by Poppy Dunne
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that again.” She laughs weakly, then cries some more. Emotional whiplash: it’s what we do here in Snowe World. “When I asked if you’d been doing anything naughty, a part of me got depressed just thinking that the answer was yes.” She blows her nose again. Now it sounds like the world’s most adorable ship horn. “Not that you don’t deserve a lot of really good sex—although that’s a weird thing to say to your baby sister when your grandfather’s sitting right there.” Gramps beams, as if he knows he’s being talked about. She dabs at her eyes. “But I feel like you at least have a shot at meeting a normal, good guy and having normal, good sex and a normal, good relationship!”
Rafe is definitely good. Not entirely normal, but normal is overrated.
“Meanwhile, I’m in my thirties and single with a kid. All the right-wing commentators agree my time for happiness is over!” I need to get Gramps to change the channel from Fox News now and then. Maybe get him invested in Looney Tunes reruns. “My chance at normal is completely past.”
My heart contracts at her words. “You’re going to find someone new and amazing. You just need five minutes to get out of the house, Becks.” I kiss her cheek. “I can babysit more. Anytime you need.”
“All it takes is one big, stupid mistake and your whole life gets wasted.” She scrunches up against me on the bench, like she’s aiming to disappear. Like she doesn’t want anyone else to notice her misery. Like they’d all be liable to turn to their kids and say, “This is why you stay in school and never have sex, Genevieve. You could end up like that poor soul.”
“Gabriel wasn’t a mistake,” I say gently. No child’s a mistake, especially not one that wakes you up singing about chocolate chip pancakes. Because then you have to make said chocolate chip pancakes. He’s the world’s greatest idea machine.
“No, but Ramon was.” She scrubs her face so hard that her mascara’s getting smeared. I wonder if I can surreptitiously rub a handful of snow on her face to clean it off. I think she’d notice, though. “The worst part is it’s all my fault. I’m the one who dropped out of high school. I’m the one who thought the saxophone was sexy. I’m the one who got pregnant without getting married. What’ve I got to show for it? A great kid and five swizzle sticks from working at the dive bar down the street.” Her face scrunches up. “Plus I’m getting to the age where only two men a night squeeze my ass! And they’re old men!”
“You have so much ass squeezing ahead of you from one very special, not very old man.” As comfort goes, it’s the best I can do. While I rub my sister’s back, keep one eye on my nephew and the other on my grandfather, I think about Rafe. Not last night—I don’t want to get turned on during family day—but everything leading up to last night. My shock when I found out he wasn’t who I thought he was. My amazement at everything he was plotting. How good and how right it felt when we kissed for the first time.
I can’t tell Becca any of this, but Rafe proved to me that surface values mean nothing. One man’s playboy is another woman’s dashing, heroic figure. You need to look deeper.
And also have crazy sex, but again: now is not the time to think about it.
“One day, we’re going to both be married and happy and successful and remain completely unstoppable. Or barring that, we will rob a bank together and run away to the Cayman Islands. It’s up to you.” I give her a squeeze. “What matters most is you’ve got choices, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Finally, the sniffling dies down. Becca sips her hot chocolate thoughtfully. Gramps cheerily tosses his cup at a pigeon.
“You’re pretty good at talking people off ledges, Tessa. Ever think about becoming a therapist?” She grins. Finally, she’s loosening up.
“I’m not sure what I’m trying to be. Isn’t that what your thirties are for? Finally making sound decisions?” That’s where the conversation has to end, because Gabriel is trying to take off his snow pants and fling them into the trees. Another day in paradise.
But as we hasten to get my nephew pantsed and march him and Gramps to the subway for an afternoon movie, I can’t keep from smiling. After last night, the future seems infinitely brighter, for all of us.
Thirteen
Tessa
“Sorry about that, dear. Looks like we’ll have to call that cursed repairman back.” Mrs. Taylor’s standing in my doorway, wrapped up in her coat and scarf. She rubs her arms, her breath clouding a little in the air. Not the most comforting thing to see inside your apartment in December in New York. I’m shivering along in my college sweatshirt and sweatpants. Soon as she leaves, I’m diving back into bed and under the covers.
