Chapter 11

ELEVEN

He lives in SoHo, in one of those lofts that is in a building so fancy the facade is somehow a pristine cream color, and there are ornaments and decorations on it. I’m sure there’s a name for them in architecture, but I have no idea what it might be, so I’m just gonna go ahead and call them wavy thingamadoos.

The lobby has a high ceiling, and there’s marble everywhere. It’s so shiny that I have to believe they’ve hired somebody for the express purpose of polishing those walls and floors hourly. I discreetly check the soles of my shoes before I get any farther from the front door. I wouldn’t want to create any more work for the poor soul whose task it is to keep this place looking so pristine.

I got out of here so quickly earlier, and last night I was clearly too drunk to really notice it, but this place… Well, it’s really fucking intimidating. It’s as if the building is looking down on me, and doing it snootily at that.

Nevertheless, I venture farther into the lobby. I give the doorman my name and briefly wonder if he recognizes me from my covert escape this morning. If he does, he doesn’t show it.

I’m freaking out inside, if it wasn’t clear yet. The nerves I thought I’d already abolished are back full force, wreaking havoc on my insides. It’s been like this the whole day.

When the elevator doors open, I step out and find Sutton waiting for me. He’s standing in the open doorway of his apartment, arms crossed over his chest, casually leaning against the jamb.

“Hey,” he says when our eyes meet, easygoing as always.

My stomach gives a jolt, and my heart picks up speed at the sight of him. He looks as good as ever in his dark jeans and white V-neck T-shirt. His feet are bare, and his hair is damp.

“Hey,” I manage to reply.

I follow him into the living room down a wood-paneled hallway. Once there, I stand by the couch and do my best not to look too much like a deer in headlights. Soft music is playing in the background from invisible speakers, and the air is heavy with the smell of… I can’t really put my finger on what it is, but it’s definitely sweet and reminds me of cinnamon buns.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sutton says as he heads toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and peers into it. “Do you want something to drink?”

By now, my insides are twisting themselves into knots. It’s not so much anticipation at this point, it’s more that I want to get out of this nervous limbo I’m in, so I’d prefer to just get down to business. There’s very little chance I’ll be able to force anything down right now, so I shake my head. “I’m good. So… we should just get started, right? Go and do it.”

He sends me a look while he’s fixing himself a drink. “Are you in a hurry?”

Unlike me, Sutton seems nothing but relaxed. Then again, he probably does this kind of thing on a regular basis. Picks somebody up from a bar or a club or a charity event. Brings them here. Fucks the life out of them.

He finishes putting ice in his glass and lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and something tingles low in my belly. Definitely something other than nerves, so that’s promising.

I really need to chill the fuck out. Nerves are what usually ruins it for me.

“On second thought, can I have a taste?” I ask, and I don’t really wait for an answer. I just grab his glass and take a sip. Fuck it. I’ll just get drunk. It’s scotch, I think, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. It burns as it goes down, and I make a face before I pour the rest of the drink down my throat too, then hold out the glass.

“That was… not good. Can I have another one?”

There’s a smirk on his lips. Not like he’s mocking me, but like he’s amused. He goes and pours another splash of scotch into the glass, then walks back over and hands it to me.

“It’s meant to be savored,” he says. “Maybe try that instead of chugging?”

He’s so close.

And so beautiful.

I clutch the glass tighter.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

I take another sip. Slower this time. It’s still not great. Maybe I’m just not a scotch-type of person.

“So how does this work, exactly?” I ask.

I take another experimental sip and then hand the glass back to Sutton. He laughs when I scrunch my nose up and shake my head. Nope. I’m out. No more scotch for me, thank you. I’ve also kind of realized getting blackout drunk probably won’t do me any good. I don’t think anybody’s ever said, ‘Oh yeah, my whiskey dick performed like a miracle last night.’

“How does what work?” He takes a drink and makes it look sexy as hell while he’s at it. No wincing or face pulling for him. Just sophisticated savoring.

