19. Drew

Olivier returns alone after midnight, eyes half-lidded and sexy, careless with his body as he stands too close to me.

"Here's your tip," he says, as he slides his hand into the front pocket of my pants.

I squirm and try to bite back an amused grin while I pull him fully into the lobby by the arm.

I'd been trying for a smoother exchange where I handed him a card with the name of the restaurant for tomorrow and a time, but he blew it in a way that I can't even be irritated about.

I slide the card off my desk, take his hand and slap the address into his palm. "This is for you."

Olivier frowns down at it, and his brows lift. "Oh. Now I get it. I fucked it up. Thought it was weird—asking for a tip…"

"Curious to see how much you think I'm worth, though."

"You'll be pleased," he says with a slight leer that I nevertheless find appealing. One of these days he might charm a full smile out of me, but I need to sort out the rest of my life before I have any hope of that happening.

"Come push the button for me." He pulls me by the sleeve into the elevator vestibule.

Once I press the button, he tries to cop another feel. I jump back two feet, both wrists crossed over my crotch. "Negative, rich boy. The tip is for how well I push this button. Not the price of admission."

He gives me unmistakable bedroom eyes and closes in on me again, invading my personal space with his heat—his expensive scent.

I suck in a breath of it and straighten up, giving me a couple of inches on him.

"You can come up after, you know. If you want to sleep better."

I shake my head slowly, though I don't look away from him, or dismiss the idea out of hand because it's severely tempting. But Jericho is meeting me at the subway stop in the morning. She's spending the day and night. I'm not sure how I'm planning to handle all that yet—probably play it by ear, because every time I've tried to come up with an approach to this situation with her, I get so upset, I have to make myself think about something else.

While I've cultivated some very low expectations for my own behavior in our relationship, I've had a lot of guilt when it comes to Jericho for a long time. I'm basically a movie that didn't live up to the hype. This? This mess I'm making with the heir in 1204—well, let's just say I hope my room in hell at least has a window, but I'd understand completely if it doesn't. "Can't," I say. "Plans."

He scowls. "What plans?"

"Personal plans."

"How personal?"

The elevator arrives, but Olivier ignores it, though I slide my eyes to the opening doors indicating he should go ahead and step inside.

"Do your plans involve intercourse?" he asks.

"You sound jealous."

I don't know why I said that. It's flirting. It's—fucking coy is what it is. Who am I?

His gaze narrows, assessing me. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I don't answer that because I don't like my answer.

"Good night, Mr. Arnaud."

"Good night, Jack."

He gets in the elevator. We stare at each other until the doors close. I fight several powerful urges to close the distance, unchecked desire licking at my spine, but finally I'm able to breathe again. Loosening my tie, I unbutton the top button of my shirt. I think it's safe enough to say our chemistry is undeniable. It's unexpected and totally unorthodox for me, but it's there, and it's white-hot.

It's hard to think of anyone I've been with that I've felt so drawn to, but it wouldn't be the first time I wanted someone who was inherently bad for me. My first girlfriend, in fact—Ruby—was self-harming, borderline suicidal, and all my late night conversations with her precipitated my first major depressive episode. I'm not saying my faulty brain wiring is her fault, but the darkness in her sucked me right in until all I could see in myself was more of the same.

My parents forbade me from seeing her when they found me digging through their medicine cabinet looking for something to take my pain away. Ruby was eventually hospitalized.

Then there was a model I met when I first moved to the city. Her name was Stef, and she was bad news. Drugs and drama. She had literally no problem slapping me in the face when she was pissed and called the cops on me more than once. After the third time, I managed to get her arrested since her handprint was still on my face, and I haven't heard from her since.

So yeah, Jericho was definitely a breath of fresh air. She's like—regular dramatic, and I've never found any of her criticisms lacking merit. Sometimes, it's like she sees right through me, which, not gonna lie—I kind of hope she sees through me tomorrow night and calls me out on what I've been doing. I won't lie if I'm confronted. But blowing up a decent relationship for something that might amount to a depression-induced phase isn't on my top ten list of things I want to do this weekend.

I might be the big dreamer in the family, but I'm still the oldest of five siblings which always made me kind of a stickler for rules, order, and fairness. I don't like sharing, and I don't like being told what to do, but more than anything, I don't like fucking up, and it feels like all I've done for the last few years is fuck things up. But this is the first time I fucked something up when I damn well knew better.

I can give myself a pass for that first incident in Olivier's penthouse. Tensions were high, I was at the end of my rope, whatever. But the second time—the one where I whipped out my cock—I'd known it was wrong.

Wrong on so many fucking levels.

But I still don't think I crossed a major line until the day I took him up on his offer to sleep on his couch. That was the first time I legitimately felt like I was cheating on Jericho. The guilt weighs heavy. Is it crazy to think that sitting with both of them at dinner will help me figure out what to do?

Probably.

It's a long night, and by the time I'm checking out with William, Olivier's invitation to crash here is far, far more appealing than riding the train and looking my guilt in the eyes. But standing up Jericho isn't an option. I may be the asshole who's being unfaithful to her, but I'm not gonna be the asshole who ghosts her. I've been rejected too many times in the last few years to turn around and do that to someone who's been nothing but supportive of me.

