He’s hooked on coke and God knows what else, and I’m hooked on hope for something I can’t have. And we’re both weak as fuck.
The realization causes me to forcefully heft the luggage onto the hardwood floor of the guest suite I always stay in. It lands with a jarring slam that causes Elle to jump in my peripheral vision. She’s standing rigidly next to the large stone fireplace with her hands clasped in a death grip at the level of her hips.
Her eyes focus warily on me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I clip, standing upright and crossing the room to stand in front of a mirror above the dresser on the other side of the room. I rake a hand through my hair and adjust my tie and collar. “Everyone’s in the main house at a welcome cocktail party, so we’re going to go over there. Do you need to freshen up or change or anything?”
Elle silently shakes her head, and her gaze slides to the king-sized bed that we’ll be sharing in only a matter of hours. She says nothing about it, and neither do I, and the bed is the proverbial elephant in the room.
She breaks the heady silence after a beat. “Is there anything I should know before we go over there?”
I turn to her while fastening the center button on my jacket. “Like what?”
She lifts one shoulder and lowers it. “I don’t know, maybe what’s our story? Won’t somebody ask how we met or what I do for a living? I don’t think we can say that I work for you. I’m pretty sure most companies have some kind of policy against that.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t given much thought to that. “Maybe we can say you work for Platinum, but you work in a different division. Like, uhh…” I rub my chin for a second and then snap my fingers as an idea comes to me. “Oh. The new concierge service. You know how we offer high-end clients the option of having someone at their beck and call to set up fancy spreads in the planes and then take care of accommodations at their destinations?”
“Oh yeah.” Elle nods hastily. “I’m familiar.”
“Yeah, so we’ll say that you’re the head of concierge services for like Eastern Europe or something.” I slip my hands in my pockets. “That way Ernesto’s people won’t expect to encounter you when they set up that stuff later.”
“That could work.” She nods again, more slowly, her gaze drifting back to the bed. “What about us?”
“What do you mean,what about us?”
“As in, what’s our story? How did we meet? How long have we been dating? What do I know about your life? What if they ask me about your brother? What do I say about him?”
“You letmehandle that,” I snap more abrasively than I intend to. “You politely deflect to something else.”
Elle drags her gaze back to me. “Go to your happy place, Colin.”
I purse my lips. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I get it.” She pauses, drawing in a deep breath as she smooths her long, honey-hued hair through her hands, draping it over one shoulder before turning to me. “Along the lines of your happy place, here’s our story.”
I dip my chin to prompt her. “Lay it on me.”
“We’ll go with the coffee shop six months ago,” Elle begins. “The uncanny coincidence of us working for the same company, but notwitheach other, caused us to hit it off immediately.” She approaches me, eyes focused on the knot of my tie while her brows draw into a V as if the gears in her head are turning while she formulates a story. “We went out for a drink and learned that we both love crappy nineties comedies.” She stops in front of me and turns an impish glance up to my face while she reaches to clasp the knot of my tie with two fingers. “There happened to be a Chris Farley movie marathon at some theatre that weekend, so we decided to go. We laughed at all the same parts.” She slides the tie through her hand, and that dashed hope causes something below my sternum to ache. “You took me home and walked me to my door, and then we made plans to binge-watch old episodes of Saturday Night Live the following weekend.” She reaches with both hands to hold the knot of my tie again. “After that, we started doing other standard couple-type things, like jogging together and trying out hole-in-the-wall restaurants in Little Italy and Chinatown. Sometimes I drag you to yoga classes on Saturday mornings, which you hate, but you’re a good sport about it. We don’t live together because it’s only been six months, but we’re not ruling it out when my lease is up at the end of the year.”
Elle looks at me expectantly, and the dashed hope suddenly has me feeling so dejected that it causes my shoulders to sink.
“I don’t hate yoga,” is all I can come up with in response.
A tiny laugh exits her lips on a small puff of air, and her hands are still on my tie. “Fine. Maybeyoudragmeto yoga classes because I prefer snuggling and being lazy on Saturday mornings. And sometimes you give up trying to drag me out of the apartment for yoga, and we just have coffee in bed.”
Fuck. Me.
One potentially good thing amidst a life of nothing but shitty things, albeit one good thing that was never meant to be.
In an effort to hide the disappointment I know is written all over my face, I cut my eyes down to her hands. “Is something wrong with my tie?”
“No.” Elle releases the tie and smooths her palms over my lapels. “But when people are in love, they’ll absently touch each other like this for no reason. It’s a subconscious display of affection.” I feel the weight of her eyes focused on my face and hazard meeting her gaze. “I’m well-versed in body language because I got my bachelor’s degree in psychology. You might remember that from reviewing my resume on my first day.”
I don’t remember it because I didn’t actually review her resume. Because, lest I forget, I was too distracted by all the hope of what could come from me giving my phone number to a beautiful, uncommonly kind stranger in a coffee shop. “It must’ve slipped my mind.”
She gives an acknowledging nod. “Well, I’m a graduate of Columbia with a bachelor’s in psychology and a master’s in social work.”
My eyes do a rapid blink of shock. “You have amaster’sdegreefromColumbia?”