“This sex-with-a-stranger business. Should I… know anything beforehand? Do I seduce you? Do you seduce me? I don’t know if I have any moves, to be honest. I might surprise myself once we get going, but it’s not guaranteed.”

He’s smiling. Again. It seems I’m entertaining, if nothing else. I’d prefer to be sexy, but you get what you get, I guess.

“You ramble when you’re nervous,” he says. “Cute.”

I frown at that. “No. That’s not what you’re supposed to think. You don’t fuck cute people, ergo I’m not cute. I’m seductive. Hot.”

“You absolutely are,” he agrees solemnly, eyes moving up and down my body, and when he looks up again… Yeah, there’s humor, but he does seem to like what he sees. I think. “Extremely hot,” he adds as if to push away my silent hesitation.

I nod. “Yeah.” I put some more confidence in my voice. “I am.”

“But also cute. Especially when you use words like ergo. ”

Silence stretches between us. My heart goes a hundred miles a minute.

“I am nervous,” I admit.

“Really? I couldn’t tell at all.” He’s still smiling, but I don’t really mind that he mainly seems to find me entertaining right now. It’s better than the many, many alternatives.

I take the glass of scotch from him and put it on the floor by my feet.

“We should probably just do it,” I say. “Just get it over with.”

His lips twitch. “I don’t make a habit of criticizing the way people flirt, but that is a shit-awful way to seduce somebody.”

I can feel my face heat, but fuck it, I’m already here. Might as well see this thing through.

“Sorry. I sounded less reluctant in my head. But rest assured, I want to. Come on. Let’s put some fucking into this evening and enjoy each other’s genitals.”

“Hot,” he says, and a spark of teasing lights up his eyes.

I let my head drop back and groan out loud.

“Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”

He just keeps looking at me, still painfully amused. Waiting. Am I supposed to make the move? If so, how do I go about it, exactly? And if you really think about it, what even counts as a move? Because I think we technically can argue that I already made the move when I asked him to sleep with me. Or maybe that doesn’t count. In that case, I really don’t know how.

Maybe I just need a plan. Like a manual. And then I can just follow those steps.

Yeah. That sounds good. Doable.

First step: location.

“So… where should we do it?” I look around. “Here? The bedroom? The kitchen counter?”

I’m fucking this up so badly, and I don’t know how to stop.

“The bedroom?” Sutton offers. Still smiling. Still amused. By some miracle, still interested.

It’s like an anchor in a storm, that suggestion. And I grab it with all my might. I have a mission. To get us to that bedroom.

I take his hand and start tugging him out of the living room like I have any fucking clue where I’m going. There are three doors to choose from, but fuck me if I can remember which one was the correct one, so I just open the door closest to me and barrel inside, dragging Sutton after me.

“That’s not…” Sutton starts to say.

But I’m so determined to do something right that I’ve stormed well into the room before I realize it’s not the place where I meant to go. I stop. Turn around.

“That’s not your bedroom,” I tell Sutton.

“No, it’s not.”

Instead of backing out though, this place catches my attention and pushes me off course. I look around at the built-in shelves on one wall and the two counters with trays and a sink.

“What is this place?” I ask.

He’s leaning against the wall, eyes still on me.

“A darkroom.”

I take another look, slowly turning around until I’ve made a full circle. I should probably get out of here. This feels like something private. Personal. Not something you’d share with just anybody. If he wanted to do that, he would’ve mentioned it before, but he hasn’t.

So I will definitely respect that and back off.

“You’re a photographer?” I ask.

I’ll respect him in a little bit.

He shakes his head. “It’s just a hobby.”

“And you develop your own film? People do that?”

He chuckles, pushes himself off the wall, and comes closer. “Some people do. Not me, though. I just use this place to make myself look artistic and seduce men.”

“Well, it’s working,” I say. “Go ahead. Pretend like you’re developing a photo right now and I’m pretty much guaranteed to jump your bones. Ooh! I bet you have, like, special seduction photos you use. What are they? Tasteful, erotic nudes? Or, like… manly wolves howling at the manly moon?”

