Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
The guitarist is playing a slow and jazzy number. The notes are bright and robust, and Chris pulls me close to him, our bodies flush against each other. He starts swaying, one hand on the small of my back and the other on my neck. I hook my arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin against my wrists, the weight of his body pressing against mine. We slow dance, surrounded by the rich atmosphere, and I feel like we’re completely disconnected from the outside world. Chris rests his cheek against mine and whispers, “This feels perfect,” and I nod in agreement,
The song picks up, and Chris rocks his hips. I follow his lead, dropping an arm to my side and swaying to the faster rhythm. He’s right, there’s plenty of room to dance by the table, and the guitarist and Sofía look on approvingly. We rock together, faster as the song’s beat builds, and we both start to lose ourselves in the moment, smiling at each other and laughing. As the guitarist ends the song with a flourish, Chris surprises me by dramatically dipping me, bending me at the waist and then pulling me back up. He meets my lips with a scorching kiss that I don’t want to end. I can’t help myself and I slip my tongue over his lower lip, tasting red wine and spices and feeling his hands tighten around me, pulling me even closer.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
When the cabbie asked us where to, I spoke up immediately. “The Plaza hotel, please,” I said.
Chris was facing forward, but I saw his mouth quirk up.
“You approve,” I asked, leaning into his side and sliding my hand up his thigh. We sit like that for the entire ride, the sexual tension thick between us, as I stroke his leg and he traces circles over the sheer tights on my knee. By the time the cab pulls up to the hotel, Chris is ready with a fifty for the driver and swiftly pulls me from the car and leads me up the hotel’s front steps.
The doorman greets us and opens the large glass door to the lobby. Chris holds my hand, a conspiratorial smile on his lips, and leads me toward the elevator bank.
“Bro,” a voice shouts, stopping us in our tracks. We turn to see where the voice is coming from, and I see a man standing in the entrance to the hotel bar. His suit is disheveled, and his tie is crooked. He sways a bit as he walks toward us, and I immediately identify this asshat as Chris’s brother, the one he was complaining about the other night.
“Ryan,” Chris says, through gritted teeth, “what are you doing here?”
“Hey little brother,” he says, ignoring Chris’s question and zeroing in on me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Uhm, yeah,” Chris stammers, like he’s been caught off guard. “This is my friend. Her name is Weaver. Weaver, my brother Ryan.”
I extend my hand to shake Ryan’s and he brings it to his lips, leaving the faintest trace of saliva on the back of my hand that I discreetly wipe away on the back of my skirt. Chris did not exaggerate when he described his brother. The guy is a pig.
“Well we’ll just be on our way…” Chris says, but Ryan talks over him, slinging an arm over each of our shoulders and leading us to the bar.
“Just one drink,” Ryan pleads. “I want to get to know your friend. Anyway, the night’s young.”
Chris shoots me an apologetic look and mouths “Sorry.” Ryan leads us to a tall table by a window; he must have seen us getting out of the cab. There’s a plate with the remnants of his dinner on the table: the crust of a hamburger bun and some streaks of grease from what I assume were fries. Two empty beer bottles flank the plate. The scene screams of desperation. Ryan and I hop up on the stools, but Chris stands, leaning on the table.
“Three whiskeys, neat,” Ryan yells to the bartender. He looks up with disdain from behind the bar, and I imagine what it must be like for Chris, continuously having to apologize for this oaf.
“Weaver? Are you from New York?” Ryan asks. “And how do you know this jackass?” He jabs Chris in the chest with his thumb.
Before I can answer, Chris pipes up. “Weaver and I met in Paris,” he says curtly. “Through mutual friends.”
This isn’t exactly a lie. We did meet in Paris and do have acquaintances in common, but by several degrees and they didn’t introduce us. I don’t know how I’d prefer Chris introduce me given the circumstances, but something about the way he’s speaking leaves me uncomfortable. It also occurs to me that even though Chris and Ryan had dinner together the other night, Ryan hasn’t even heard my name. Chris hadn’t mentioned me to Ryan at all the other night?