by Poppy Dunne
I blink, because I must have heard that wrong. “Boathouse?”
“Zoo,” she says, obviously irritated. I can practically see her throw up her hands in exasperation. “Honestly, wealthy men never listen. It’s why my Gerald is so special. He’s earnest, and attentive, and loves giving pleasure during sex. I can’t tell you the last time I had so many orgasms—”
“Your friend is depressed?” This is becoming unbearable.
“We’re going ice skating with the penguins,” Edith says primly.
“Okay. Is that…legal?”
She pauses too long for my comfort. “Well, anyway, I paid them enough money to make it happen. The timing’s perfect: their only polar bear died, you see, and the tank’s sitting empty until they get another one. So they’re going to freeze it over and unleash the penguins.”
Everyone in New York City is goddamn certifiable. “Thank you for thinking of me?” I make it a question, because I’m not sure how to take this.
“I needed people I’ve encountered socially, because I think my friend needs to meet several eligible young men. She’s going through a terrible breakup right now.”
I’m barely interested by this point; my temples are starting to throb. “I’ll see if I can make it.”
That is one bullshit line I just gave her, but it seems to work. She crows with glee.
“I’ll text the information to you. This is just like when I was in high school! Except Daddy had to pay all of my friends,” she says conversationally. “Toodles.”
Edith mercifully hangs up, and I take my box of tarts and my bruised heart and sore ego and walk down the street. My phone buzzes again with the party information, and I’ll admit I glance at it for a moment, considering. Maybe a group of drunk rich people on ice is just the tonic I need to get me through right now.
But I slide the phone back in my pocket. This doesn’t end until I find Dahlia and tell her how sorry I am. Until she’s back in my arms.
Where the hell is she?
24
Dahlia
Let me plan the party, Edith said.
It’ll be fun, Edith said.
Now there’s a penguin rubbing its ass against my leg while I try wobbling on ice skates in a dead polar bear’s frozen tank.
Does this kind of stuff happen everywhere in the world? Is it particular to New York? Do I simply attract eccentric rich people and Arctic waterfowl wherever I go?
Or is it Antarctic? Edith was very strident about getting the distinctions right as we arrived, and as she slipped into a silk parka with fluffy white earmuffs. Gerald, who seems to have accepted that the woman he loves is peculiar, to put it kindly, even helped wind her striped scarf around her neck before helping her up the stairs and into the tank.
As I hang out on the edge of the party, gripping the wall so that I don’t wind up skidding through the crowd on my ass, I take in the people Edith’s brought to meet me. My heart softens, even as I’m desperately confused by the situation. She really does care about me. She’s rounded up as many attractive young men as she could find on her rolodex. There are corporate lawyers, Park Avenue physicians, distant Rockefellers and sons of movie stars’ siblings. They’re all slim and attractive, wealthy and well-built, a smorgasbord of the most powerful men in the city.
But I can’t help searching for one specific man, the one with the sharp smile and the sharper wit. The one with the panty-melting gaze and the combustible touch. No matter the size of a man’s bank account or the sheen of his hair, everyone here has one gigantic flaw: they’re not Jack Carraway.
In fact, the penguin’s been the most aggressive potential romantic interest of the evening. The little guy keeps wiggling its butt, nosing me, then speeding off on its belly. Looks like a puffin. The Emperor penguins, meanwhile, are chilling out on the rocks above and giving absolutely no damns about anything.
“What do you think?” Edith says breathlessly, skating over to me. Her cheeks are rosy, though that might be with the summer heat—even on an ice rink, it’s still seventy degrees with the sun down. But I smile, because what else should you do in a situation like this? It’s definitely the most memorable party of my life. Well, except maybe for my freshman year of high school, when my sister organized a surprise party for me at Cold Stone, and their freezer broke which meant the ice cream cake melted. That was a wild night. Pandemonium in full swing.
“Thank you, Edith. I love it.”
She practically squeals, and hugs me. “I can’t wait for you to plan my bridal shower, and then my baby shower! And then my daughter’s bridal shower. And her daughter’s.”
