by T. K. Leigh
Chloe’s been pushing me to step out of my comfort zone and do something I didn’t plan. Thanks to Julian, I’ve done just that. I haven’t opened my planner once in the past two weeks, a tremendous feat for someone who usually spends several minutes of every day updating and meticulously planning out my life months in advance. Lately, I haven’t given much thought to what awaits me down the road, mainly because I know what awaits me… Life without Julian. Do I really want to walk away without knowing how his lips taste? I know the answer to that. It’s been evident from the beginning.
Shifting in his arms, I carefully adjust my position, my eyes unwavering as I admire him. I inch toward him and my pulse increases, my racing heart thundering in my ears. All I can do is pray my clumsiness doesn’t decide to make its presence known and turn what I want to be a moment full of passion into one I’ll never live down. There’s no going back after this. I’m about to cross the line I insisted remain firmly drawn. But as I gaze upon Julian’s breathtaking face, I realize the reason I’d kept the line firmly drawn is no longer applicable.
I’ve fallen for him. I’ve allowed him to burrow deep under my skin and into my heart. Kissing him won’t change any of that, won’t make it any less painful when the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into a commoner.
Resolved that this is the path we were always meant to take, I graze my lips against his. They’re warm, soft, electrifying. It’s the slightest hint of a touch, but it still sends a shiver through me, the dull ache that settled in me during our first meeting growing more intense and prominent. I’ve fantasized about this moment on more than one occasion, but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing, the fireworks in my core, the music filling my heart. If this is how I react to the mere whisper of his lips against mine, I can only imagine what would happen if we took this further.
Lost in the sensation, I almost don’t realize when Julian’s body tenses beneath mine, his breath hitching. I should pull back now that he’s caught me stealing a kiss, but I’m physically unable to retreat. And he doesn’t push me away, either. We remain in place, our lips barely touching, neither one of us moving. The meaning behind this isn’t lost on either of us.
We’re at a crossroads.
I can pull back, apologize, and pretend this never happened. Or I can take a risk on something new, something exhilarating that will inevitably end in heartbreak. I’ve spent all my adult life planning every second of every day. I allowed myself to be locked in a cage, feigning happiness in a life that made me miserable. It wasn’t until Julian, until I took a leap and did something out of character, that I finally felt alive. I want more of that.
Threading my fingers through Julian’s wayward locks, I press my mouth more firmly against his. With a groan, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his lap, forcing my legs on either side of him. His embrace is powerful, dominating, consuming, yet he allows me to remain in control, to decide how far to take this. There’s no question that the ball’s still in my court. I get the feeling that’s exactly where it will stay.
I brush my tongue along his bottom lip, begging for entrance, which he’s more than eager to grant me. A hand goes to the back of my head as he digs his fingers into my scalp, urging me on. Moaning, I deepen the exchange, my nerve endings stirring. He tastes of mint, wine, and something unique to Julian. A flavor I’ll crave long after we say our final farewell. The way he kisses me, his tongue sweeping against mine, exploring me as if trying to imprint every tiny sensation to memory, only increases my need for more.
My fingers digging deeper into his hair, I press my body against his. But no matter how I try, I can’t get as close to him as I want, as I need. Even a whisper of air between us is too much.
I circle my hips, desperate to satisfy the ache building inside, but I doubt anything can ever extinguish the fire within. Julian’s kiss has sparked an inferno, one I fear will continue to burn for years to come.
I rip my lips from his, panting, pressing my hand against his chest as I struggle to catch my breath. Chests heaving in near unison, we stare at each other as if seeing one another for the first time. I try to tell myself it was just a kiss. People kiss all the time. But deep down, I know this isn’t just a kiss. Not with him. Not with us.
“Does this mean I can finally kiss you now?” he asks when I don’t say anything immediately.
I peer into his blue eyes, a brow raised in question. He doesn’t close the distance between us, indicating this is my decision and mine alone. But it’s not even a decision. Not anymore. Not after a taste.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He brings a hand to my face, cupping my cheek. I fuse into the contact, closing my eyes. “Even though that’s all this will ever be?”
His voice is soft and timid, almost as if he doesn’t want that any more than I do. I wish I understood why he seems to deprive himself of love, of happiness. But now’s not the time for that conversation.
“I don’t care about that,” I insist. “All I care about is this, right now.” I bring my lips back to his, skimming them. I feel him harden against me. “You taught me that, Julian. You taught me it’s okay to live in the moment, to stop planning for every minute of every day. And right now, in this moment, I just want to kiss you.” I swallow hard, grateful he can’t see the truth in my eyes. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more,” I confirm.
“Nothing more.”
There’s something in his voice as he repeats our promise to each other. Sadness. Remorse. A reminder. I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Before I can dissect it further, he loops his arm around my waist and flips me onto my back, hovering over me.
