Chapter 3
The hallway is silent. He stands in front of the door to her room, glancing down at his feet, listening for sounds, willing his breathing to slow. It is after one
A.M.
; the hotel and most of its occupants are fast asleep.
He has been standing there for the better part of five minutes, not moving, fingering the letter he holds in his hand. He’s ready to slip it under her door, but each time he musters up the strength to bend down and release it, an ache appears out of nowhere, righting him.
He knocks on the door. Hears rustling. Knocks again. More noise, then footsteps. Locks and bolts undone. The door opens, and he finds himself facing her.
“Know what time it is?” she inquires, wiping at the corner of one eye. She is clad in a wrinkly, man’s button-down white shirt, way too big for her frame. He looks her over, musing about what, if anything, she wears underneath. Immediately, his thoughts return to the party two weeks ago, and the night that made him a man obsessed. Even at the lateness of this hour, her sensuality reaches out and tickles his skin, caressing him in the lonely hallway. He smells her, takes in the smoothness of her skin, the roundness of her cheekbones, the surety of her stare. Her graceful curves cannot be concealed by another man’s shirt.
All of this conspires to confuse him, tear him down, and make him weak, a slave to the physical. Yet, it is his stare that is unyielding now. He can hear the pulse in his ears. He is growing hard, can feel it tighten his jeans, and is certain she can sense his awakening, too.
“Anything wrong?” she asks, her gaze washing over him hastily, hand on her hip, making no move to let him pass.
“Need to talk—didn’t get to finish what we started earlier.”
“This can’t wait?” she inquires, somewhat exasperated. The hour is late.
“Obviously not.”
They stare each other down for a moment before he hears her sigh. She retreats, and he enters the room.
The bed is unmade, oversize pillows and thick comforter haphazardly situated. She climbs onto the bed, exposing thighs. A hint of white emerges—and he conjures up images of silk panties, erotic g-strings, and other sexual things. She witnesses his stare. Asks him what it is exactly that he wants.
Silently, he hands her the letter, which has occupied his time for several evenings.
“What is this?”
“How I feel.” With nothing more to say, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.
She repositions the comforter over her legs, ensures she is buttoned up top, unfolds the letter, and glances over at him. Then she begins to read.
It takes her a minute to complete. He is silent watching her. Her expression doesn’t change, as if she has been expecting this. When she is done, she refolds the letter slowly and glances up.
“Ryan.”
“Yes.” He is waiting, breathless.
She is cautious with her words.
“This is my fault,” she says. “I’ve led you on. Things happened after that party which cannot be undone. I would be lying if I said I regretted them all, but the truth is”—and here she pauses for a moment to search the ceiling, as if she can find comfort there—“they shouldn’t have happened.”
He is silent. She takes his silence as an approval to continue.
“For several reasons, Ryan. One, I am married. We both are. We love our spouses, and are not about to jeopardize what we have.”
A statement, not a question.
“Two, you and I are friends—been that way for as long as I can recall. Don’t want to mess that up—right? I mean, what good can come of this? Lose a friendship for twenty minutes of pleasure?” She stares at him, yet he looks away. “Ryan, is it really worth it?”
She barrels forward, finding the strength—the energy to go on, regardless of the effect it has on him.
“Three, we work together. We’re on the same team. You and I built this company together. I love what I do, and I know you do, too. Don’t want to do anything else; don’t want to work anywhere else. I know you feel the same.”
She spreads her hands wide, palms upturned. “So you see, Ryan, what happened that night was a mistake. All of it a serious error—I realize that now. I was being selfish—enjoying the attention, the stares, and the energy you threw my way.”
Olivia smiles weakly.
He has been sitting patiently, rubbing his palms together. He stands now, goes to the window, and parts the curtain to glance down at the street life below. He turns toward her to speak, his voice a whisper.
“You said I was beautiful.” Mustering up the strength to continue, he barrels forward. “I know things aren’t simple. I wish to God they were. I wish there weren’t these obstacles in our way. I wish we could just finish what we started. I’m not disagreeing with what you’ve said, nor am I implying that your reaction doesn’t make any sense—’cause it does. But affairs of the heart never make sense. They defy logic, Olivia.
“I know what I feel—what I felt that night, when you took me in your sweet mouth. I know what you felt, too—know it as sure as I’m standing here.”
Her expression has changed. It has suddenly soured and forces him to pause. She is staring at him as if he is not of this world. Instinctively, he waits.
“What are you talking about?”
“Kind of late in the game for coyness. You know what we shared.”
He moves forward, a wave of elation surging through him as he remembers the sweet details of their last encounter.
Reaching the foot of the bed, he climbs on. Olivia retreats to the headboard, back pressed into the veneer wood, hearing it groan.
“I think you should leave,” she says with sudden finality.
He strokes the lump where her thigh is positioned under the cover. She recoils like a caged animal.
“Stop it. This isn’t going to happen. Not tonight. Not again.”
He pauses, hand in mid-stretch. His gaze is galvanized with hers; her locs seem to tremble along with the rest of her body. In that moment, he feels extreme pity . . . and intense pain.
“Do you deny how you felt? How good it felt when we were together?”
Silence.
He reaches for her again. She lets his hand rest on the comforter. His lips are upturned.
“You said I was beautiful. . . .”
Her head thrashes, but in slow motion. She opens her mouth to speak, and is interrupted by the high-pitched scream of the smoke alarm.
Hands immediately rise to their ears; both are shaken by the intensity.
It is close to 1:30
A.M.
, and the fucking fire alarm is wailing.
Unbelievable!
The next thirty minutes pass in rapid-fire succession—into the hallway, down countless flights of stairs, out into the pouring rain, away from the hotel complex that has been maddeningly roped off by the NYFD. Sirens, fire engines, police vehicles, hoses, hotel staff, and guests are everywhere. The guests scatter; already clogged streets become choked to near bursting with equipment and panicky, half-dressed out-of-towners. By the time he leads Olivia hesitantly to an all-night diner four blocks away, Miles’ shirt is soaked to the bone. Her nipples shine like beacons. Either she hasn’t noticed or no longer cares. She is freezing, dead tired, and drained of all emotion. At 2:18
A.M.
, they have only each other for comfort.
That thought alone is sobering.
They sit across from each other now, Olivia and Ryan, in a cramped, dingy booth, sipping lukewarm coffee. The silence and wobbly table are the only things separating them, as she tries unsuccessfully to forget this night, this man, this situation.
She is thinking,
How on earth did things get to this point?