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  Over the phone, I heard him exhale in a rush, letting out a muffled groan as he climaxed. Then he let out a few recovery breaths, and finally a sigh. Silence.

  “Maybe we can collaborate,” he said, serious again.

  I laughed, feeling euphoric for some reason. Triumphant. Powerful.

  “Maybe so,” I agreed, matching his brisk, business-like tone.

  “Have you done this much before?” he asked. “Those descriptions were. . . impressive.”

  I thought about it. “Actually. . . no. Maybe a few flirty texts with my exes, but those were all rated PG-13. I guess you inspire me.”

  “I did find it very inspiring,” he agreed, the sexy rumble of his voice making me hot all over again.

  The intercom buzzed. Carolyn’s voice erupted like a cold shower, “Marketing meeting in five, El.”

  “Oh. Um. I have to go,” I said to Jackson.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he replied, his voice still aroused. And he hung up.

  I sat for a moment, trying to gather myself. Carolyn buzzed again. “Want me to tell them you’re on your way? You know how Louise gets.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said.

  I can’t believe I just had phone sex with Jackson fucking Ford. I covered my face with my hands, trying to recover, but I could feel how wet I still was through my panties.

  I went to the back of my door and took down a pearl-buttoned cardigan I usually wear when the office gets chilly. Quickly draping it around my waist, covering my skirt. Then I gathered up my iPad and files, and I headed out for that meeting.

  6

  The eleventh-floor conference room at Denton Rifkin is all glass, so I got the full effect of Louise’s glare before I even entered. “Glad you could join us,” she purred, but I could hear the warning beneath her cool tone. There were a couple of smirks from the group and Jennifer Carpenter even tittered. No surprise. Jennifer is super competitive and she disliked me from the moment we met. Unexpectedly, Louise wheeled on her.

  “Did you have something to add, Carpenter? What are you doing over there, besides kegels?”

  Typical Louise. People have described Louise Hayden as bawdy, inappropriate, provocative, a bitch. And those are her friends. When you’re around Louise you either duck or stand tall. Assistants tend to flee. No joking: she’s been through seven assistants in the past few years. Personally, I’ve always admired her swagger. And there’s no denying her stature in the publishing world.

  Jennifer dropped her eyes to her notepad and the meeting resumed. Someone even passed me a coffee as I hurriedly tapped notes into my iPad. They’d been discussing my colleague (and thankfully ex-boyfriend) Luke’s latest acquisition, a twenty-something author’s ridiculous (but much-hyped) debut novel about a talking dog. Hilary, the marketing manager, refocused everyone. “As I was saying, his jacket photo alone will sell 100,000 copies.”

  Tina, the new young woman from publicity, nodded in agreement. “I’ll have no problem booking him on the morning shows. This is exciting.”

  When Luke began fielding questions about his young author’s “charm factor” and ability to handle an interview, I found myself thinking about the sound of Ford’s voice. His heavy breath in my ear. The memory of his groan as he came, which made me shift in my seat. My attention finally snapped back when Jennifer and Mitchell from promotions began laughing about something Luke had said.

  Then Hilary had an idea. “Why don’t we put the dog in a little elf hat on the cover?”

  There was a chorus of, “That’s great, that’s great.”

  “Or reindeer antlers,” Jennifer suggested.

  “Well, reindeer antlers plant us firmly in Christmas,” said Hilary. “While an elf hat—if it’s not red and green—can be holiday or not.”

  For the next twenty minutes, they debated elf hats versus reindeer antlers while I continued to fantasize about Jackson. Finally they settled on a white elf hat, Mitchell enthusing, “We can tie that into a display.”

  I started to feel the pressure to contribute.

  “What about some kind of internet promotion that plays on people’s love of silly animal videos? Something that could go viral,” I offered.

  “Could you be more specific?” asked Luke, in his best passive aggressive tone.

  “Yeah, what specifically?” parroted Jennifer.

