I think about the feel of their lips on mine. “For the moment.”
She glares at me. “Stop putting yourself down. You are beautiful and you are interesting. And if you want to have a threesome, just do so. Own that shit.”
I exhale. “Okay,” I agree. “I’m going over.” I glare at her. “Now, come help me decide what to wear before I lose my mind.”
* * *
Gabby helps me pick out a swishy, green printed skirt with a hem that hits just above my knees and a white v-neck t-shirt that reveals more cleavage than normal. “Remind me to take you shopping,” she says, sifting through my closet. “Where are your slinky dresses?”
“College professors and slinky dresses don’t go hand in hand. Just be glad it’s not black.” I look in the mirror, my brow furrowed. Clothing can serve as both armor and a message, and I hope my outfit says I’m casual but flirty, open to the possibility of something happening, but if it doesn’t, no biggie.
It’s best that I don’t dwell on what I’m doing. Two weeks ago, I left my boyfriend of eleven months. My stuff is still at his place - I haven’t been able to make myself call him and arrange a time to pick it up. I’m still living out of the suitcase I packed that night.
Yet, I appear to be on my way to participate in a threesome. Sometimes, I can overthink things, but at the moment, I’m just operating on instinct. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed my thirst for adventure to guide my choices.
I’ve left myself plenty of time on the subway, and I arrive ten minutes early to Daniel’s tree-lined neighborhood. Rather than knock at the three-story brownstone, I just pace on the street outside. It’s late enough that no-one is around. There’s a slight chill in the air, and I pull my coat tight around me and wince at the wind that sneaks up around my ankles and makes me shiver. Warm light spills out from the windows. It appears to be a surprisingly normal neighborhood, until I remember that we are in Manhattan, and each of these townhouses is probably worth more than ten million dollars. I’m in Billionaire World. This is strictly one-percent territory.
Finally at ten, I lift my hand and bang the carved lion knocker. The door is opened instantly, and Daniel smiles at me. He’s casually dressed in a faded linen shirt and grey slacks, but it doesn’t muffle the hotness, not even a little bit. It just makes him look more approachable. Dangerous. “Bailey,” he greets me with a pleasant smile. “Come on in. We’re in the kitchen.”
I follow him through the foyer that’s almost as large as Piper’s entire apartment. In the massive kitchen, Sebastian is by the stove, chopping some peppers with easy competence. “Have you eaten?” he asks as I enter. He’s casually dressed as well, a black t-shirt, worn jeans, and bare feet. If you’d told me before this moment that I’d be turned on by a man’s naked feet, I would have laughed.
I’m definitely turned on. Cue the laugh track.
“No.” I was too nervous to eat earlier. Now the aroma wafting from the wok causes my stomach to growl.
“Good, us neither,” he smiles. “This should only be another five minutes or so.”
“Pull up a seat, Bailey,” Daniel says at the same time, gesturing to the table in the center of the room. “Make yourself at home. Can I take your coat?”
I shrug off my practical black jacket and hand it to him. This whole situation is so surreal. A two-star Michelin chef is cooking a meal for me and a billionaire is hanging up my jacket, which cost less than a hundred bucks at Target. A giggle wells up in my throat, and I just can’t hold it back. I snort out aloud, a distinctly unladylike sound.
“What’s funny?” Sebastian asks.
“I’m just wondering how many people in New York would give up their first born child for this experience. Sebastian Ardalan cooking a meal for them.”
Sebastian makes a face. “They should hold on to their children, this is just a simple stir-fry. It bears no resemblance to anything on my restaurant's menu.”
Daniel joins me at the kitchen table. In the apartment I shared with Trevor, we had a narrow table in the kitchen, with two barstools that were designed to fit underneath the tabletop. It had enough room for two plates and two glasses of water, and absolutely nothing more. But in New York’s real estate market, even that had felt like luxury.