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t fix the heater,” I reply. As the most reliable of Mrs. Taylor’s tenants, i.e., the only one who doesn’t smoke pot or study improv, I accompanied her into the basement to look at the damn broken thing. Apparently kicking it, cursing at it, whacking it with a broom, and then shouting “The power of Christ compels you!” wasn’t enough to get it back online and heating. I hate appliances.
“Bundle up. We’ll probably have to wait ‘til Tuesday at the earliest.” Sighing, she shuffles away and I close the door. Back in bed with my book and my Cup O’Noodles, I rub my hands together and listen to my teeth lightly chatter. I’m pretty sure there’s frost lining my bookcase now. Maybe I should try crashing on Becca and Gramps’s couch for the night. Otherwise, Rafe will need me professionally thawed out before we have sex again.
My eyes dart to my phone. Perhaps I should text him, just to let him know that situation. I try to think up a pithy opening line when my phone buzzes. I go from freezing to pleasantly warm when I find it’s a message from Rafe.
I don’t like waking up alone.
Toes curling, I bite my lip and consider. Then, I text back.
So you didn’t score last night?
I wait. Then, I get:
Oh, I did. Two women, plus one raccoon. We tried every position. Even invented a few. But they left at midnight.
Bastard. I grin, and fire back.
Your staying power isn’t what it was, old man.
How dare you call me a man.
It takes me a minute to type back; my hands are really almost icicles. If I survive long enough to come to work tomorrow, I’ll be sure to mock you to your face.
A beat. Survive?
No heat. Prob not fixed til Tuesday.
After that, there’s no more. Sighing, I put the phone down and get back to my book. At least he texted me first. That means he’s not losing interest. I mean, it’s not like I’m holding out hope that he feels as seriously about me as I do about him. That would be too clingy. I don’t want to be that girl.
The phone buzzes. Somehow I nearly roll off the bed getting to it. I’m that girl. I love being that girl.
We’ll have to warm you up. A car’s coming in one hour.
I’m giddy as I text. Is there a dress code?
Formal and easy to remove. Tear away underwear essential.
I wouldn’t dream of anything else.
The vehicle seems like something devised for spy badassery, a black town car with tinted windows and the scent of citrus and money inside. I wonder if the driver, a man in dark glasses who probably has his name in redacted CIA files, has to spray an air freshener to keep that rich person aroma.
We cross the bridge into Manhattan, which looks as fresh and clean under snow as a picture in a postcard. I’m surprised when we don’t head to Rafe’s place on the Upper West Side. Instead, the car goes around Central Park and heads east. We enter the quiet, highly moneyed and old-school powerful area of the city. Before too long, the car whispers to the curb in front of a princely looking building. It’s a hotel, with an awning and a liveried doorman waiting.
I murmur thanks to the driver, get out, and hustle through the rotating doors. The floors are cream-colored marble, and polished to such a degree that my reflection follows me upside down wherever I go. Up some carpeted stairs, I find the reception area rep
lete with velvet wall hangings and polished brass accents everywhere. If America had royalty, they would stop at this hotel on their way to, I don’t know, a polo match or world summit meeting.
A smiling woman at the front desk greets me. When I tell her my name, she nods me to the elevator and hands me a keycard. Tenth floor, corner suite.
I exit the elevator and walk down a lushly carpeted hall. Arriving in front of the door, I knock, wondering if I should try using my key. Before I can decide, the door swings open. Rafe stands in front of me, drinking me in with his dark eyes. A smile curves his mouth.
“At last,” he murmurs. I pat my hair, trying not to feel self-conscious. This is my nicest coat and wrap dress, after all. However, the way he looks—dark tailored pants and a shirt practically molded to his body, his black hair strategically disheveled, a simmering light in his eyes—makes me simultaneously want to both shy away and unbutton my coat, unwrap my dress, and go spread eagle at his feet. Thankfully, I read a Miss Manners book when I was a kid and know that’s a faux pas. Ideally, you should splay yourself wantonly before a man after the first course at dinner, and not a moment sooner.
“This place.” I nod absently, searching for something to say. “Yes,” is the best I come up with. Rafe doesn’t seem to mind that I’m verbally spent.