“I, er, might be retired by that point.” I laugh. “Or dead.”
“Oh no.” Edith’s very serious and unsmiling. “I’ll look into gene therapy research. I’ll keep you alive and fresh.”
Of all the weird things people have said to me, that is up near the top of the list. After I stutter my thanks, Edith floats off to Gerald, a line of baby penguins toddling after her. Is there anything more adorable on this planet than a line of penguins?
Well, maybe a line of penguins in cute little outfits.
“You seem troubled,” Chelsea says as she glides toward me. Of all people, it’s amazing that Chelsea is a wizard on the ice. She sways back and forth gently, watching a penguin shake out its fluffy little butt. “Perhaps you were devoured off the coast of Antarctica in another life, picked over by small, tuxedoed birds.”
“I can’t help thinking about Jack.” Finally ready to commence embarrassment, I shove myself off of the wall and wobble out onto the ice. Chelsea skates beside me, serene and unflappable. Can’t say as much for the penguins—stop screwing up my balance, you plump little birds.
“Do you think he might show up?” Chelsea asks, sounding rather lucid. She even gives my elbow a squeeze, both comforting me and offering equilibrium. Nothing like a best friend. “After all, there are several eligible bachelors here, many smelling of woodsy cologne and high paying jobs. It’s not impossible he would also attend.”
“I don’t think Edith knows him. Even if she did, why would he say yes? He’s probably got something fantastically stupid to do, and he’s probably found a younger, hotter woman to do it with.”
“That,” Chelsea says with narrowed eyes, “sounds defeatist and small-minded.”
“Can’t I small my mind once in a while?”
“No. What you should do is call him,” she says, letting go of my elbow unexpectedly. Jesus, my balance goes out of whack and fast. Pinwheeling my arms to stay upright, I come to a halt in the middle of the tank. Chelsea skates backwards, away from me. “That’s what my guru advises,” she calls, before turning around and heading into a cluster of fellow skaters.
Damn. I hate when she’s so right. I start skating again, my arms out like an airplane, my teeth clamped tight together. With so much concentration on avoiding penguins and not dying, my mind easily turns back to Jack. To the way I left him.
To what my big fears are, and most of them are not Jack Carraway’s fault.
I didn’t want to lose control of myself. Fine, nothing wrong with that, but maybe I got too caught up in my own rules. Like I said earlier, Jack is a man who cares about his family and friends. It’s rare to see a person with so much genuine love for the people in his life. Sure, he made mistakes. Yes, he might have screwed things up for Pete…but if there’s anything I know about Jack, it’s that he’ll make it right. He finds a way to do the most reckless, beautiful, irresponsible, loving things, and he does them with an enthusiasm that is infectious.
A person with that much generosity and that much passion—who is also, let’s face it, that hot—and I turn him down, stomp away, because he overstepped his mark?
I was right to be mad at him for what he did to Pete, but I was wrong to leave him the way I did. To ignore his call. To not give him a chance to explain. Tears blur my vision as I turn the thoughts over and over, and realize: I blew it.
And then, in slow motion l
ike a very dull horror film, a penguin comes sliding out of nowhere. The little creature is on its belly, and comes to a stop right in the middle of my path. Grunting, I try to twist away from the bird, but my skates catch on each other when I do. This time, there’s no Chelsea or wall to grab onto and save myself: I fall backwards, waiting for the painful impact of the ice. Please God, don’t let me fall on a penguin.
But someone catches me from behind, one of Edith’s prospective Park Avenue hotties. I sigh in relief as he pushes me back to a standing position, keeping a firm hand on my elbow to ensure I’m all right.
“Thanks so much,” I say, looking over my shoulder. My smile fades.
“Anytime,” Jack says.
Every muscle in my body freezes, which has nothing to do with the ice or the penguins. Jack Carraway has me in his arms again. I need to play this cool; I need to let him know that I’ve missed him, but not enough to seem pathetic. Dahlia Rossi, queen of the demure but interested smile. What are my rules for meeting up with a man you left but want to return to? Smile, engage him, seem tender and interested but also respectful of your own space; tell him how much he’s changed, in a positive way, like—
“A penguin tripped me,” I squeak, spinning myself around in his arms to stare at him in the face.