  “How about, ‘If your dog could talk. . . ’?” I was feeling inspired. “We could produce a few videos where we make it look like the dog’s mouth is moving. Digitally. And we give him really clever dialogue.”

  “So it’s what people think their dog might say?” asked Hilary.

  Louise was nodding, encouraging me.

  Maybe I should have phone sex before important company meetings more often.

  “Sure. Something that echoes the book,” I replied.

  “‘If you could reach your balls, you’d lick them too,’” joked Louise. And everyone laughed. Then she said, “Mitchell, look into that. People love visual media bytes.”

  Then Jennifer asked if we could discuss the book signing schedule for her Mark Stella autobiography titled Coming Clean. There was a lot of excitement over the prospects, particularly since Stella had been a recluse since his career was ended by the revelation that he’d used performance-enhancing drugs for years. This was his return to the spotlight, his first time sharing the whole truth with the public. People were ravenous for the story, the sordid details of his downward spiral.

  After Jennifer finished updating everyone, Louise turned back to me. “Do you have any new pages from Ford?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Not yet. We’re working through some things.”

  Abruptly, Louise announced, “Alright we’re through here.” As we all moved swiftly toward the door she called out, “Parker. Stay.” I couldn’t help but notice the self-satisfied look on Jennifer’s face.

  I walked back to the conference table like a fifth grader summoned by the principal. Louise waited for the others to file out and clear the hallway.

  “What the fuck is going on between you and Ford?” she asked, her eyes locking on mine with all the intensity of a ravenous cobra.

  Shit. Shit shit shit. What did she know? As I stood there dumbfounded, she continued.

  “He called me last night and said he’s rethinking his entire premise.”

  She misread the look of relief on my face.

  “You’re happy about that? Do you know how long it’ll take him to write an entirely new novel from scratch? This could derail our whole production schedule. What the hell did you say to him?”

  Normally I’d probably liquefy into a puddle of remorseful, self-loathing goo at a rebuke like that from my boss, but not today. Today I was Superwoman. I lifted my chin, looked Louise square in the eye, and said, “I gave him an honest assessment of his first three chapters. I asked for nuance, believable action, and meaningful metaphor. We also discussed the possibility of strengthening the female characters and adding some complexity to the more intimate scenes.”

  “Hmmph,” Louise grunted, but she was nodding along as I spoke.

  “He wanted to know what worked about Lions and Lambs and I gave him my opinion. It was his idea to rework the book. All I did was push him to do the kind of work he’s capable of doing. And honestly, if that’s not in my job description, I don’t know what is.”

  Louise was a bit taken aback by my fervor, as was I. I’d never been that forthright with her. She narrowed her eyes at me. “And then he said, ‘Thank you, Ellie. With you in my corner, that Pulitzer is assured.’ ”

  “Uh. No. He was a little pissed off,” I admitted.

  “Surprise, surprise,” she harrumphed. “And now he’s dumping the three chapters we had, which were already four months overdue, and rethinking his entire fucking premise.”

  “Yes,” I said. No point in sugarcoating it. We were possibly very, very screwed.

  Louise sighed, bending her head forward so her long dark hair fell in front of her face like cu
rtains closing. Eventually she looked up. “Ellie, Ellie. Yes. Jackson does need to be pushed. But I’m not sure you know how to do that yet.”

  “Read those chapters,” I said. “Maybe this rethink is a good thing.”

  She stared at me for a few moments, her face inscrutable. “It’s not a good thing if there’s no book. Okay? I want those pages. And I want them soon.”

  Louise picked up her things and walked briskly to the door. Then she stopped. “And just so you know, they’re all waiting for you to fuck this up. Don’t.”

  7

  A few days passed with no contact from Jackson. It was my instinct to give him some room, so I waited until Friday to email. “Just checking in,” I wrote. “Send pages when you can.” And he emailed back, “I’ll send you something when it’s ready to be seen.”

  Okay then.