“Come in.” He grins, a sinful sight, and steps away to let me through. I think my jaw hits the floor as I enter the suite. The ceiling’s at least fifteen feet high, with silk-curtained French windows opening onto a snowy balcony. The marble hearth, which could serve nicely as someone’s studio apartment, blazes with a fire. The satin-covered furniture is sumptuous and probably costs as much as my apartment. By the fireplace, someone has set out a white-clothed table laden with what appears to be five-star dining. Covered silver trays, a bottle of wine that’s likely older than I am, the works. For all I know, the grapes were hand-picked by Italian virgins with gold pinking shears. I might be losing my mind; this is the nicest room I’ve ever been in.
“Well,” I breathe as Rafe takes off my coat, all while laying a kiss on the back of my neck. God, I nearly come from that alone. “I thought we were going to Shake Shack or something.”
“They couldn’t take a reservation at the last minute. I’m afraid this is the best I could do,” he murmurs in my ear. I tilt my head back as he slides an arm around my waist, lining me against his body. I gaze past the table and fireplace to a pair of large, open double doors. They lead to a bedroom, complete with a king-size bed whose acquaintance I am more than ready to make.
Rafe blazes a line of kisses down my throat, his hand sliding up my body to cup my breast. A deep, throbbing heat builds between my legs as his hand slips inside the front of my dress, as he bites delicately on my earlobe. I arch my back, grinding my ass against his hardening erection. He gasps, grips my hair, and turns my face up to him. His mouth claims mine, tongues exploring as—
My stomach growls. Apart from a snap of a log on the hearth, it’s the only sound in here besides our labored breathing, and it’s definitely the loudest. Rafe pauses mid-fondle. Our eyes meet.
“I think I need to feed you first,” he says. “Don’t I pay you enough to keep yourself in groceries?”
“Of course you do.” I bat my eyes. “I get one bag of rice a month, plus three eggs.”
Rafe tsks. “Three? You indulge yourself.” He leads me to the table, and I feel my stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with food. Well, except for this duck confit salad. Oh, and these scallops. There are even fresh figs. This wine is good, too.
Okay, besides all this food, I’m uneasy for another reason. As Rafe and I sit across from each other, as the heat of the fire sighs through my dress and highlights his godlike bone structure, I wonder what the hell we’re going to talk about. It’s one thing to have preternatural sexual chemistry with someone. It’s another thing to have a good working relationship. But when you’re fully clothed and work isn’t the topic of conversation, what do you have to discuss? Baseball? The weather? Who can name all the presidents in the correct order? What if there’s no chemistry?
After all, Rafe’s from a family that’s wealthier than God and more ambitious than the devil. Plus, he looks like he could be an underwear model. Meanwhile, I like fantasy novels and once owned a dog I named Buster. We do not share many of the same life experiences is what I’m saying.
So I suck down a glass of wine straightaway, just to motivate myself. It sets me spinning, and it is delicious. Rafe notices, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Nervous, are you?” He watches me from over the candlelight—which, incidentally, is doing things to his cheekbones that should be illegal.
Why not go for total honesty? It’s worked surprisingly well so far. “I’m not used to things like this. You know? Foie gras topped with caviar, hotels that look like Saudi oil tycoons have probably stayed there.” Okay, too much wine. Must shovel food in mouth to make brain behave. “That was flip, wasn’t it?” I want to lay my head on the table. “This is why you should’ve dumped me at Shake Shack. I’m really bad at being classy.”
“No. You’re perfect.” Rafe traces the tip of his finger along the exposed line of my wrist. My nerves spark as he takes my hand. “I’ve spent my entire life around people who couldn’t have an honest reaction to save their goddamn souls. People who don’t even have souls to save.” He grins as I take another deep drink of wine. “People who can pound down two glasses of booze on an empty stomach and not go unconscious.”
“Lucky them.”
Do not belch or fall over, Tessa. I’m begging you.
“No. Not lucky. Lying, cheating, stealing, bad dye jobs: those are them. You don’t have to be nervous around me, Tessa.” That heated light kindles in his eyes. “Unless being nervous turns you on.”