“I have both, of course. And I was under the impression you were already going to jump my bones.”

“Well, yeah. But that was when I didn’t know there was a deluxe package. What kind of one-night stands is that for and how do I get in on that action? Can I see any of your photos?”

For the first time this evening, he looks startled.

“Umm.” He hesitates. Hovers. Falters.

Eventually, he goes to one of the shelves, seems to debate with himself for a moment, then pulls out a cardboard box and hands it over.

I take the box and look around for somewhere to sit. He motions for me to follow him, and we end up back in the living room. I sit down on the floor, on the soft rug, and lean my back against the couch.

I’m not sure what to expect. There’s nothing to give any hint as to what’s waiting for me inside, except the date written on the end of the box, and that, too, simply has a year number on it.

I open the box.

It’s an eclectic selection.

There are a few nature shots. Cherry blossoms in the early morning sunshine, and the ocean at sunset.

There’s a chubby orange cat on his back, stretching out, eyes closed.

A bright pink front door.

An old wooden bridge in early morning mist.

Streets of New York covered in snow.

But mostly, there are people.

Actually, aside from a few still lifes, most of the photos are of people and most of them seem to be of the same few people. There’s a toddler with her hand up to her elbow in a cookie jar, crumbs around her mouth and all over her shirt. The same toddler is being hoisted up in the air by her hands by two women—a redhead and a brunette with a bright blue streak in her hair. There’s a couple dozing away on a couch in a messy room with a sleeping infant on the man’s chest.

Some of the faces are familiar.

There’s Quinn and Steph, standing in the rain, sharing an umbrella, kissing. They’re also in the next photo with Steph sitting on the kitchen counter. There’s a grape midair, and Quinn has his mouth open, trying to catch it.

Two women, two men, and Quinn and Steph are standing on the street during Pride. One of the women has a flag thrown over her shoulders, and one of the men has his tongue stuck out at the camera. Arms are thrown over shoulders. Smiling faces everywhere.

Two guys riding bikes in Central Park, feet held out away from the pedals and legs extended.

In one of the photos, Steph is in a bodega, looking over his shoulder, straight into the camera, smiling widely, middle finger raised.

Quinn is flipping a pancake with an intense look of concentration on his face.

The woman from the photo with the infant is standing in the middle of the street with a phone at her ear and an armful of lilacs in the crook of her elbow.

Quinn is sitting on the grass, Steph’s head in his lap. They only seem to have eyes for each other.

I stare at the photos, mesmerized. I go through them once more when I’m done, then I look up at Sutton, who’s still standing.

“These are lovely,” I say. It seems like the right word when there is so much love in those pictures. Both in the photos themselves, but also behind the camera. The person who took those photos clearly loves the people in them.

Sutton doesn’t say anything for a long while.

I’m desperately curious about who all these strangers are to him, but I don’t think I have the right to ask that.

“How long have you been doing this?” I ask instead. “Taking photos.”

He stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, then he pulls them out. There’s a repeat of the earlier hesitate-hover-falter cycle, but then he comes and sits down next to me.

“I was thirteen when I got my first camera. I was spending a few weeks with Quinn at his family’s camp in the summer. One day when we walked past a garage sale, I saw a camera, and bought it on a whim.”

“Like fate,” I say.

He raises his brows at me. “You believe in that?”

I have to think about that for a little, while because it’s an unexpected turn to something way more serious than what we’ve exchanged so far.

“Uh, I don’t know. Not really? I think… I’d like to think we each write our own story. But I also want to think that everything will work out the way it’s meant to in the end.”

“You’re an optimist.”

“Hey!” I poke him in the side with my finger. “What’s that tone?”

“What tone?” he asks innocently while he tries to wiggle and avoid my poking finger. In the end, he just catches it and holds it steady while sending a mock scowl my way.

