Drunk on Love(57)

Fourteen


MARGOT GOT OUT OF the shower and wrapped her longest, plushest bath towel around her body. She’d given two tours that day and pitched in for an hour in the tasting room, in between many phone calls and emails and voice mails. She had needed at least an hour of undivided time alone to commune with her spreadsheets for the party, update her to-do lists, stare at her conspiracy wall and check things off, and she hadn’t gotten it. The party was less than a month away, she had so much to do, so much was riding on it. So when she’d gotten home, hot, sweaty, and sad for reasons she didn’t want to think about, she’d dropped her laptop on the coffee table, pulled her hair into a bun on the top of her head, and gotten straight into the shower. She’d get work done after she felt like herself again.

After she dried herself off, she pulled on her favorite silk robe to cheer herself up. What she needed cheering up from, she didn’t have the time or inclination to dwell on just now.

He’d walked out just like that. Out of her office, where she’d been standing with Elliot and couldn’t really say anything to him, and then out of the tasting room, and had driven away. Had he walked out of her life, too? He didn’t smile at her or give her any looks like he wished she were alone in her office, or like he wished . . .

No, she wasn’t going to think about this now. What did it matter, anyway? They weren’t anything to each other, really. She should think about her robe. Wearing it did help. She’d splurged on it the year before, with visions of herself swanning around her house in it, lounging and drinking champagne and entertaining gentleman callers. It was deep red, with a floral pattern, and looked great on her. She rarely wore it, though. When she was at home, she was usually either working or snacking or both, and it felt too nice to wear while working, and she didn’t want to get pasta sauce or olive oil or Cheeto dust on it, so she usually kept it in her closet. But it wasn’t like she was going to change her work habits anytime soon, and it felt like a shame to let it just hang there in her closet. What good did it do her, just gathering dust? Absolutely none. Even if she got potato chips on it, she’d at least get the joy of wearing it.

She got a glass of water and sat down on the couch, her laptop in front of her. Was that a knock at her door? Sydney had texted that she might drop by with the sweater Margot had left at the restaurant the other night; it must be her. She was the only person who dropped by Margot’s house, anyway. Margot had assumed she was at the restaurant by now, but maybe she’d had time to come by with a snack from Charlie—who Sydney was convinced had a crush on her—or some hot gossip she wanted to share in person.

Margot should be mad at the interruption; she’d wanted to get this work done all day. But right now, her heart wasn’t in it.

She opened her front door, and then stopped.

“Luke.”

He was leaning against the side of the porch. It was dusk, and the porch light wasn’t on yet, so she could barely see the uncertain look on his face.

“Hi, Margot,” he said.

At first she just stared at him.

“Um. Do you want to come in?”

He nodded, and she opened the door wider. So many questions jumbled around her mind, flew through her head, it felt like they were thought bubbles above her head, racing around and disappearing and reappearing at breakneck speed. She knew she should make them stop, take a breath, think, ask him, ask herself some of those questions.

But she didn’t.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she reached for him. And then she kissed him. She kissed him how she’d wanted to kiss him in the car the week before, how she’d wanted to kiss him every day for the last month. Her lips on his, her body pressed against him; her desire for him, her sheer want for him, no longer hidden, but there for him to see, to feel, to taste.

He kissed her back immediately, at first with a sigh of relief that made her smile, then with determination. His hands moved slowly, possessively up her body, first skimming over her breasts, her waist, then gripping her hips and pulling her closer to him. She could feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin, through the thin silk of her robe. She held on to him tighter.

Finally, they broke apart, gasping for air, and she rested her head on his chest. After a moment, she looked up at him.

“Do you know what?” she asked him.

He smiled down at her and traced her eyebrows with his finger.

“What?”

“You don’t work for me anymore.”

His smile got wider.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

And then he kissed her again, kissed her like he’d dreamed of this, or maybe she just thought that because she had. It felt like coming home, with his hands on her and his body against hers and that way he sucked her bottom lip, just the way she’d thought of and fantasized about for weeks.

Eventually, they stumbled to her couch and sat down. He took her hand and played with her fingers.

“I hated the way I had to leave today,” he said. “With you and Elliot both there, I mean. I was glad that I could tell him directly, and that he didn’t seem to be pissed at me—”

“He’s not,” she interrupted. “He meant what he said.”

“Good,” he said. “But to be honest, I don’t give a fuck how Elliot felt about me leaving. I only care how you felt.”