Smooth, Dahlia. But I find I don’t much care that I botched my own rules yet again. They haven’t done much for me lately. But Jack Carraway? He does a whole lot.
Jack’s wearing a light jacket, and some kind of woodsy, subtle aftershave that makes him smell like a fresh-scrubbed lumberjack. My fantasies frolic, brief images of making love up against pine trees and him wrestling bears.
“How many times have you thought about having sex since I caught you?” Jack murmurs in my ear. Tingling, I recall asking him a similar question at our first official date.
“Three. No, wait.” I screw up my face to think. “Two. One involved you wrestling a bear.”
“I always seem to be fending off animals to preserve your maidenly honor.” He whispers this in my ear, his breath warm on my neck. Little jolts of electricity shoot through me, skidding down my spine to spread their heat. “Let’s get to the side of the rink.”
I could use some help, but I push off from him gently. No matter what happens, I need to be able to hold myself up. We arrive at the wall, which I grab onto with a death grip. You will never pry me from this sanctuary again.
“How long’s it been since you ran off the plane?” Jack asks, scrutinizing me, his gaze lingering. “Days? It feels like months.”
Again, my rules would stipulate that I need to make a witty, non-committal reply to this comment, but screw it. It’s time for a change of pace.
“I’ve missed you.” The admission’s so quiet, I can barely hear it. Jack has to lean forward, though I think I catch an eager glimmer in his pale blue eyes. “I’m sorry that I ran off like that, without giving you a chance.”
“You’d have to be an idiot to have stayed, after the bullshit I pulled.” He clenches his jaw, a muscle flickering in his cheek. “You should know I worked things out with Evelyn. She won’t be taking anything out on Pete…and I’m changing up how I get involved in family matters. From now on, I’m going to be more of the wise sage on the sidelines, not the buff, fantastic-looking hero who runs into the dragon’s lair.” He says this all serious as a sexy heart attack.
“You played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid?”
“You are speaking to a dungeon master, woman,” he says, trying to bite back a smile. Then, his suppressed laughter fades. “I went looking for you all day. I found your favorite pastry shop in little Italy. I bought tarts.”
“Raspberry?” I whisper. Good lord, it might be love.
“Of course. Dahlia.” He brings a hand up to my cheek. The touch of his skin on mine is volcanic; everything inside of me erupts, melts, flushes hot. I didn’t know how badly I wanted to be touched by this man, and only this man, until he was gone. “Dahlia,” Jack says, repeating my name. A smile crooks the corner of his mouth. “That’s a hell of a name.”
“I’ve gotten used to it,” I say lightly. He chuckles.
“I’d like to get used to it. I’d like to say it often, hear you answer back.” He pulls me against his body, and I grab onto his shoulders to keep steady. Funny how, even though we’re stopped on the ice, being this near to him sets my head spinning. It could be the romance…or I might have vertigo.
Screw it. I’m sticking with romance.
“So. You accept my apology for running out?” I say these words as I pull him closer, brushing my lips against his. He growls deep in his chest, but doesn’t lunge in for a kiss yet. He believes in savoring the conquest.
“If you forgive me for handing you a reason to leave.”
“Well, let me think about that.” I blink. “Thought about it. Accepted.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s as scorching hot, as fiery, as all consuming as every other kiss we’ve ever shared. I get lost in the feel of him, the tight, coiled excitement of his body, the electric way he opens our kiss, taking me deeper. His tongue strokes against mine, and I’m consumed by him, drowning in excitement.
But there’s tenderness as well, tempering the passion in just the right way. When we break apart, he cups my face in his hands. His eyes are alight with relief, with happiness. I must be looking the same way at him, and I feel a giddy smile stretch over my face.
Then, the applause starts.