I’m breathless from the sudden shift, my heart rate spiking. As our eyes meet, I smile a small smile, a glow washing over me. He rests his elbow by my head, leaning toward me. Then he kisses me, fully, madly, completely, reminding me why I chose this path, why I want to live in the moment.
Because this moment is everything.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday morning, I walk into the office with a smile on my face, still in the clouds from my weekend of making out with Julian. After these past few days, I doubt anything can burst my bubble. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends I can remember in recent history. It allowed me a peek into yet another side of Julian Gage…the real Julian Gage.
We got up to watch the sunrise over the ocean. He made me breakfast. We walked along the beach, fingers intertwined. He even took me to some local bars most of the people in his circle would never be caught dead in. We ate fish sandwiches as he shared stories of going there with Christopher during his college days. Throughout the weekend, it felt like we were a real couple, especially when he’d steal a kiss as we cooked dinner together, or lounged by the pool, or sunbathed on his boat.
By the time he dropped me off at Chloe’s apartment, leaving me with a sweet goodbye kiss, I didn’t think anything could dampen the high I’d been on…until I sit down at my desk and open my latest draft of the August Laurent feature and am reminded of how lackluster this story is. Julian’s kisses are magical and make me feel things I never thought possible. But they can’t fix this. Only I can.
So that’s what I attempt to do, spending hours toiling over my notes, looking for anything that could spice up a story that should sell itself, but it still falls flat. It’s nothing more than a piece about how a man went from helping a friend at a wedding to being a highly sought-after escort, empowering women who are going through a difficult breakup or divorce, making them feel beautiful again. Why? Why would a woman believe she has no other option but to hire him? And why does he do this? Why does he sacrifice having a personal life of his own to help women, help strangers?
I’m about to throw in the towel and refocus my attention on writing articles for my column when I hear a ping from my computer, indicating an incoming message. I glance at the alert on my screen, my breath hitching when I see it’s from August L
aurent.
Navigating toward my email program, I find the message and click on it, bracing myself for him to back out of the article altogether.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: On Second Thought…
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
I hope this message finds you well. I’d like to apologize for my somewhat rash behavior as of late. I was quick to shoot down your request to interview some of my past clients without giving it the careful consideration it deserves. I’ve spent the weekend doing just that, and after reading a rough draft of the article you sent with your latest email, I’m in agreement with you. It’s missing something.
Attached is a list of times and locations for four interviews I’ve set up between you and a few of my former clients. I hope speaking with these four women in particular will give you a greater insight into why I do what I do, more so than I’ve been able to provide you.
I look forward to reading a revised draft of your story upon completion of the interviews.
All the best,
A
A renewed hope builds inside me as I click on the attached document. When it pops up, I scan the contents. It’s a simple one-page file, but in that one page is everything I’ve been searching for. I get to work, alerting Viv to this new development so she can have the proper legal documentation drawn up. Before I know it, it’s past two and I’m rushing out of the office to get to my first interview.
When the cab slows to a stop in front of a five-story brownstone in the Upper West Side a few minutes before three, I crane my head, my mind reeling. I have no idea who I’m about to meet, considering the document August sent only contained places and times, no names. Based on this house, whoever I’m here to see has money…and a lot of it.
After I pay the driver, I step out of the cab, double checking the address on the bronze plate beside the door with the one August provided. It matches.
Taking a deep breath, I ascend the steps, doing my best to settle my nerves at the idea of walking into a situation I doubt anyone can properly prepare for. I press the buzzer, then smooth the lines of my dress as I listen for footsteps. After a few seconds, the door opens, revealing an older woman I estimate to be in her sixties. Her hair is short and graying, her face devoid of any heavy makeup.
“Hi, I’m Evie—”
“Yes. Yes. I’m Margaret, the housekeeper. Come in. Come in.” She ushers me inside, quickly closing the door behind me and leading me through the foyer. I barely have a chance to take in the ostentatious surroundings of the late nineteenth-century home as I’m led into a small cage elevator. I can just imagine the parties the walls of this house have probably seen during its time.
“I’ve never seen one of these,” I comment, running my finger along the intricate latticework of the screen door. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s the original elevator. The motor and cables have been replaced over the years, but the owner insisted the house retain its original charm. Too many people buy these homes, gut them, then design them in a style in complete contradiction to the history within. If you want sleek lines and modern furnishings, buy an apartment in Central Park West. Don’t buy one of these historic homes and destroy it.”
I love the passion with which she speaks. I surmise this isn’t the first house she’s been in charge of. Hell, just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have known how to act in the presence of a housekeeper or head of household staff. Now I do. I’ve had the pleasure of being waited on hand and foot all summer, thanks to Julian. Although those days are numbered.
“And who exactly is the owner of this home?”
“You’ll see.”
“So much secrecy.”
“It’s for good reason.” Margaret narrows her gaze on me. It’s a look of warning, telling me whatever I’m about to learn will make me rethink everything, open my eyes to what’s truly going on.
