Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(45)

I do love their closeness and the way they depend on each other and trust each other unconditionally. Sometimes I wish I was closer to my brother, Jay. He looks out for me, and I know he cares for me deeply, and I love the little necklace gifts he gives me. But we don’t have the sort of connection Christian and Erik have. Jay is busy with his life and his family over in New York, and I’m busy with my life here.

I click on my text messages, ready to type out a note, when I find Christian has already sent me one.



Christian: Tell me everything. Did you blow them away?





Elise: I think so. I feel like I nailed it.





I’m grinning crazily as the sun beats down, and passersby crisscross in front of me, parking themselves at tables and steps leading into the house of worship.



Christian: Excellent. I knew you would.





Elise: Your insight was amazing. I felt like a rock star, peppering off numbers and analysis. You are a god at that.





Elise: Oh, you’re also a god in bed, but I think you know that already.





Christian: Why, yes, please do compliment me more. It feeds my ego and makes other parts larger too.





I laugh as I stare at the message, as if I’m in my own private flirty bubble right now, even as God and tourists peek over my shoulder.



Elise: I like everything about those other parts. And I like that quick brain that made this possible.





Christian: I’m glad I can be useful. But seriously, it was all you. You can only nail something if you know what to do with the info you were given. Now we need to celebrate.





Celebrate. That’s one of my favorite words. Celebrations imply champagne, high heels, and nights out with friends. I’ve always loved a celebration because it means there is good news, and good news brings that most elusive of emotional states, one that’s so hard to truly attain and sustain—happiness. But I feel it now, and I’m aware of how quickly it can disappear. Best to embrace moments like this.



Elise: How do you want to celebrate?





Christian: Ideally, by licking champagne off your breasts. But I think before we get to that, we should do something fun. What do you like to do for fun? Besides go on crazy roller-coaster rides, shop for your friends, plant flowers, and enjoy fancy and decadent meals out.





My heart does a little jig—he already knows some of the littlest details about me, like my penchant for showering my friends with gifts for no reason. Those are my favorite kind of gifts—pointless ones, because that’s the point.



Elise: All of the above, and I also like dancing.





Christian: Swing? Tango? Foxtrot? Please say no as I can’t do any of those, and ballet is out of the question.





An image flickers by of the type of dancing I want to do with Christian, and I wonder if he’s any good at it.



Elise: None of the above. I mostly like dancing late at night in clubs when I can let loose with my girlfriends.





Christian: Do you want to go clubbing with your girlfriends, or do you want to go with me when I return this weekend?





I write back, the answer falling from my fingers so easily, so smoothly, that it feels like the only way possible I could want to celebrate, though I haven’t yet won a thing.

Except, perhaps, a night out with the man who’s front and center in my mind.

Elise: With you.





26





Elise





Saturday looms before me like the face of the clock, the second hand ticking obnoxiously in my ear.

I busy myself with work in the morning, cloistering myself in the office with Polly, my creative director, who’s whipping through Photoshop mock-ups for the Luxe. Just a few extra items to send to Nate. Call it campaign Impress the Hell Out of Him.

As I look up from the media plan, she smiles, points to her screen, and declares, “Booyah.”

It always makes me laugh when she blurts out supremely American sayings. She is American, but she also says them with a certain over-the-top flourish.

“And what has earned your booyah seal of approval?”

She slides the laptop in my direction, showing me a new concept for a social campaign. My eyes widen, and my marketing bones hum. “That is booyah and a home run.”

She nods approvingly. “You haven’t been away from the homeland too long. You still know our little sayings.”

“You know I can still shoot the breeze,” I say, with a wink.

Polly has been with my agency for four years, and we’ve bonded over a love of marketing, and of being Americans working abroad. She flicks her pink-tipped blond hair off her shoulders and gives me an inquisitive look. “Also, I don’t think I’ve said this, but you seem happier lately.”

I blink, surprised at the forthright comment, but then she’s always been like that. “I do?”

“There was a time when you weren’t—” She shakes her head, as if she can’t find the words. “I think for a while you put on a happy face and sort of made it through what I suspect was a tough time.”