“That tone you just had,” I say. “‘An optimist. 'Oh, you believe good things will happen. Oh, how precious.’”

He snorts. “Is that what I sounded like?”

“To a tee.”

The music has stopped, and the apartment is quiet now. It feels extremely intimate, sitting here on the floor with this man I don’t really know, gazes locked. Not weird, though. I’d go so far as to say I feel pretty comfortable, which usually never happens.

It’s probably better if I move this thing along now that the nerves seem to have calmed down and gone into hiding.

“So. Sutton.”

His enigmatic smile stays in place. “Wren.”

“We should probably get to the fucking now.”

“Ready whenever you are.”

Right.

My move.

Okay.

I can do this.

I lean closer.

Almost there.

Almost.

That’s when my stomach lets out a loud rumble. And I mean loud. It’s like there’s a high-tech sound system in my stomach. And it’s not even just that the rumble is loud. It’s also long.

Sutton snorts. And then that snort turns into another one. And then he’s full-on laughing.

“Shut up,” I mutter. “It’s been a long day, and I skipped dinner.”

He’s still chuckling when he looks at me.

“Pizza?”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I insist.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But then we fuck.”

“Like bunnies,” he promises solemnly, then gets up to get his phone.

The pizza arrives thirty minutes later, and we eat it on his comfy couch, both of us with our feet propped on the coffee table. It’s one of those fancy pizzas where the dough is made from scratch, and there are multiple types of cheese and sauce on it, along with something decidedly weird you wouldn’t put on a pizza yourself—pumpkin cubes and some type of seeds in this case—and it somehow works.

Everything about this evening feels surreal.

“You’re, like, really fucking rich, huh?” I ask through a mouthful of pizza when I look around his apartment and out the window at the view. You don’t get views of Washington Square Park for free, is all I’m saying.

Although, aside from the location and the building itself, the apartment is actually quite normal. It’s not excessively big. It’s not a penthouse. It doesn’t have its own private elevator opening straight into the living room. It’s tastefully decorated, but not in that way where you can tell it was decorated with the express purpose of showing off in mind. It’s cozy first and foremost, and there are a lot of things that feel very domestic. There’s a book on the end table, open, laid on the surface with its face down. A coffee cup is drying on the counter next to the sink. A sweater has been thrown over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. There are plants on windowsills and more of those subtle signs of life everywhere I look.

It’s a home.

“Yup,” he says, his voice full of ease. It’s not even as if he’s bragging, he’s just agreeing with a fact I stated.

“Trust fund?” I ask.

“Inheritance.”

“Who died?”

“My grandparents.”

“Were you close?”

“Not even a little bit.”

I probably shouldn’t dig into his personal life. That’s not what this night is about. But it doesn’t feel like he’s especially reluctant to answer those questions.

“What about the rest of your family? Are you close with them?”

“Not even a little bit.” All his answers are delivered with the same easy, almost flippant tone.

“Any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

“Not that I know of.”

I stuff the last piece of pizza in my mouth, slouch lower until the back of my head rests against the couch, and pat my stomach before I turn my head to the side and face Sutton again. I take in his dark blond hair and handsome profile and the air of easy enjoyment that surrounds him.

We look at each other. He’s smiling again.

“You have dimples,” I say absently. “Did you know that?”

He chuckles softly. “Yes. I’ve seen my face before. Did you think you were going to surprise me?”

“I thought your eyes were brown, but they’re actually more amber than brown,” I continue, unperturbed by the teasing.

“Are you just listing things about my appearance or is there a reason for the overview?”

“Just letting you know.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Dimples and amber eyes turn you on.”

That makes me snort. “Is that a guess?”

He shrugs and grins, putting those dimples on full display. “Just letting you know in case you didn’t yet.”

“I just came,” I deadpan.

“My work here is done.”

