You, With a View(43)
They’re all tiny pebbles of intimacy under my feet, gathering so quickly they threaten to send me tumbling if I’m not careful. So much is riding on this trip: my tether to Gram, my relationship with Paul, my tenuous reentry into photography, and the story I’m telling on TikTok.
I need to be careful not to get too caught up in whatever this is—a distraction, a brisk intimacy. If I fall, it’ll be scarier than my actual tumble down that embankment the other day. It’ll be faster and will probably hurt twice as much.
Fifteen
I’m downstairs at the bar if you’re up.
I stare at Theo’s text, perched on the edge of my hotel bed. It’s nearly eleven, but I’m wired. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, uploading Yosemite photos in preparation for my next TikToks. I lingered on a video of Paul and Theo at a picnic table, looking like a split screen sixty years apart—they have the same smile, the same hunched motion in their laughter. Even their legs are positioned the same—left straight out, right bent, foot balanced on its toe.
It reminded me so much of Gram and me. I’d look at pictures of us and laugh because we were mirror images, smiling our wide smiles, that tooth-snagged one, our eyes nearly closed with the force of our happiness. I sense the same pure joy in the connection between Theo and Paul, and I can’t wait to introduce them to the world.
But not tonight. Not with this text waiting for me.
I reread the invitation. Nonchalant as it sounds, that’s exactly what it is. I just don’t know if it’s an olive branch or something else.
I’m crouched over my suitcase before my brain catches up. I packed one semi-appropriate Vegas outfit, and I shimmy into it now—the black sleeveless bodysuit that dips low in front, revealing the subtle slope of my breasts, the jeans that lift my ass into outer space. I layer a couple of delicate gold chains around my neck, pull my hair out of its haphazard ponytail and finger-comb it into a hot, careless tousle. I even put on mascara, tame my brows into submission with brow gel, and use a cherry red balm to flush my cheeks and lips.
I look like I just had sex and had to quickly put myself back together. Mirror-me’s grin is diabolical.
Theo said he wanted to look. I’ll give him something to look at.
Instead of texting him back, I slide my phone into my pocket, slip into my strappy sandals, and make my way downstairs.
The bar is in an open-concept area not far from the checkin desk, curving sleekly around a towering display of liquor bottles. It’s quiet, even for a Monday.
Theo’s seated at the bar with his hand curled around a glass. He’s watching a baseball game, eyes glazed with boredom. He looks down at his phone, illuminating the screen with his knuckle. Whatever he finds there—or doesn’t—makes his mouth pinch with displeasure. His attention drifts back to the television.
Until it snags on my approach.
Surprise flashes across his face, his eyebrows pulling up. But he recovers quickly, and watching the awareness sink into his gaze sends white-hot power surging through my veins.
There’s a confidence in the way his eyes drop down my body, a confession that he’d know exactly what to do with me. That I’d like it; he’d make sure of it. He traces the shape of my hips from twenty feet away. My breasts and neck from ten. By the time I’m standing next to him, his gaze is bouncing up from my mouth.
It pulls up under his attention. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he echoes in a smoky voice. “Couldn’t manage a text back?”
“Figured it’d be redundant, since I made it down here so quickly.” I slide into a seat, tilting my head to appraise him. The sweep of my hair over my bare shoulder pulls goosebumps onto my skin. “Unless you were checking your phone waiting for my response or something.”
He grins, caught. “Such a little stalker, Shep.”
I give him a cheeky wink. “What’re you having?”
“Bourbon.” His dimple pops as his mouth pouts into a smirk. “Two fingers.”
I lift my hand to get the bartender’s attention. “I don’t respect a man who can’t handle three.”
Theo chokes on a laugh as the bartender approaches. If this were a tennis match, the point would go to me.
I nod toward Theo’s glass. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
He leans in as the bartender moves away, his shoulder grazing mine, breath brushing my ear. “Two fingers are enough to satisfy you tonight, huh?”
A quiet chuckle follows the shiver I fail to stave off. I dip my chin, leveling him with a look. “We’re supposed to behave, Spencer. Don’t get all riled up.”
He grins. “Who’s riled?”
Our noses are practically touching. He has the faintest scar just above the severe stroke of his right eyebrow.
A glass slides into my periphery—my drink. I pull it toward me.
Theo mirrors me, pressing his glass to mine with a soft clink. “Cheers, Shepard.”
“What are we cheersing to?”
“Looking, I guess.”
I can’t help my laugh. “To looking.”
With our eyes locked, he takes a slow sip. I follow, imagining the bourbon on my tongue is from him.
Theo breaks the connection first, setting his glass down and swiping his tongue along his bottom lip. I shove my hand under my thigh so I won’t run my thumb over his mouth to feel the dampness there.