“It worked! My party worked!” Edith squeals as she leaps onto Gerald, swinging her arms around his neck. He cries as his feet shoot out from under him, and he lands hard on the ice. Edith and Gerald are then mobbed by penguins. She loves it and tries to hug the little critters; Gerald looks more wary.
The other guests appear baffled, but go along with Chelsea—who I now realize is the ringleader of the applause. She beams at me, arms over her head and clapping with great enthusiasm.
“Enjoy your spiritual coitus!” she cries.
I love my friends.
“Damnedest thing,” Jack whispers in my ear, trying to softly wave at the assembly so they stop applauding. “I wasn’t even going to come tonight, but something in me kept nagging. Maybe I felt spiritually connected to you, and knew you’d be here.”
“Did you eat one of the tarts from Damico’s?” I ask. He seems surprised.
“Yes.”
“It’s a Rossi family thing. Food calls us back to one another. It’s like Jane Eyre, only with custard.” I ghost a kiss across his lips again, and he cradles the back of my head and responds more forcefully, more deliciously. When we come apart, I sigh and lay my head on his chest. Then my feet nearly shoot out from under me, so I end up sliding down his body, hooking my arms around his stomach and bringing my face crotch level.
What a way to go.
“Maybe we should get off the ice,” Jack says, helping me stand.
I’d make a joke about heating things up, but right now, that’s no joking matter.
25
Jack
When I checked into the Carlyle, they gave me the same room I had the last time I stayed—the night I met Dahlia. This afternoon, throwing my bags into the place and looking around at all the opulent yet tasteful furnishings, I felt like the universe was giving me a giant ‘fuck you.’ Now, I see it was a beautiful quirk of fate.
It’s amazing what ice skating’ll do to clear your head.
I have to kick the door closed behind us, because my hands are occupied with the woman in front of me. Dahlia wraps a leg around me, pulling me against her. She moans in appreciation when she feels my very intense enthusiasm pressing against her.
“What are we going to do about that?” she whispers against my lips. Her dark eyes flash with that playful, downright coy expression. If I didn’t know it before, this mini break-up has made it utterly clear: I don’t want to let this woman go again. Ever.
My blood’s on fire, my favorite appendage straining, but I’m also bon
e-meltingly relieved—though not boner-meltingly, thank God. Dahlia’s here, with me, in this same hotel room. Her perfume, citrus and vanilla, it envelops me; her hair is still sleek, her skin soft, her clothes still come off easily. She’s the perfect woman.
“Easy, good sir. We need to make it to the bed without falling down.” She’s in only a bra, lace panties, and high heels now. I swear, I could come just looking at her, so when she takes me by the hand and ushers me into the bedroom, I’m happy to oblige.
“I can follow directions easily enough.” I fist her hair, pulling her against me and claiming her mouth again. She responds eagerly, her hands trailing down my chest, nimbly undoing the last buttons of my shirt. “Can you do the same?” I whisper, unclasping her bra and discarding it. Her nipples are pert and hard, and I squeeze one, and then dip down to suck on the other. Dahlia closes her eyes tight, her head thrown back, and she moans softly. She pushes herself closer, grinding against my hard-on. I push her back onto the bed, and she lands with a bounce, gazing up at me. Her eyes are half-lidded with lust as she kicks off her shoes. Kneeling, I hook her panties and slide them down, leaving her entirely naked before me. Utterly at my disposal.
Or maybe I’m at hers.
“I want you inside me,” she pleads, propping herself up on her elbows. Her face is flushed, eyes shining with need. “I’ve missed you, Jack.”
Standing, I lean over the bed, kissing in a line from between her breasts back up to her mouth. She groans softly as I thrust one finger inside of her, feeling how tight and wet her pussy is. Slowly I move, circling my thumb against her clit. Bucking beneath me, Dahlia starts to gasp.
“Fuck me, Jack.”
“I will,” I growl in her ear, then reach for the bedside table. Condoms, a man’s best friend when he’s in an unclothed clinch with a beautiful woman. I whip off my belt and discard my pants. Her eyes widen, as they always do whenever she takes in the, well, length of my endowment. In fact, she licks her lips suggestively, and grins up at me.