We fall silent for another moment. He lies down, head against my thigh. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I lift my hand and rake my fingers through his hair. His eyes stay on mine. I do it again. And again. I don’t think about the whys too much right now. All I know is by now I’m more relaxed than I thought possible, and it feels good. The dark blond strands are stupidly soft to the touch, and he smells nice—a hint of aftershave with a helping of expensive scotch. It’s not a bad combination.

“Tell me something,” he says. His voice is low, and his eyes are soft now. Unguarded. It’s a weird thing to think, but I can’t shake the idea. He’s always so upfront and straightforward, but this is the first time he actually looks exposed.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Something good. You look like you’re a good person.”

“I don’t know about that.” I pause for a moment to think about what I want to say. “I just try to do my best, I suppose? But that’s what everybody’s doing, so I don’t think I’m unusual in that regard.”

He keeps looking at me. Almost like he sees more than I’m willing to show. Waiting.

The moment is too intense.

I’m starting to suspect it would be easy to drown in his eyes, and I can’t afford to do that.

“You know how when people talk about their heritage they say things like I’m part Italian or part Scottish or whatever?” I ask.

He nods slowly, clearly not sure where I’m going with this.

“Well, when I was younger, I thought when they said that they were talking about a specific part of their body. So when somebody said they were part Italian, I thought they were saying that their arm, or leg, or butt were Italian. And I was always super confused about how they knew where their specific parts were from.”

He stares at me for a long moment before he absolutely fucking loses it. There are tears running down his face as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

His whole body is shaking, and he laughs.

He buries his face in his hands, and he laughs.

His lips are still twitching when he finally calms down enough to look at me again.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t,” he says. “You need to know which country to contact when you need a spare part.”

The last few words come out on a squeak because he’s laughing again.

“It made sense in my head,” I say, and now I’m laughing, too. “I was really worried for a while because I didn’t know where my parts were from. And I never really got how all those people had these fancy, foreign parts because nobody ever said, ‘Oh, I’m part Kansas.’”

Another roar of laughter follows that statement.

I pull his hair a little harder than strictly necessary.

“You realize you’re laughing at something that made me stay up for nights on end when I was a kid?”

He wipes the tears from his eyes and aims his laughing gaze at me.

“How old were you?”

“A kid,” I say.

“Aged?” he prods.

“An appropriate kid age.”

“Five?” he guesses.

I clamp my mouth shut.

“More?” he asks with obvious glee.

He raises his hands and holds up six fingers. “Stop me when I get to the right number.”

He lifts another finger. Then another one. And another.

“Am I gonna need my toes, too?” he asks.

“Twelve,” I say in a resigned voice. “I was twelve when my sister’s boyfriend explained that particular aspect of life.”

He grins at me, and it’s sort of brilliant and intense and wonderful to be able to make somebody smile like this.

“I like this game,” he says. “Give me another one.”

“Exactly how dumb do you think I was?”

He crosses the fingers of both of his hands. “For the sake of this game, I hope very.”

“Well, I wasn’t. That was the one and only time, and I’ve been a genius ever since.”

“Uh-huh.” He sends me a sleepy grin. “Come on, just one more.”

I look at him. He looks back.

I sigh.

“I went to this birthday party once when I was a kid, and they had a pool. The party was Hawaii themed, so they had actual leis made out of those flowers they use in Hawaii.”

He nods. “Plumeria.”

“Right. Anyway, eight-year-old me really liked those. I’d never smelled anything like it before, so I spent half that day with my nose buried in the flowers instead of in the water, and there was this other kid who, for some reason, was super annoyed that I wasn’t in the pool. So then he was all, ‘You know what makes the scent even better?’ And I said no. And he said, ‘If you smell them underwater.’”

I meet Sutton’s laughing gaze.

“You didn’t,” he says.

“I didn’t.” I pause for a second. “At first. Then he started talking about it being secret ancient Hawaiian wisdom, and that’s what became the real selling point for me, because it turned out I’d always been a big proponent of ancient, secret wisdom being bestowed upon me. The almost drowning bit was just a fun bonus. Go ahead. You can laugh now.”

