The moment ends all too soon. Seconds later the doors open, and I exit the elevator, in some sort of heady, drugged state that I’d like to stay in for a long, long time.
Chapter Thirteen
I stop by the ladies’ room to splash cold water on my face. Yes, I’ve become this person. This crazily turned-on woman who hasn’t been touched in years. Now, give her a few choice words said in a swoonworthy voice, a hot kiss in an elevator, and she needs to be doused in cold water in order to function.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment, wondering if I can wipe the stupid lust from my eyes. Or if I even need to. Then I turn those words around in my head. Stupid lust. Stupid kiss. Stupid heart.
I grab my phone from my back pocket and send those words to myself in an e-mail. Who knows? Maybe they’ll spur a song. Because the more songs I write, the better off we all are. But for now, I excise the kiss from my head to focus on the story.
I leave the bathroom and join Matthew in the gourmet kitchen in his office building. It’s all white, with stainless-steel appliances, and unbearably tiny by the rest of the world standard, but it’s massive for Manhattan. Massive meaning a few square feet. “I would offer to help, but I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Can I wash something or set the table?”
Matthew shakes his head as he deftly wields a glinting steel knife, chopping the asparagus and the mushrooms. “So tell me about your deep-seated hatred of kitchens, food, cooking. Where does it stem from, Jane Black?”
“I’m sure it goes back to my childhood. I remember as a young girl, having a terrible fear of pots and pans,” I say, quickly going along with the playful banter. It helps keep my brain clean of naughty thoughts. Besides, he’s already moved on to this other side, so I might as well go with it.
“I’ve heard of that,” he says as he moves onto the carrots. “It can scar you for life, rendering you completely dependent on Chinese takeaway.”
“I’m afraid that’s what’s happened. I had a bat line to China Hunan set up in my apartment. My relationship with the delivery guy has been my closest with a man in the last year and I’m thinking of having an IV drip installed for Chinese food.”
He puts down the knife, takes a step closer, and lays his hand against my forehead, as if taking my temperature. He nods sagely. “Your condition is much more serious than I thought.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” I hang my head low. Then shift gears. “Do you have any tea?”
“Do I have any tea? Is that like a joke or a test? Cupboard next to the fridge,” he says, gesturing.
I move a millimeter or two to the right and open the cabinet door. I’m greeted by a shelf full of tea—tins with black tea in all varieties. I grab the English Breakfast teabags and two mugs, then start filling the mugs from the tap.
“I am going to pretend you didn’t just do that.”
“Do what?”
He turns away from the frying pan where he’s just tossed the chopped vegetables. “I’m English. We don’t microwave our tea. We put the kettle on, make it properly.”
“Oh, excuse my American ways,” I tease, making a mental note that he refers to himself as English, though I prefer to use British most of the time. Sounds so classy and sophisticated. But whether I call him British or English, Matthew is always sexy to me. He steps away from the stove and moves a couple inches closer to me, reaching over my head into the cupboard. I don’t move at all. I stand there, his body suddenly near enough that if I were to step one or two inches closer, I could feel his chest, his belly, his belt buckle against me, like in the elevator. I could reach for his belt with one hand and pull him against me and reenact the prior scene. Take it further. Make it last longer. Hit the alarm on the elevator so it stops. This time, I’d turn the tables on him. I’d back him up against the wall, run my hands through his hair, make him moan, make him want me desperately. I could take his shirt off, run my fingers over his chest, trace the lines of his stomach.
We could finish what we started. Except we’re in his office, and Matthew has already turned that side off and seems to be back in this other zone, where we’re all chitchat and teasing, and I like it. Really, I do. I enjoy being with him so much, even though the ease with which he slips between Matthew the Reporter and Matthew the Hot-as-Sin, Kiss-Me-In-the-Elevator Man throws me off. I watch him silently as he fills the kettle with water, places it on a burner, and then plunks the tea bags into the mugs. “I can drink tea any time of day,” he muses.
I could touch you any time of day, I want to say.
A few minutes later, we’re sitting at a small but sturdy mahogany table in the kitchen. The food is delicious—crunchy, crispy vegetables in a white wine sauce and whole-wheat pasta. As I finish, I glance out the window. “Hey, it’s starting to snow!”
He rises from the table and joins me by the window of the office, looking out over nearby Gramercy Park. “Why is it that snow always seems so magical?” I ask him, not so much for an answer, but simply as an observation.
“I don’t know, but it’s certainly true. It seems you never stop being excited at the first sight of snow. You’ll wake your girlfriend or your boyfriend up at three in the morning to tell them it’s snowing. And then bring them to the window and show them.”
My heart races. I love that image. Far too much for my own good. So I am grateful for the break from my wandering imagination when he flips open his reporter’s notebook. “You already gave Cohain the story of your name. May I please have something just as good?”