  Friday night was Bianca’s opening at the gallery, and I was in the mood to socialize. I even felt like wearing a dress. I have this beautiful black cocktail dress; it’s very simple, almost minimalist. Three-quarter sleeves, above the knee, with a low back. I wear it with black tights and heels. It makes me feel like I have my shit together, and I desperately needed that feeling. So on it went.

  When I arrived at Winthrop Gallery, the opening was in full swing. The event was packed, so it took some time to locate Bianca amid all the party chaos. She looked gorgeous as always, in a flowing crepe silk dress with tiny pleats down the skirt. She gave me a hug and told me to mingle, as she was in the middle of finalizing a sale. “I haven’t seen Maggie yet,” she added. “But as soon as I’m done, I’ll introduce you to Rogier.” She winked and then disappeared into the offices upstairs, leaving me to fend for myself.

  I snagged a flute of champagne and some satay from the waiters, scanning the crowd as I ate and drank. There was a lot of posturing, as there usually is at Winthrop events. I wasn’t in the mood to join in, so I went to check out the art. I’m not ashamed to admit I stuffed a few bacon-wrapped scallops into my mouth en route.

  It was immediately clear to me why Bianca was so enamored of Rogier Veld. The sculptures were stunning. They were fairly large for indoor sculptures, most of them the size of a Smart Car. In some, the rebar was painted black, but in most it had been allowed to rust. It was fashioned into swirls, spheres, tunnels. The movement of the steel always felt organic. And even though some of the sculptures weighed over a ton, there was an airiness, a lightness to the work because of the brilliant way he allowed for space within the coils.

  I stood in front of one piece for some time. It was so compelling, balanced somehow when by all laws of physics it should not have been.

  “I really like that one.” A man had appeared at my side. He spoke with an accent that was difficult to pinpoint. He was an inch or two shorter than me in my heels. He wore a cap strikingly appliqued with a snake, and he had intelligent brown eyes and the most gorgeous hands.

  “I love it,” I said. “I didn’t expect that his work would be so sensual.”

  He eyed the work, nodding at my appraisal, and glanced back at me. “So you’re not familiar with this artist?”

  “No, no,” I confessed. “One of my best friends works here. She was raving about him. She invited me.”

  A grin lit his face. “So that explains it,” he said.

  I smiled back, unsure of what the joke was. “Explains what?”

  “Why you’re the only one regarding the work.”

  I looked around and realized his assessment was pretty close to being true.

  “That’s just openings,” I said. “I know he’s sold at least one piece tonight.”

  The man laughed. “Oh, that should make him very happy then.”

  Just then Maggie approached carrying a large box. “Ellie, Ellie!”

  “Hey, you.” We hugged, complimented each other on our dresses, and then she handed the box to me. My new friend with the cap, probably sensing a ‘girl time’ alert, gave us a small bow and returned to the party, leaving me and Maggie to ourselves in the gallery.

  “For you,” she said, a mischievous quirk tilting the corners of her lips.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Just open it!” She was practically hopping up and down with excitement.

  I did as she asked, and inside, nestled in layers of her signature star-spangled tissue paper, I found the beautiful espresso boots.

  “Maggie!” I exclaimed. “You can’t just give these away! I love them, but—”

  “It’s an investment,” she said, making light. “I’m betting on those paparazzi.”

  I think I actually squealed. “Thank you thank you thank you,” I said. “TMZ, here I come. I’m going to go find Bianca and put these upstairs.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  We linked arms and set off in search of B.

  Upstairs, Bianca was handling some paperwork, but she was thrilled to see us. “I’m almost finished,” she said. “Let’s stay up here a bit, I snagged us a bottle.” And she withdrew a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from her bookshelf.

  “The work is amazing,” I told her as she copied some forms. “So expressive.”

  “Isn’t it? And we’re doing great,” she replied. “We’ve sold three pieces tonight and we pre-sold four. That’s exceptional.”

  The three of us were sitting together, drinking champagne from paper cups, when there was a knock on the door. B tucked the bottle out of sight and said, “Come in.” Then the door opened, and the man in the snake cap stuck his head in.

