Six Months Later
“Not too shabby for an office.” Riggs pokes at his lower lip, nodding to himself as he strolls along the reception area of Miller, Hatter & Co., my brand-new law firm. “Not worth the money you dropped on the interior designer, but not as soul crushing as other offices I’ve been to.”
“Thanks for the endorsement. Your opinion means a lot. Now get the hell out.” I stick my loafer between the elevator doors to ensure it doesn’t leave without him and Arsène. I check my Patek Philippe again. Five past three. She should be here any minute now.
“What’s the rush, Miller? Is Miss Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip coming over?” Arsène runs his hand over the sleek black marble of the reception counter.
It’s about to be Mrs. Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip if I have my way.
Weeks after resigning from Cromwell & Traurig, I ran into Jason Hatter and found out he was looking for a way out of his own firm too. We quickly realized we could establish a successful partnership, combining both our portfolios. That’s how Miller, Hatter & Co. was founded.
“Out,” I order. “Both of you. Before I wipe the floor with your asses.”
“Big deal. Your floor is cleaner than Hermione Granger’s rap sheet. First.” Riggs stops in front of the crème wall, checking each hanging picture in the waiting area individually, like his connection to art includes more than rolling a few curators between his bedsheets every now and then. “Tell us why you’re sweating like a whore in a confession booth.”
“I’m not sweating.” I scowl.
“You are, actually,” Arsène states before making a gagging sound. “You’re going to propose, aren’t you?”
Unable to deal with my friends’ eighth-grade mentality any longer, I saunter toward them, grab each friend by the ear, and drag them to the elevator.
“Kinky,” Riggs hisses, planting the heels of his Blundstones on the floor just to make things difficult. “Now talk dirty to the ear you’re about to rip out of my head. I like it rough.”
Arsène flicks my hand away but surrenders willingly, citing that he doesn’t want to be here when I decorate my new carpets with semen once my girlfriend arrives. I dump them in the elevator and brush my palms clean when the chime above my head indicates they are on their way down.
Three minutes later, Arya pops out of the second elevator. She’s wearing a smart business suit. Her crazy hair is in a haphazard bun. She stops in front of me, taking it all in, her eyes big and green and unnerving.
“Howdy, partner.” Her smile is slow, mischievous, and uniquely hers. She reminds me of the twelve-year-old girl I couldn’t look away from.
“Ms. Roth.” I tuck a flyaway behind her ear, pressing a soft kiss on her nose. I step back. “What do you think about my new crib?”
“It’s beautiful.” She lights up, giving herself a mini tour. We’ve already started operating, but next week, we’re opening the office. We’ll have two receptionists, five paralegals, and several new associates coming in. It’s going to be a lot of work, but it’s going to be worth it. “As the spokeswoman for Brand Brigade, we’re excited you chose to work with us.”
As the spokesperson for my heart, I’m hoping you’re not going to stomp on it in a second.
Arya leans against the reception desk, splaying her hands on it. “Have Cromwell and Traurig calmed down yet?”
“Not even remotely.” I make my way toward her, pushing my hands into my front pockets. “They’re still dragging my name through the mud all over town.”
“Good.” Arya smiles brightly. “I do love you a bit dirty.”
I chuckle, motioning to my corner office. “Come on. I want to show you the best part of the office.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her to the room that has taken the most time to design. To the interior designer’s credit, all she had to work with was a few frames from a movie. No more. I push the wooden door open, and Arya gasps.
“It’s not contemporary.” I lower my head to her neck from behind, feathering a kiss over it while my hands find her waist. She shivers into me, inspecting the vast room, a replica of the library from the book and the movie she loves so much.
The mahogany shelves. The ladder. The books. The Persian carpet. The books. The vintage lamp. The books.
The books.
The books.
“Christian . . .” Christian. That’s what she calls me now. Embracing the identity I’ve chosen for myself. Nicky isn’t dead. But I’m no longer the helpless boy she knew. Now, I can protect her. And myself. I intend to do both. “This is . . . breathtaking.”
“It’s yours.”
She turns around, looking at me curiously. “What do you mean?”
And this time, I show her.