Nervous? Who’s nervous? This man could stare unblinking at a wall for an hour and I’d be massively wet just watching him. I don’t mention that, though.
“So. Let’s talk.” He says it like it’s a command and a teasing game all in one. Fine. I lift my glass, and clink it against his. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Snowe.”
And it’s easy. It’s bizarrely easy to talk and be turned on at the same time. Who knew? The sky darkens outside and snow begins falling in the twilight while we lay ourselves bare to each other—emotionally, I mean, not physically. Though I can’t wait for that other bit, either. How is it possible to be so comfortable with a man and also so aroused?
Especially when you’re telling him about your most embarrassing childhood incidents.
“You thought Buster could pull a sled for you?” Rafe has to put his fork down because he’s laughing so hard. “Didn’t you say he was a Dachshund?”
“I was nine! I loved the movie Balto and I wanted to make it through the Yukon!”
“The Yukon’s in Alaska. Did you think you were going to catch the Q train the whole way?”
“I had money all saved for a bus. Ten whole dollars. Don’t judge me.” It’s true, though. As a kid, I hooked our little Dachshund up to our plastic sled, tried dangling a biscuit in front of his puppy nose, and made him pull me. It was the stuff of which legends are made. Awkward legends filled with bewildered neighbors, a highly embarrassed older sister, and an unplanned run-in with a foraging raccoon.
“Did it work?”
“I went down a flight of stairs and broke my arm. Buster was fine, at least. Gramps took it in stride. He said having rock solid balls was a Snowe family tradition.”
“Having had the opportunity to check, I’m glad he was being metaphorical about said balls.” Rafe grins.
I’m not the only one with shocking childhood secrets. Apparently Rafe wasn’t always the studly over-six-footer I know today; until he was sixteen, Rafe barely scraped five-foot-four. My jaw nearly hits the expensive cutlery when he tells me.
“That’s right.” He drinks and winces at the memory. “Brad used to be taller than me. He loved to let me remember it, too. Then, s
ummer before sophomore year was a nonstop growth spurt.” He cocks an eyebrow in an expression of wistful memory. “Brad nearly shit a brick when he saw how much I’d gained on him.”
“You didn’t take advantage of that, did you?”
“If you think I am the kind of man who would straddle his older brother on Long Island sound, mash his face into the sand, and make sure to do all of this in front of the girl Brad liked at the time…then you know me entirely too well.”
“Were you laughing maniacally?”
“Malevolently, not maniacally.”
As we talk, I find myself growing even more comfortable—I’ve never felt this safe before, or this tipsy on good wine. Right now, I feel like I could curl up in front of the fireplace like a cat and never let another worry drift through my head. But when dinner is over, and when Rafe pushes away from the table and stands over me, the firelight dancing behind him—well, comfort subsides and the thrill of danger lights inside of me. He looks at me like he wants to devour me whole, lay me bare and pleading before him as he ravishes me.
That’s the kind of dessert I crave. That, and chocolate fondue.
“Come here.” He lifts me to my feet. His lips find mine, his hands roaming greedily over my body. I taste the wine and the whiskey on his mouth and tongue, my body melting against his. Moaning, I trace my hand up his body, cup his cheek—
Rafe jolts like I’ve electrocuted him. “My God, woman. Your hands are still like ice.” He envelops my hand in his, his calluses rough, his palms warm. Eesh, he’s right. I’m a horny popsicle right now.
“I have bad circulation. Does that turn you on?” I giggle as he nibbles at my neck.
“I’m hard just thinking about it, but I need you a little less frozen before I get you naked. Otherwise, my tongue’s liable to stick to you. Come on.” He leads me into the bathroom, which is of course palatial and tiled entirely in cream marble veined with gold. The tub’s the size of a minor swimming pool, and soon a bath’s been run. Steam clouds the mirrors. I put up my hair and undress, enjoying the way Rafe’s gaze trails longingly down my body. He helps get me naked, and as I sink into the bath, he removes his jacket and rolls his sleeve. His hand dips into the water and moves down my body, his thumb teasing over my breast. My gasp echoes in the marble room when he slips his hand between my thighs, rubbing the swollen and sensitive bud he finds there.