  “Why are the three most beautiful women at this party hiding up here?”

  Bianca laughed and said, “Rogier, come in. I want you to meet my friends. This is Maggie McDonough and Ellie Parker.” Maggie expected to shake hands, but instead Rogier held her hand and gave her a little kiss on each cheek. He did the same to me. He was so sophisticated yet warm.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were the artist?” I asked.

  “I like to get an unguarded assessment of my work,” he replied, still amused.

  “You’ve met?” Bianca asked.

  “We talked briefly downstairs,” Rogier said.

  “Perfect. But Rogier, I have to tell you we’re doing very well tonight, even better than I’d hoped,” Bianca reported. “We’ve just sold three more.”

  “Oh, that’s worth celebrating! Ladies,” he said, “I’m leaving New York tomorrow. So tonight, I want to go dancing. Would you please join me?”

  “Sadly, I’ll have to stay here to close down this event,” said B. She was all business with him. “But you guys should all go! It’ll be fun. And Ellie, I know you’ve earned it. Maggie, you too.”

  “I have a car and driver,” he tempted.

  Rogier knew of a party at a loft in Chelsea so Maggie and I piled into the car with him and off we went.

  The loft was incredible, vast, with views of the Empire State Building and designer touches everywhere. It was packed with models and finance types. The liquor was flowing and the music thumping and soon enough the three of us were dancing together, laughing, lost in the beats, reveling in the feel of our moving bodies.

  Maggie whipped her long red hair around as she danced, and Rogier danced freely with his eyes closed, allowing the music to pass through his body. Between them I felt safe, and I let myself get caught up in the energy of the dance floor.

  After seven or eight songs, the three of us dropped onto a sofa together, sweaty and breathless, our limbs mingling. Bianca was right. After the week I’d had, I really needed this. A really young model who was also sprawled on the sofa smiled at us as he smoked a joint. After the week I’d had at work, it was nice to see so many people relaxing, smiling, and having a totally pressure-free night.

  “Do you ladies want something to drink?” Rogier asked us over the pounding bass.

  “Champagne would be good,” said Maggie. “Or even a beer. Anything with alcohol, really.” For some reason we found that hilarious. Rogier left to retrieve the dri
nks.

  I leaned against Mags. “I haven’t partied like this in forever,” she shouted.

  “I never partied like this,” I shouted back.

  “Because you actually like to talk to people,” she said with a smile.

  Rogier returned with a half-empty bottle of Dom and some breadsticks. The three of us finished the bottle and the bread and then danced a bit more before Maggie, who was staying with Bianca that night, announced that she was going to Uber it. We walked her out and waited with her until the car arrived.

  After she left, Rogier and I lingered in the stairwell, just sitting on the steps and talking about his work, my work, art, artists. We talked for a long time, occasionally having to move out of the way for well-heeled party guests who were coming or going. He told a joke and I laughed, my hand on his forearm.

  Suddenly it got quiet, the energy between us electrifying the air.

  Then he took my face in his hands and leaned in. I could feel my stomach twist in anticipation. His lips were inches from mine when I whispered, “Wait.”

  He paused, looking into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Why did I stop him? I thought to myself. He’s so sexy.

  “I’m fine,” I said. He smiled and leaned in again.

  Suddenly the image of Jackson Ford flooded my brain, his hands on my hips, turning me, slamming me against the elevator wall. Grinding against me from behind, his hands slipping up under my blouse. Cupping my breasts.

  I inhaled sharply, pushing Rogier away.

  “Sorry, I—” I just shook my head, unable to explain.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I misread something? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No,” I replied. “No, you haven’t misread anything. I really like you. I just, I can’t do this here.”

  He pulled me toward him as another couple came down the stairs and wedged past us, laughing and trailing the scent of cocktails and sweat.

  “Okay, so come back to my hotel.” His smile was so inviting. So promising.