by Amanda Aksel
“You must’ve worked up an appetite,” I say.
“You haven’t?” she asks with a stuffed mouth.
I laugh, then take a big bite. “I didn’t say that.”
Kate stares at me, smirking like she’s about to tell me I have cream cheese on my face. “I have a little surprise for you.”
I wipe the tiniest crumb I can find from her lip, just so that I can touch her. “You give the best surprises and the best . . .”
She blushes, giggling a little. “It’s not that kind of surprise.”
Damn! I love that kind of surprise. “Okay, then, what is it?”
She sucks in a deep breath. “The other night I had dinner with a friend of mine who runs a popular gallery here in the city and I told her about your work. She wants to check it out. What do you think? Great, right?”
A serious knot twists in my gut and I can’t take another bite of my lox bagel. “For what exactly?”
She shrugs, putting on her innocent face. “To consider for an art show. Maybe you could sell some photographs.”
I sit up. “Kate, that’s really sweet and I appreciate the gesture, but if I wanted to put my work in a gallery, I could’ve done it.”
She takes my hand, confusion clouding her expression. “Then why haven’t you?”
I sigh. My family’s asked me the same question many times. I tell them I have no desire to display my work, I just like taking pictures. Eventually, they stopped asking. But the truth is that I’ve always dreamed of having my own art show. But I don’t want to be treated differently because of where I come from. Even when I use the name Blake, everyone knows I’m really a Bonnaire. It’s more than that though, and that’s what I tell her. “But even if people did see my art without bias, I’m afraid that critics could rip my work to shreds and make it something it’s not. I’ve gotten used to creating my art for me. It’s not about anyone else.”
She tosses the rest of her uneaten sandwich in the bag. “I get that. I really do. I throw up every time I put out a new collection because I know people are going to see it and have opinions about it, some not so nice. Especially now. Then I remind myself that my lingerie is not for the critics who hate it, it’s for the women who love it, who feel sexy and confident because of something I made up! It’s about the people who get it.”
“What if no one gets it?”
She tilts her head, frowning. “I get it. If I thought your work was anything less than stellar, I wouldn’t have said a word.”
Between the idea that I might be in love with her and the fact that she wants me to put my art out into the world, my comfort zone is not even on the map. I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious what a New York gallerina thinks of your art?” she asks.
I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking. Is it worth the risk? It’s only one person’s opinion, albeit an expert opinion. Then again, if her friend hates it, Kate will be there to lick my . . . wounds. “Maybe a little.”
“Does that mean we can show her?” Kate asks with a hopeful twinkle in her eyes.
I let out another sigh and hope I don’t regret this. “Okay, but if she hates it, you have to promise never to make me show anyone else again?”
She nods. “I promise. But she’s not going to hate it.”
I narrow my eyes, wanting to take it back. “Are you sure she’ll be impartial since she’s your mate?”
“If I know Liv, she’ll be extra impartial because of it.”
***
After breakfast in bed, we get dirty again in the shower. It’s so hard to put clothes back on once they’re off. But somehow we manage to get ready to leave. I grab my portfolio filled with a selection of photographs. I brought a lot to choose from thinking it was for her dad’s apartment. I wonder if there was any truth to that or if it was purely her excuse for this gallery meeting.
On our way to Chelsea, I notice the smell of the city is completely different than London—it’s vibrant in a more colorful way. Everywhere I look, there’s movement. Life. Energy. Either the city is alive or I’m more alive with Kate. “I have got to take some pictures while I’m here,” I tell Kate as I pay the cab driver.
When I step out of the car, I take in the view of the steel-framed gallery sitting on the first floor of a tall brick building. Wired sculptures sit in the window as if keeping watch. My palms are damp, almost slipping against the steel door handle. Stark white walls display imaginative, expressionist paintings that look like glimpses of someone’s dream. Many of them have sold judging from the display cards. Good for the artist. But it’s hard to imagine someone paying money for one of my photographs and displaying it in their home. My stomach tightens. Have I made a mistake agreeing to come here?
“Kate, there you are!” A woman with dark red lipstick and black glasses calls out. She looks at me and extends her hand. “You must be Drew.”
“Yes, and you must be Liv. Thank you for meeting with us today.”
She tilts her head with a satisfied grin. “Well, I told Kate that I don’t usually do this, but she has excellent taste. Plus, I heard you’ve had first-rate training. How do you even get an apprenticeship with Ferguson Burke?”
The corners of my mouth twitch into an awkward smile. I don’t want to tell her that it’s because my dad’s a billionaire with connections around the globe. “It’s a long story. But I will say this, he’s absolutely brilliant, but he’s a pain in the ass.”
Liv shoots me a wry glance. “All the brilliant ones are arrogant assholes.”
“Drew’s brilliant, but he’s not an asshole,” Kate says playing the role of my biggest fan. I smile. At the moment, I’m hers too.
“Let’s have a look.”
We follow Liv back to her office and sit down in a pair of clear acrylic chairs in front of her matching desk. “May I see your portfolio?” she asks.
