I guess dating women comes with the same issues as dating men. Not that I’ve dated any men. Only boys. And not recently. “Won’t you have the same issue if I leave at four?”
She bites her lip. “But maybe… you could get someone to cover for you?” Her blue eyes fill with concern. She needs me.
She needs me and I have to spend the weekend at a hellhole. A hellhole that doesn’t pay enough to cover all our bills.
This is only the first no of the day. There are plenty more on the way:
The nice tea from that shop in Midtown.
The fancy cold brew.
Lunch at a sit-down restaurant.
Air-conditioning.
Boots that don’t suffocate my feet.
A work dress that isn’t threadbare.
Eyeliner that doesn’t melt in the heat.
Or a night to myself. Where I don’t need heeled boots and a skimpy dress.
A night walking around the city, taking in the wonder it has to offer.
I saw that once.
Now…
I owe it to her to consider this.
And to myself.
A weekend at a friend’s beach house. A weekend without the weight of the world on my shoulders.
What does that even feel like?
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
She jumps out of her chair to hug me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re a lifesaver, Eve. I’m so nervous about being alone with her. She doesn’t know about last year and I just…”
“She loves you. That’s what matters.”
She nods I guess so. Launches into a discussion of their last date. Walking around the Natural History Museum (of course) then falafel in the Village. This kiss that screamed of more.
The kind of kiss that only exists in fairy tales.
I don’t believe they exist. Not the Disney versions.
Twisted ones? A princess who will do anything to save herself? Prince Charming with illicit intentions?
I pull out my cell and text Ian.
Chapter Ten
Ian
Eve: What are you offering?
Thirteen hours.
Thirteen hours and she’s considering it.
Nine a.m. on a Sunday and I’m still in the goddamn building. Sure, I’m halfway through a workout. But this isn’t how I’m supposed to spend my weekend.
I don’t wait by the phone.
I don’t wait. Period.
Or I didn’t. Until I started reading her site.
Until I started refreshing four times a day, waiting for another taste of her thoughts.
Nothing today.
She isn’t sharing this with her readers. Only with me.
I finish another set. Wipe the sweat from my brow.
It’s Sunday. A day of rest. Most Sundays, I take it easy. By my standards. A long workout, a longer shower, a late breakfast, some sort of social engagement.
A woman in my bed.
Who am I kidding? It’s been months since I’ve invited a woman into my bed. The second a woman touches my arm, I think of Eve. Of how much I’d prefer her.
She isn’t how I imagined her. Younger. Taller. With the most gorgeous grey-green eyes. And all those tattoos that define her.
I have my own. Plenty. But nothing recent.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt the need to permanently mark my body.
And this… the way I want to trace every line of ink on her skin, commit them to memory—
That’s new.
I need to understand her.
Everything about her.
Ian: What do you want?
Eve: Isn’t it a disadvantage, being the first to quote a number?
Ian: Depends who you ask.
She’s reading up on negotiation. Or smart enough to know it by heart.
That awful club, all those drunk arseholes—
She must negotiate nonstop.
My skin crawls at the thought of her in that place. Wearing nothing. That short skirt and low-cut blouse—
It’s not enough.
There are too many pissed arseholes leering at her.
It’s not like me to hate it—I’m not usually possessive—but I do. I want her in a parka at that place.
No, I want her away from that place forever.
Eve: Do you really know the doctor?
Not in the way she means. We certainly aren’t friends. But I know enough.
A divorced man who lives in New Jersey. He frequents an escort service in the Financial District. He comes into the city on weekends, for a night at a hotel with a call girl.
I don’t judge other people’s choices. Not usually. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But this man—
He’s not worthy of her.
He’s not touching her.
No one else is touching her.
Ian: I don’t like him. I don’t want him to do this.
Eve: Why?
Ian: Does that really matter?
Eve: I guess not. I just figure there has to be some kind of catch.
Ian: How is that?
Eve: I looked you up. Maybe Ian Hunt is an alias created by MI6. Maybe this is all an elaborate lie. But I’m not exactly a hacker. And I don’t know any hackers.
Ian: I can recommend a few.
Eve: You?
Ian: I prefer operative.
Eve: Spy?
Ian: That’s trying too hard.
Eve: International Man of Mystery?
Ian: Only if you’re going to ask “do I make you randy, baby?”
Eve: Do people say randy?
Ian: Not anymore.
Eve: We should bring it back. It has a certain ring. Don’t you think?