Her smile is bright when I step out onto 14th Street. Her light-brown cheeks have a flush of pink from the blustery wind, and her natural curls whip wildly around the soft angles of her face.

I make myself smile back. I make myself hug her back, too, when she throws her arms around me and sighs like it's been a year.

She presses several cold kisses to my neck before pulling away. "Tired?"

"Nah, not too bad. Let's grab some breakfast."

We link arms and snuggle close. Without having to talk about it, we head for the diner two doors down from my building.

We usually do this about once a week. She takes a half-day, using her morning off to catch up with me over eggs and bacon, then she tucks me in at the apartment, takes a nap, and heads to her job before returning at five to spend the rest of the evening and night. Aside from the time after my birthday, we haven't incorporated sex into that routine since before Thanksgiving when my depression took over again. When every day is an uphill battle just to make it to the next one, it's hard to get it up, no matter how sexy and beautiful Jeri is. And she is.

She deserves the man I thought I was going to be. Not the guy I turned out to be. I hate it for both of us that we've wound up here: relationship purgatory.

Not that anyone looking at her would suspect that. She's glowing. Like she couldn't be happier to see me. We order our usual, and once I have my decaf coffee in front of me, I broach the subject of tonight. "How would you feel about a double date?"

Her brow perks up. "Is Silas seeing someone?"

"No. It's someone I met up by work. Ollie and his girlfriend Elodie."

"You? Made a friend? Drew, do you have a fever?"

"Haha, yeah, I know. Just sort of happened. Anyway, he's going through a rough time, and I guess we bonded or something. So, what do you think?"

"Sounds great!"

Jericho loves people. New people. Old people. Rich people. Poor people. All people. She's into Enneagrams, Clifton Strengths, rising signs, and all that shit. Everyone interests her, at least at first, but she's more likely to like someone than not.

I met her through Christian and his girlfriend at the time. We'd been at some trendy new bar in the East Village celebrating Chris's birthday, and Jericho had shown up in a black-sequined romper with spaghetti straps. I had immediately envisioned my mouth on her shoulders—kissing them, inhaling them, sliding straps from them.

We hit it off from the start, mutually attracted and equally horny. Like I said—breath of fresh air. I figured it would end up being a one-night stand, but since she knew Chris, she'd hung around the next day, and we'd ended up hooking up again the following night. After two weeks of panting, sweaty sex and long lazy days off spent on the couch bingeing The Crown, we casually slipped into boyfriend/girlfriend territory.

One thing we haven't done—and it's honestly the one thing that's keeping me from jumping out of a window over what I've done—is profess love. After three years, the L word hasn't come up.

The closest I ever came to saying it was after about four months of dating. I'd been sick, and she'd brought me lozenges, decongestants, and hot and sour soup, then she'd turned on Ocean's Eleven, which she knew was my favorite, and tucked herself into my side with a hand slowly rubbing my sore chest.

But I worried she might think it was the virus talking, so I kept quiet.

The feeling never came back—at least, not as strong as it was that day. Don't get me wrong, I do love her—she's a great person, but I'm not in love with her, and I don't know how I know the difference except to say that I'd let her go in a heartbeat if she found someone better than me. I wouldn't fight to keep her. Honestly, I can't see myself fighting to keep anyone, which makes me wonder if I'm capable of being in love at all. I think I'd always be like—yeah—you're totally right to go. I'm not worth the trouble.

"So I told them nine tonight at that Italian place in Chelsea."

"Oh, fuck yeah. Perfect. I've been dreaming about that ravioli." She reaches a hand across the table, and I put mine in it. "How are you?"

"Okay," I say.

"Yeah?"

I shrug.

"You sleeping all right?"

I nod, unable to look her in the eyes on that one.

"I'm sorry about Eric leaving," she says.

"Yeah. Still not sure how I'm gonna manage that."

She takes a deep breath. "Drew?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you ever consider… I mean… we've been together a long time."

Oh shit, I see exactly where she's going, and I have no way to stop the words about to come out of her mouth.

"You could live with me."

"Um…" I attempt to swallow and fail miserably so my words come out garbled. "I'm not sure I can leave Silas and Chris in a bind like that…"

"It's okay to put yourself first, you know? Because I mean, if you can't afford it, you'll have to move out anyway?—"

"We were talking about Queens…"

"Oh, honey. No. Not Queens. You'll be miserable."

"What's wrong with Queens?" I ask, feeling defensive for the borough I have no connection to whatsoever, but everybody I've met from there doesn't try to hide it.

"Nothing, it's just… Every time I've had to go to La Guardia, I get this depressed feeling, and I know you've been down lately."

"It's mostly circumstantial," I lie, withdrawing my hand from hers as our food arrives. I salivate at the sight of the huge omelet and ask for a glass of water.

"Well, if that's the case, do you have a plan?" She doesn't seem hurt.

"Honestly, I'm considering getting the fuck out of here."

"Drew," she admonishes.

"You asked."

"You're not leaving New York. So, your options are find another roommate, move to Queens, or move in with me. What sounds better?"

Moving to Texas? I could work in a hotel. Live cheap. Maybe take some online classes to get a skill and forget to tell Peggy where I went.

"I'll think about it," I tell her. "Let's eat. I'm starting to crash."