I press her against the nearest bookshelf, and two decades later, at thirty-three, I do what fourteen-year-old Nicky couldn’t. I kiss her long and hard, starting from the base of her throat, working my way up, lacing my fingers through hers. She writhes against me, mumbling my name. I can feel her unknotting against me, one thread after another. We both know no one can walk in on us. No one can stop us.
“Are we . . . are we . . . ?” Arya’s pants come in short breaths as my tongue fills her mouth possessively. “Are we reenacting . . . ?”
“No.” I withdraw, pressing a finger over her lips. “We’re creating something new, sweetheart. Something that’s ours.”
With that, I tug her skirt off, then her panties, leaving her in her blouse and high heels. I drop to my knees and start by kissing the insides of her ankles, then make my way up with my lips and teeth. I stop to swirl my tongue over the side of her knee, a sensitive spot for her, and drag my teeth up her inner thigh. When I get to the insides of her thighs, I kiss them slowly, reverently, taking my time, ignoring the main event. Her fingers tug at my hair hard. She is getting desperate. That’s how I want her.
“Christian.” Her soft whimper hits my ears differently now. “Nicky.”
I pause, looking up. She hasn’t called me that in a hot minute. But I can see why the situation would confuse her. Last time we were like this . . .
“Yes?” I arch an eyebrow, looking up at her.
“Please,” she squeaks. “Do it.”
“Do what?”
She looks around us, to ensure we’re alone. I inwardly smile.
“Kiss me there.”
I press a soft, chaste kiss to her center, grinning.
She groans, pushing my head harder to her sex. “You’re impossible.”
But then my tongue invades her, pries her open, and she clenches around it. I hold her waist tightly, pleasuring her, and she is close, so close that when she comes apart, I can feel every muscle in her body yielding to the sensation.
I stand up, unbuckle myself, and press home.
Arya holds me tight, moaning. “Christian.” My name is whispered breathlessly, kisses landing on my cheeks, my throat, my lips. “Christian. I love you so much.”
The next thing I do very carefully. I lace my fingers through hers again, like in the movie. But unlike the movie, I add my own touch. A French-set halo engagement ring with a two-carat diamond on it. I slip it on her finger as I start to move inside her, and in her daze of passion, Arya doesn’t notice. I make love to her, and she falls apart again. This time, I do too. I come deep inside her. When we both raise our heads and catch our breaths, she finally notices.
Her face changes, her expression morphing from drunk with pleasure to alert.
“Oh . . .” She straightens her fingers, stretching her arm and moving her hand here and there, letting the diamond catch the light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling window. “Is this . . . ?”
“It is,” I confirm.
“We’ve only been together for six months.” She turns to grin at me, and I have to say, for a woman who is naked from the waist down, she sure knows how to be a smarty-pants.
“Correct,” I say dryly, tucking myself in, “and that’s about five months too late. My bad. In my defense, I had a business to open.”
She shakes her head, laughing. Then she launches herself at me in a hug, peppering my face with kisses. I catch her waist, smirking.
“Is that a yes?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs to the light stubble along my jaw. “What would Cecilia say?”
“Hell yeah.”
ARYA
“I still don’t understand what this is for,” I sigh, sitting completely blindfolded in the passenger seat of my mother’s sedan. It’s not exactly the Bentley she was parading around Manhattan, complete with a personal driver, prior to her divorce, but she seems oddly content with the downgrade. She ditched the expensive blowouts and designer clothes for off-shoulder flowery maxi dresses and trendy sneakers.
She even has a new boyfriend, Max, who is not only super dashing but also a geeky high school geography teacher who treats her like a goddess and has vowed to take her to try every curry in New York City. They’re on their twentieth curry joint, last I checked.
“No one asked you to understand, darling. Just not to peek.” Mom pats my thigh, chuckling as moms do.
“We’ve been driving for forever. Are we even still in Manhattan?” I’m trying to get a ballpark estimation of what I’m working with. About thirty minutes ago, she picked me up from work and told me she had a surprise to show me. It didn’t faze her in the least when I told her I wanted to go bridesmaid dress shopping with Jilly. She dragged me into her car and ignored my plans.
