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 Laurent.
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