can't tell him about my new house guest. But then he's not inviting me.
I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Simon: Or you can come here.
Vanessa: I can? What about Opal?
Simon: She noticed the lipstick again. And the scratches.
Vanessa: You asked.
Simon: I'm not complaining.
Vanessa: You don't mind?
Simon: Her knowing? No. But I won't be able to fuck you properly if I know my sister is in the next room.
Vanessa: She has a late curfew.
Simon: If I know she might come home any minute.
Vanessa: No? It might be fun. Staying quiet.
Simon: Exhibitionist.
Vanessa: Voyeur.
Simon: It might be possible sooner.
My sex clenches.
Vanessa: Oh?
Simon: Liam must have read my mind. He invited us to the opera Friday. Preston's balcony.
Vanessa: With the two of them?
Simon: Yes, but Liam will leave at intermission. We'll have the balcony to ourselves.
Vanessa: I can work with that.
Simon: I'll pick you up at seven.
Vanessa: No. I have a late meeting. I'll meet you at the venue.
Simon: Dinner first. If you have time.
Vanessa: The four of us?
Simon: I understand if you don't want to deal with him.
He's inviting me to dinner with his family.
That means something.
But I can't consider it.
Not now, when the other concerns are heavy in my mind.
Simon is my shiny distraction. My strong, handsome release.
I need it.
I'm going to enjoy it.
After I figure this out.
I may not be able to save the world on my own. But I can help this woman. Right now, that's what matters.
Right now, it's the only thing that matters.
Chapter Seventeen
SIMON
Between meetings, calls, projections, my thoughts flit to Vanessa.
The arch of her back.
The scrape of her nails.
The taste of her lips.
Her body, stretched over the bed, unfurling as she comes.
Her laugh, low and hearty, filling the room as she teases me.
I like her.
I want her.
I had her last night, but I can't stand the thought of waiting until tomorrow.
All afternoon, I try to focus on work.
All afternoon, my thoughts drift to her.
Even when I finish and meet Opal at her art class.
The lesson is running late.
A figure drawing session.
There's a beautiful young woman, lying on a couch, but I barely see her.
Instead, I picture Vanessa on the red leather. In that long wine-colored gown, pulling her dress up her thighs, parting her legs, inviting me to taste her.
This isn't the time.
This isn't the place.
And there isn't a single part of me that cares.
I need her tonight.
I can't wait until tomorrow.
I pull out my cell. Call her.
Three rings. Voicemail.
She texts back a minute later.
Vanessa: Did you actually call me?
Simon: Yes.
Vanessa: Is everyone okay?
Simon: I want to see you.
Vanessa: We're firmly in the middle of the millennial generation.
Simon: We are.
Vanessa: We don't call.
Simon: You're on the phone at work all day.
Vanessa: With older people.
Simon: I'm out of date?
Vanessa: It suits you, I suppose. An old-fashioned way of contacting a woman.
Simon: A cell phone?
Vanessa: It's not a stamped letter, sure.
Simon: Do you want one?
Vanessa: What would it say?
A million dirty demands flit into my head.
All the things I can write on paper.
All the things I want to say to her.
I'm not a writer. I've never been a writer. Never seen the appeal of the art.
I don't read poetry. I don't look for beautiful words or clever phrases.
I say what I need to say to make a point.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
All of a sudden, I'm filled with the urge to find beautiful words. Something that matches the poetry of her groan. Or the sheer bliss of her body against mine.
How do I express that?
Is it even possible?
Simon: I won't ruin the surprise.
Vanessa: Is it going to be formal? One of your emails? "Vanessa, I wish to share your bed. I'm available Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon. Two hours should be sufficient time. Best, Simon."
Simon: Is that an invitation?
Vanessa: No.
Simon: Too bad.
Vanessa: I can't this weekend.
Simon: You can't…
Vanessa: Host you.
My stomach churns.
Vanessa: I'll be there, at the opera tomorrow. And the restaurant, if work doesn't run late. But I can't invite you back here.
Simon: You don't want me in your place?
Vanessa: I haven't thought about it.
I can't stop thinking about it. Vanessa Moyer, in her home, comfortable, happy.
How does that look?
What color are her walls? How big is her couch? What does she wear to sleep? What does she drink in the mornings? What does she eat for dinner?
I want everything.
I want too fucking much.
Vanessa: It would be nice to wear my pajamas for once.
Simon: Not a silk nightgown?
Vanessa: I don't want to ruin the surprise.
Simon: Fair.
Vanessa: I'd like to have you here sometime. But I have a guest.
Simon: A guest?
Vanessa: A friend from college.
Vanessa went to the Sorbonne. She knows a lot of worldly people. It makes sense.