Beatrice tsks. “Sorry. I’m under strict instructions not to give you any hints.”
“Instructions from who?” I demand.
She laughs at that.
“Christian?” I try. The fabric of the blindfold itches my nose, and I twitch it back and forth.
“Darling, not everything must revolve around your hunky fiancé.”
I rumble a weak response and sit back, folding my arms together. Mom talks my ear off about applying to a bunch of jobs around the Brooklyn area, now that she’s moved in with Max. How she knows it’s silly, but she wants to go back to school and maybe become a teacher. I tell her it’s not silly at all. How bettering our life, our circumstances, broadening our knowledge, should never be a source of shame. Before I know it, I feel my body sway as she pulls to the curb. We must’ve arrived at her secret destination.
“Keep the blindfold on while I make a call.” She uses her brand-new Mom tone. The one that warns me not to mess with her. I secretly love this tone. It makes up for all the years I didn’t have a mother. Her voice is sweet but businesslike as she talks to the person on the other end.
“Yes.” Pause. “She’s here.” Another beat. “No, not a thing. I kept her in the dark. Literally. But I’m double-parked, so you better come out here.”
A minute later, the passenger door opens, and I feel a pair of hands pulling me out gently. I don’t need to ask who it is. I know. The calluses of his fingers. The roughness of his big palms. It’s my future husband.
“Thanks, Bea, I’ll take good care of her,” Christian says.
“Bye, now,” Mom chirps, gunning her engine as she drives away.
“This better be good, Mr. Miller,” I warn as he ushers me somewhere, holding my hands. I trust him fully, but I don’t like not being in the know.
Christian chuckles but doesn’t answer. We make our way indoors out of the heat of the summer day through a revolving door. An avalanche of cool, air-conditioned air sweeps over my feet and hair. It gives me a sweet, achy feeling. Like I’ve felt it once before. My heels click over marble. My surroundings smell new. Flowery. Expensive. We’re in a building. Christian calls the elevator, and I wait beside him.
“How was your day at work?” he asks. He is making chitchat while I’m still blindfolded. Unbelievable.
“Fine,” I respond. “Yours?”
“Good.”
“Tell me, how many people are watching me right now blindfolded, being led by a handsome, tall man in a dashing suit?”
“About . . .” He counts under his breath. “Seventeen. And I’ll have you know I’m not wearing a suit but a tutu dress.”
“Dashing.”
“Sort of. I think it makes my knees look a little bloated.”
The elevator dings, and I think I recognize the sound but I can’t tell where from. We walk in. Christian holds my hand the entire time. I count the floors by the way the elevator pings each time we pass a level. We stop on the seventh floor. Christian walks out, ushering me with him, clasping my palm in both of his. Then he stops and drops my hand to enter a security number to open a door. He presses a hand against the small of my back, and we both walk in. Then he’s behind me, removing my blindfold.
“Ta-da.”
I blink my eyes open, adjusting to the sunlight after being blindfolded for so long, and immediately suck in a breath. No wonder I thought the noises and scents were familiar when I walked in.
I turn to face him. “No.”
“Yup,” he says, popping the p.
“Can we afford it?” I wince.
He leans forward, rubbing his nose against mine. “Absolutely. It’s not your old penthouse. That, we wouldn’t have been able to afford in a million years. But I wanted you to live in your childhood building. Somewhere close to Aaron. Where you can see him from your window anytime you please. I asked the building manager to call me as soon as there was a vacancy. And well . . . three weeks ago, there was.”
I stride along the empty space, the sound of my heels ricocheting against the walls. Everything is bare and clean and smells of opportunity and potential. Of memories we can create here. An apartment in my Park Avenue building. Somewhere we can call our own. I’m so overwhelmed with emotions, with happiness, that it takes me a few moments to notice it. A plastic bag on the kitchen counter. The only thing inside this place.
“Hey.” I walk over to it. “What is that?”
“Those are our bathing suits,” Christian says behind my back, and I hear him coming toward me. “Race you to the pool for a few laps?”
His chin touches the top of my head, and all is well in the world.
“I’m going to win,” I warn him, plucking out my swimsuit from the bag.
He engulfs me with his hands. “I’d like to see you try.”