I hand it over, clutching my sweaty palms together as she flips page after page after page in complete silence. Taking her glasses on and off, she squints, turning the portfolio to view other angles. Every second she doesn’t say a word, my heart beats louder and louder, like the fucking “Tell-Tale Heart”.
I glance at Kate and she sends me a sexy wink. She’s not the least bit apprehensive about the situation. I try to take a cue from her. Deep breaths, I tell myself. This is not that big of a deal.
Finally, Liv looks up, carefully closing the leather portfolio. “I love these,” she says simply.
“Really?” I ask, my pitch way higher than necessary.
“Yes, they’re incredible. I can see a little bit of the Burke influence, but only because I know about it. It’s very subtle.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling like maybe Kate was right, and I should’ve done this a long time ago.
“I’d like to put you in a show I’m hosting next month,” Liv says and my heart jumps into my throat. Okay, showing her is one thing but putting them on display for the New York art crowd is totally another.
I open my mouth slowly, half-fearful that vomit will come spewing out in place of words. “Um, are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t. I’m thinking five pieces will be great. We should be able to sell them all.”
“I’m sorry, did you say sell?”
She went from staring at me like I’m a brilliant artist not unlike Ferguson Burke to glaring at me like I’m a total wanker. “Yes, we have to make money somehow.”
“Right, of course. I just never thought this could be possible,” I say, swallowing a nervous lump in my throat. Kate grabs my hand, which is a little on the trembling side, and squeezes it.
Liv gives me a toothy smile. “Believe it, my friend. I think it’s time you make your debut in the world.” She shares the rest of the details about the show but my adrenaline is pumping so much I can hardly concentrate.
I pretty much float out of the gallery. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. And it feels great. I never tho
ught this would ever feel right. The idea never has before.
“So . . .” Kate starts when we’re back outside and alone.
I take a deep, refreshing inhale, grinning like a total fool. “So, what?”
“I told you so, I told you so, I told you so!” she sings, wiggling her shoulders.
“Okay,” I say, my cheeks turning red. “You were right.”
She crinkles that cute nose of hers. “You’re damn right I was! And the fact that you’re man enough to admit it is pretty hot.”
“Mmm,” I growl, pulling her in for a big, wet kiss. “I guess this means I’m coming back next month.” And even though I’ve spent twenty-two of my twenty-four hours here in Kate’s bed, I’m starting to get comfortable in the city. It feels good. Which again, might just be her. And if it is just Kate, then maybe I really am in love with her.
“Me too!” she shouts. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Good. Now I have two things to look forward to.” I pull her in at the waist, attaching her hips to mine, and we head up the block.
Kate plants her heels on the sidewalk and I stop short, staring back at her. “Wait.”
“What?”
She checks the time and when she looks back up at me, she has that secret smirk again. “I have another surprise for you.”
“What is it, my birthday?” I ask, feeling like every day with her is like my birthday—and not just because I’m usually in my birthday suit.
“I reserved a motorcycle, or motorbike, as you call it.” She says motorbike in my London accent. “We can take a cab to pick it up now.”
Great sex, a spot in a gallery, and riding around with her in New York City? I could die today a very happy man. I cup her face and kiss her scrumptious mouth. “You’re the best. Don’t you ever forget it.”
***
When we first arrive at the rental place, I’m not sure if my license will suffice. But it turns out that it’s valid in the state of New York. Now if only I can remember to drive on the right side of the road.
Kate grabs a helmet, tucking her head inside. “You ready, James Dean?” she jokes.
I raise my brow, fastening my helmet. “Are you?”
She grins. “You know I am.”
Maybe it’s Kate’s confidence in me or maybe today is just on my side, but I don’t make a single mistake on our ride. I stay in the right lane and manage not to get us lost. By the time we’re finished, I feel like a freaking rock star.
After a ride around the city, we head back to the apartment for a little S&R before we head out for the evening. Between the sizzling sex and blistering weather, Kate and I are dripping sweat after she screams my name, riding her hips over mine for the second time this afternoon. Just as Kate said, this city really quiets down on Friday evenings this time of year. She wants to go out on what she calls a classic night on the town. Spending the evening with my favorite girl is the perfect ending to a perfect day. I blast my Best of Billy Joel mix through the speakers as we get cleaned up and dress for the evening.
While my lady finishes up her makeup, I pull up the web browser on my phone and type, How do you know when you’re in love? It’s stupid, I know, but I don’t exactly have anyone I can talk to about this. Collin, my brothers, even my parents aren’t exactly experts in love.
There are close to a billion results. I guess I’m not the only idiot who’s wondered what love really feels like. I don’t know why I think it helps, but I pull up a quiz of about fifteen questions and answer each of them lightning fast. By question eight, I think I know what the answer’s going to be. But I’m not an expert so I wait for the results.
Oh, yeah. You’re so in love!
My heart’s beating so rapidly, I practically drop my phone. “Oh, shit,” I mutter under my breath.
Kate leans in the doorway of the walk-in closet in a supermodel pose and whistles for my attention. She’s wearing a tiny lace dress with a neckline that plunges almost to her belly button. “What do you think?” she asks, seductively pursing her glossy lips.
My jaw goes slack and my cock stands alert. What was I just doing? I adjust my pants. “Oh, baby,” I say, playfully, but it’s no joke. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through eating dinner with you in that dress.”
