I can hear Carly in the kitchen when I step into our apartment. I drop my suitcase and purse by the door and call out, “Honey, I’m home!”
She pops her head around the corner, her bouncing curls framing her smiling face. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready. Can you grab the plates?”
I nod and do as instructed, then watch as she plates the lasagna and pulls a tray of garlic bread from the oven. I’m going to cry the day she moves in with her boyfriend.
Dinner in hand, we curl up on the couch and turn on an episode of a show we’ve watched a million times already. I have to stifle yawns between bites of food, because thanks to Daniel, I didn’t get much sleep last night.
Worth it.
Carly throws me a concerned glance when I yawn for what has to be the tenth time. “You always come back from New York so exhausted,” she says. “Are you sure you have to go up there twice a month? Seems like a lot for a job that’s supposed to be remote.”
If only she knew why I’ve been going up there more often. I still haven’t told her about what’s going on with Daniel. She’s heard my rants about him, and she’s talked me off the ledge more than once when I’ve threatened to commit homicide. So when I do break the news, I expect it will come as a shock to her. I don’t think there will be anyone more surprised (other than myself) that he and I have developed feelings (other than hate) for each other.
I’m going to have to tell her at some point, especially if this date goes well and we decide to take things to the next level—whatever that is. But if it goes horrifically awry or if we decide we’re not compatible outside of the bedroom…I’ll be glad that I never said anything to her.
So for now, I’ll continue to keep my best friend in the dark.
“It’s nice to see everyone in person.” I shrug. “Makes meetings easier too. And if I get to hang out in the city for a few days every month on their dime, I’m not going to complain.” I set my plate on the coffee table and pick up my glass of water. “But I’m not going back until April, so you’re stuck hearing me complain about sex scenes for the rest of the month.”
Carly snickers and stretches her legs out into my lap. “Gee, I’m so lucky. As long as my boss doesn’t overhear you shouting about why one didn’t have the proper emotional impact again.”
I cringe at the memory. I was in the middle of a heated but friendly argument with Nikki about why an arc we were plotting wouldn’t have the proper emotional payoff with the sex scene she wanted. I carried my laptop out of my room and padded to the kitchen to refill my water bottle, keeping my rant going as I went—only to realize Carly was sitting in front of her own laptop in the living room, having a one-on-one with her boss.
“I promise I’ll never take my meetings outside of my bedroom again.”
She grins and snuggles into the couch. “It’s good he found it funny, especially after I explained what you do for a living.”
“It’s a little weird, isn’t it?” I ask, laughing as I let my head fall back against the couch cushions. “But it’s fun. And it pays the bills.”
It’s also introduced me to a man I’ve somehow started to fall for. I couldn’t have written it better myself.
After two more episodes and another piece of garlic bread, I retreat to my bedroom to unpack.
I’m in the middle of dumping all my clothes into the hamper when my phone buzzes on my bed. I scoop it up and open the text my mother sent. She’s checking in to make sure I made it home safely and to ask about whether I’m coming over for dinner this week.
The answer to both is yes—I hardly ever miss a Friday dinner at my parents’ house. Mostly because my grandmother would kill me if I did. That’s why I told Daniel that the earliest I could come back to the city was on a Saturday.
But now that my phone is in my hand and I’m thinking about him, I realize I never sent him my number. We were a little busy after he saved his contact information in my phone, and this morning, my sole thoughts revolved around how I was going to make it through eight hours of work.
I could have texted him at any point, but I didn’t want to run the risk of a coworker peeking over my shoulder and seeing his name on my screen. By the time he covertly nodded goodbye to me at five o’clock, the only thing on my mind was making my five-thirty train and getting some last-minute editing done once I’d found my seat.
Now, though, I’m hesitant to text him, and there’s no way I’m calling him. It’s juvenile, but part of me doesn’t want him to know I’m thinking about him late at night, like some teenager pining over her crush. Then again, so what if I am? If anything is going to bloom between us, I have to stop being so hesitant.
So fuck it. I tap on his name and pull up a new message. I type a simple, Hey, it’s Selene and hit send before I can think twice. When I catch myself staring down at my phone, waiting for a response, I groan and toss the device onto my bedside table. It can stay right there for the rest of the night.
After showering and changing into pajamas, I’m ready to pass out. I switch off the light and climb between my sheets, grateful to be sleeping in my own bed. As much as I love being in New York and my nights with Daniel, the hotel life gets old pretty quickly. I’ve never asked if we could go back to his place, mainly because I’m sure my hotel was closer every time. And, well, before last night, that would have been entirely too personal.
Besides, if he lives somewhere like Brooklyn or (God forbid) New Jersey, there was no way in hell I wanted to go all the way out there just to have to commute back to Midtown in the morning.
Honestly, though, I should probably know where he lives. Right?
I run through a list of increasingly outrageous options as I drift off—maybe he lives in a penthouse on the Upper East Side, a mansion in Connecticut, or a cave in the sewer where he’s king of the rats—but the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand pulls me back to consciousness.
I grab for it without thinking, and my heart seizes when I see the name Daniel Santiago on the screen.
Go to bed, his message reads. I know I wore you out.
I roll my eyes at the nerve, but it doesn’t stop me from smiling. Because, as much as it pains me to admit, his smug little comments endear me to him even more.
I think about replying. Something along the lines of he can’t tell me what to do. If this were happening in a book I had to write, that text would lead to sexting, and then a steamy dream.
But since this is real life, it’s Daniel who messages again, putting an end to things before they can even begin.
Sleep well, mi amor.