But he doesn’t. He just smiles.

“Cute,” he says softly.

And my whole face heats.

“I bet your parents weren’t happy with that kid when they found out,” he says.

“It’s just my mom. I don’t think she ever found out about it, to be honest.”

He sends me a curious look. “How come?”

I shake my head and slide my hand through his hair again.

“My mother has spent her whole life determined to become a famous actress, so my sister and I spent a lot of my childhood staying with whichever relative offered to take us in while she was off auditioning for roles and waiting for her big break.”

“Did she get it?”

“She’s in one of those daytime soap operas. Has been for the past fifteen years or so.”

“They still make those?”

“There are, like, four left, I think. She’s in the hospital one, and let me tell you, she’s got a lot going on in that. Last I heard she’s been in a coma twice, has had amnesia, has been buried alive, and has been part of a hostage crisis not once, not twice, but three times.”

He hums, and I don’t know if he even realizes he’s doing it, but he wiggles closer until the top of his head is pressed against my thigh.

“Did you grow up in New York?” he asks.

“Mostly. There were occasional stints with different relatives and friends here and there when Mom scored a role and filming took place somewhere else. By the time I was twelve or so, my sister was almost sixteen, so we managed on our own.”

“Your mom just let you live on your own?” he asks.

“She left home when she was fourteen herself.” I shrug. “We’ve never been a traditional family, exactly.”

He studies me with a quizzical expression.

“Are you and your sister close?”

“Pretty close, yeah. I don’t see her a lot these days. She lives in San Francisco. She’s always been very ambitious, so she’s busy, but we call and message, and she visits every few months.”

He’s silent after that, but he keeps his gaze on me the whole time, until I gently tug at a strand of his hair.

“What?” I ask with a laugh.

He chews on his words for a bit.

“You’re an open book,” he says, then.

I blink at the assessment.

“Am I?”

I’ve never considered myself one. Then again, maybe it’s just that I’m so busy guarding that one secret. Everything else feels relatively mundane compared to being covered in burn scars.

Sutton’s brows furrow like he finds the honesty somehow strange. Maybe it’s too much. This is supposed to be a one-night thing, after all. A favor. And so far, I’m not living up to my end of the bargain at all. There’s no sex, and I’m going on and on about my personal life while he was very clear about the fact that he’s not interested in it when we met. He asked, true, but that might’ve been just him being polite or something.

I remove my hand from his hair and sit up straighter.

“Sorry.” I wince. “This was not?—”

“It was a compliment.”

I am so fucking lost right now.

“Maybe I do ramble when I’m nervous,” I say. “Sorry. It’s not what you signed?—”

“You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?” he asks, again speaking over me.

“Does anybody?” I ask slowly.

“They should. I’m excellent at receiving compliments. Here, I’ll show you how. Pay me a compliment.”

“Umm. You have a nice smile?”

“Thank you.” He waggles his brows at me. “See? That simple.”

“Clearly.”

“You have beautiful eyes,” he says. “I’ve never seen that shade of blue anywhere before.”

I start to dismiss him on reflex, but then he sends me a look, and I clamp my mouth shut for a moment before I nod once.

“Thank you?”

“A bit hesitant, but we can work on that. You also have a very kissable mouth.”

I swallow hard and force some shred of confidence in my tone.

“Thank you.”

“You’re a quick learner,” he says approvingly.

I roll my eyes.

“It bodes well for this evening, then, I guess,” I say.

He’s still smiling, but something moves over his face. A heated look that settles in place while he lets his eyes move up and down me.

Somewhere in the bottom of my chest is a smoldering ember, and he’s feeding it with those hot looks of his. He pushes himself up until he’s sitting next to me, then he throws his leg over me and sits on my thighs.

My fingers curl into fists where they’re resting on the couch before I loosen them and stretch them out.

Sutton’s fingers press under my chin, and he lifts it gently.

The heated look is still firmly in place.

The ember sparks.

He leans down.

And then…

He kisses me.