She blushes and spins around. A silver zip trails right down her back. “Does that mean you like it?”
Like it? I can’t wait to pull that zip and watch that dress fall to the floor—just like every piece of lingerie she’s worn for me. “I love it.” We haven’t left the apartment and already I’m wishing the night were over so we can top it off with the two of us getting off. Again.
“And I love you in this suit you’re wearing.” Kate walks over, strutting in her stilettoes, and grabs my lapel. I blink. Did she just say she loves me? “I saw you in that Prince Charming tux but I’ve never seen you in a billionaire suit before. You look like Bruce Wayne.”
I laugh but it feels forced. I need a subject change. “Who do you like better, James Dean or Bruce Wayne?”
She yanks me forward, her lips teasing mine. “I like Just Drew better.”
“Good answer,” I say and kiss her, feeling her soft cheek beneath the tips of my fingers. With her floral perfume, she smells like a garden of ecstasy. I move my hand up her thigh to that cozy place between her legs.
“Uh-uh-uh,” she says, swerving her hips back. “We can’t start with dessert. C’mon, let’s get a cocktail before dinner.” She takes my hand and we leave my favorite place in New York—her bedroom.
We enjoy a cocktail at a stylish pub—I mean bar—downtown, then take a cab uptown for dinner where we eat one of the best steaks I’ve ever had and drink another two bottles of wine. In the moments when I’m not fantasizing about how I’m going to lick her from head to foot when we get back home, we have a really fun conversation about nothing and everything. I laugh more than I have since Kate left London. Another sign of the L-word.
Poor Kate practically stumbles out of the restaurant, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Isn’t New York the best?” She throws her hands in the air.
“Yes, it is.” I hover close to her, making sure she doesn’t lose her balance and tumble to the sidewalk.
I step to the edge of the curb, holding my arm up for a cab. Kate wraps her arms around me and looks up with a silly grin on her face. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had in this city. We should just stay here, then every day could be like this.”
Kate is the most adorable drunk girl I’ve ever seen and I can’t tell how much she means what she just said so I take it with a grain of salt. She pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of us. “Oh, my God! Look at my hair!” She holds her phone up to my nose. “That’s the only problem with summer in New York. My hair is not used to this humidity.”
I look at her dark strands, a little wild considering I just ate dinner and not her. But she looks the same. Happy smile, happy hair. “I like your hair like this. It’s sexy.”
Her eyes droop and she waves dismissively. “Sometimes I think you find everything about me sexy. Like my shoulders, hip bones, feet. I think you’ve named all of my body parts and stamped it with a sexy label.”
I wiggle my brows. “That’s because it’s grade-A-certified sexy.”
She throws her head back in a laugh, and I crack up too.
In the dark cab ride home, we can’t manage to keep our hands off of each other. She’s too shy to make out in front of the driver, which makes her an adorable tease, so we spend the time whispering in each other’s ear what we plan to do to each other later. Our mouths are locked together as we push our way through the front door and slam it shut again. She tears my jacket down my shoulders and my fingers finally get to touch that magical silver zip at her back.
“Wait!” She says, pulling away with her hands spread out. “How drunk are you?”
I shrug, “I don’t know . . . very.”
She plugs her phone into the stereo system. “Are you drunk e
nough for this?”
Latin-style drums ting and tong a familiar beat, then that seventies disco melody courses through the room. Oh, my God. It’s . . .
“That’s right,” Kate says, “’Copacabana.’” She sways her hips and shoulders like a mambo dancer.
My face turns bright red as I drop my head in my hands.
“C’mon, we got to dance to my drunk song. It’s your turn now, you Fanilow!” She has zero shame as she shimmies her shoulders.
“How do you know what a Fanilow is?” I ask, knowing that I’ve just admitted that I know the term.
“I read it on the internet.” She circles around me and then stops, her eyes narrowed as much as they can be considering how tipsy she is. “How do you know what it is?”
I wince. “I learned it from my mum.”
Kate grabs my hand, swinging my arm around, trying to get me to move as I plant my feet firmly on the floor. I’m drunk, but I’m not that drunk.
“Drew! You’re not dancing!”
I look at her, how insanely gorgeous she is, even when dancing to “Copacabana.” And that’s when I know for sure. If I can love her dancing to “Copacabana,” then it must be real. I don’t need an online quiz to tell me I’m crazy about her. I take a deep breath, then tug her arms and she spins into me. My feet pick up the beat in a merengue-style move. I press my forehead to hers, gazing into her eyes. She screams in excitement and it takes everything I have to hold my straight face. I twirl her around, then grab her hips. Swishing them side to side, I lower down, my nose grazing the skin between her soft breasts.
She throws her head back, giggling. “Okay, Patrick Swayze!”
“Yeah, we’re dirty dancing now,” I say, laughing.
The song ends and Kate jumps, clapping her hands like I’ve just performed a mind-blowing magic trick. “That was so much fun! You’re a really sexy dancer.” She laughs that deep, hysterical laugh like nothing can be wrong in the world.
I take an exaggerated stage bow. “Why, thank you.”