The elevator slows to a gradual stop on the top floor and we exit into the hallway, which is bathed in natural light. I follow Margaret toward a sunroom, then step onto a rooftop terrace.
If it weren’t for the woman sitting at an outdoor patio set, I would have taken a moment to soak in the stunning views of New York City, the Hudson to the west and Central Park to the east. But as I slowly walk toward the poised woman sipping her tea, I’m speechless.
I rewind to the information Sadie shared with me at the Red, White, and Blue Gala, thinking her story about Sonia Moreno was just sensationalized gossip. Now I know it’s not.
Not when I’m staring at Sonia herself.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“So you’re Guinevere Fitzgerald.” It’s a statement, her tone showing her knowledge of me isn’t tied to the article I’m writing about August Laurent, but because of my connection to the world in which she normally resides during the summer months.
“Sonia…,” I breathe, momentarily dumbstruck. Her dark hair falls to her mid-back, barely a strand out of place. She wears a fitted, thigh-length black shift dress, her skin olive-toned and tanned. From what I know of her, she’s around my age, but has a sophistication that makes her seem older, even if she doesn’t look it. “I mean, Ms. Moreno.” I reach my hand toward her and she takes it, her hold delicate. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“You, as well.” A hint of her Spanish accent comes through. “Please…” She gestures to the chair across from her, indicating for me to sit down.
“Is there anything else you need, Ms. Moreno?” Margaret asks.
“We’re okay for now.”
“Very well. Call if anything comes up.”
“Certainly.” Sonia offers the woman a smile as she turns from us, then focuses her attention back on me. “Tea?” She raises the teapot.
“That would be lovely.”
Lovely? I don’t even sound like myself. I’ve never called something lovely, apart from a brief period during high school when I became obsessed with all things related to British literature. I refused to speak in anything but a British accent, which I’m sure sounded horrendous when coupled with my subtle Midwestern tone.
Sonia pours a bit of tea into a small cup, then places it on a china saucer with a floral design, handing it to me.
“I have to say,” she begins as she leans back in her chair, bringing her tea to her lips, “I was quite surprised to learn August had agreed to an interview, considering how private he is.”
“I’ve assured him I’ll protect his anonymity, along with everyone else I speak with. This isn’t a sensational story meant to reveal who the mysterious August Laurent is. It’s simply a piece about the man, what makes him tick, why he does what he does…” I hesitate before adding, “Why women feel compelled to use his services.”
“Well, now that I see you and realize who you are, it makes sense.”
Her statement catches me off-guard. “Who I am?”
“Of course.”
I shake my head, placing my cup back onto the table in front of me. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You are dating Julian Gage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Normally, I probably would have thought it odd that a complete stranger…a celebrity, no less…would be familiar with my personal life. But there’s been nothing private about that this summer, not with all the photos of Julian and me that have graced the pages of the gossip websites.
She squints, studying me, as if attempting to put a puzzle together. Then her expression brightens. “Well, that must be why August agreed. He probably saw you with him and figured if anyone would understand, it would be someone who’s been thrust into the lifestyle.”
“And why is that important?” I lower my voice. “Are many of his clients from this…lifestyle?”
“You mean famous?”
“Yes.”
“Some are. Some are ordinary housewives.”
“And they can afford his fee?”
“What fee?”
“His fee…” My words lack the convic
tion I wish they had. I want to kick myself for never asking him about this. I assumed he charged. It never even crossed my mind he didn’t. My curiosity only grows. Why would he do this if he wasn’t getting paid?
“He doesn’t ask for a single dime in return for his services.”
My jaw becomes slack as I swallow hard. “He doesn’t?”
“Not anymore. Yes, August Laurent was, at one time, a bona fide escort, but several years ago, it turned into something more. It’s no longer about the money. It’s about something bigger.”
That’s all it takes for me to become enthralled with this story, my mind spinning from this small piece of information, something I could have learned if I’d known to ask.
“Do you mind if I record this?” I swiftly remove my phone from my purse. “Your identity will never be revealed and the recordings never published. I just don’t want to miss anything or get something wrong.”
“August mentioned I’d get approval before publication?”
“Absolutely.” I retrieve a document the legal team gave me and push it across the table toward her. “Everything’s stated in there. Essentially, I’ll never disclose anything to anyone without your approval. Anything published in the article will be done in a way to ensure no one can connect you to this story. And you’ll get approval rights. If we publish anything you disagree with, you can sue the magazine for everything it’s worth.”
She scans the papers, her eyes glossing over the legalese before she returns her attention to me. “Okay. You can record this.”
“Thank you.” I open the voice recorder app on my phone and place it on the table. I pull out my notepad to take notes of our conversation, as well. I scratch the date on the top of a fresh piece of paper, then look up at Sonia. “How did you meet August Laurent?”
