Then he stretched out his leg until it pressed against mine. Hip against hip, knee against knee. You could feel hard muscle outlined beneath his Levi’s, could feel the heat rising off his skin.
Later, in a dark corner of the parking lot, he leaned me back against a doorway. With one hand he gently braced my neck. With the other, he traced the same, slow circle over my blouse, around the tips of my breasts. He took his time. Slow, then slower still. His fingers circled and curved and teased until I was dizzy, until I heard myself moan. Until—for the first time in days—the throbbing in my body was nowhere near my neck.
Twenty
* * *
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2013
Good morning, madam.”
My usual waiter greeted us at breakfast. He eyed Will and me with an uneasy expression, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with us. I checked my watch; it was barely seven o’clock. Perhaps the restaurant wasn’t yet open for business? Will had dragged me out of bed half an hour ago, adamant that we needed to get to the airport and talk our way onto an early flight home. I had agreed on the condition that we grab a decent breakfast first.
The waiter eventually turned, beckoned us to follow, and showed us to a secluded table behind a gigantic, potted plant. He presented the menus with a flourish. “Now then. The kitchen’s just getting going. Fresh orange juice? Are you leaning towards the yogurt, or the sweet--potato pancakes today?”
I smiled. The man had memorized my breakfast preferences while I hadn’t even learned his name. I made a mental note to leave a big tip. “The pancakes again. You have an astonishing memory.”
“Thank you. I also recall that you prefer the pancakes with a side of sausage?”
Make that a really big tip. “You recall correctly, thanks.”
“Very good. How about for your—err—friend?” The uneasy look again.
“Just coffee and toast. Whole wheat, please,” Will told him.
The waiter nodded, glanced at me again, hesitated. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself: “And will any of your other friends be joining you for breakfast?”
It took a second, and then I got it. Even luxury hotels such as the St. Regis must see their share of the world’s oldest professionals. I had now waltzed in with a different man on my arm three mornings in a row. And today, Will and I were no doubt radiating the rumpled glow of two people who’ve just enjoyed great sex and little sleep. My poor waiter probably assumed I was a high-end hooker. A hooker whose services included a weird ritual of making her clients buy her pancakes afterward.
“Your other friends?” Will asked after the waiter walked away.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Will raised his eyebrows, then let it drop. “How’s your neck?” he said instead.
“Fine.” It was nearly true.
“And your wrist?”
I flexed it up and down. “The same. Sore.”
He reached across the table and lifted my right arm to examine it. His fingers laced through mine, rotating my wrist in one direction and then the other. Tiny needles of pain shot out.
“Ow. I told you. It’s sore.”
“Just checking your range of motion.” He slid his hand out of mine, rested my arm back on the table, and traced a slow circle inside my wrist. “I gather this feels better.”
“Mmm. Don’t start that again, or we’ll wind up back upstairs.”
“Where you could demonstrate again for me what an astonishing range of motion you enjoy in other parts of your body.”
I swatted him with my good hand. “Shhh!”
“Sorry,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “So. Let’s see. We could talk about . . .” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “It’s a shame, actually, that we have to race back to Washington. I keep meaning to check out Turner Field one of these days.”
“What’s that?”
“The Braves, silly. Home field for the Braves. The baseball team here in Atlanta.”
I stifled a yawn. “They’re pretty good, right?”
Will lit up. “Yeah, not bad. Just won their division.”
“Did they win the World Series this year?” I asked by way of making conversation.
“Did they win the World Series this year?” repeated Will, sitting back and staring at me in disbelief. “Tell me you didn’t just ask that. The World Series hasn’t happened yet. It starts next week. The Cards play the Dodgers tonight in St. Louis. And then tomorrow’s the American league, Red Sox versus the Tigers in Boston. Huge game. How can you not know that?”
“But isn’t baseball a summer sport? Shouldn’t this be the off--season?” This time I could not hold back a yawn. Baseball. Johnny Cash. Was there no end to the topics that animated this man and bored me senseless?
Will was now gaping at me as if I were an alien just landed from Mars. “Are you actually American? Or do they brainwash you before they let you join the French Department, make you swear only to follow, I don’t know—competitive cheese eating? Escargot racing?”
“The French are excellent at soccer. And tennis. Formula One racing. And . . . let’s see . . . pétanque.”
“What the hell is pétanque?”
“It’s, you know, like boules. You have metal balls, and you try to roll them as close as possible to a wooden ball, the cochonnet.”
Will snorted. “I stand corrected. That sounds gripping.”
“Oh, you’re impossible.”