CHAPTER SIX
Gifted
I opened the door wider and Nick stepped past me into my apartment. My heart was pounding. I took extra time locking the double latches as I collected myself.
It was so strange to have Nick Archer suddenly standing in my living room. Like the scale was off somehow. I couldn’t get over the look of interest on his face as he scanned the books crammed into my bookshelves, my shabby chic sofa, the cluttered desk taking up most of the dining room. Whatever he was thinking, I refused to be self-conscious about this place I loved.
“Shouldn't you be at some glamorous after-party right now?” I asked, tossing the credit card onto the coffee table. He put the gift bag down next to it.
He waved his hand, as if brushing away the idea. “You know how much I love parties.”
“Well you must have someplace better to be."
“I really don't." His eyes were fierce, daring me not to look away. I’d seen that look in the movies, but it was nothing compared to real life. The rest of the room went dim. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”
“It’s fine.” My voice sounded flat, as if I were in a trance, but I couldn’t help it. He was always catching me off guard. “What would you have done if I’d said no?”
“I would have left and all this would have gone to waste” — he gestured at the bag on the coffee table — “I’ve got to sort through it and I thought maybe you could help me out.”
"And it couldn't wait ’til morning?"
"Kate. This is primo swag here. I've got to get it up on eBay before the rush."
"You're not really gonna—“
"No, no. Well, I might. You're welcome to anything you want. My assistant will pick through what's left. The rest can go to charity. I'll auction it off or something. That's what I usually do."
I tried to concentrate on his words but I kept getting distracted by the way his mouth moved when he formed them. I was having a lot of thoughts about his mouth I shouldn’t have been having. I was all keyed up from watching the clip of him kissing. A loud knock at the door broke the spell. We both jumped at the sound.
“Oh! I totally forgot,” I said, coming back to my senses. "I ordered from Thai Palace. There's plenty to go around if you're hungry."
"Now that you mention it.“ He smiled and suddenly food was the furthest thing from my mind.
The knock came again, more insistent. I went to answer, but he waved me away. Before I knew what was happening, Nick Archer was opening my front door.
The delivery guy, a wiry Hispanic kid, stood there holding a brown paper bag, folded and stapled at the top, the bottom mottled with translucent grease spots. It took him a minute, but I could tell exactly when he figured out who it was standing there at the door.
Nick got out his wallet and asked how much he owed him.
“Don’t worry about it,” the kid said, star struck and hiding it poorly.
Nick pushed a bill into his hand anyway. It happened so fast I didn’t catch the denomination, which drove me crazy. These things mattered when you were in the process of forming an opinion about someone. The kid beamed and thanked Nick, then hurried away before he closed the door, no doubt anxious to share the encounter with his coworkers back at the restaurant.
"How many people were you expecting?" Nick said, cradling the bag low to exaggerate its heft.
“I was hungry. You should be happy, because now I have enough to share."
"I am happy,” he said. He set the bag down and started extracting white boxes from it.
”Anything to drink?" I offered.
"Water is fine."
“You sure? Because I have scotch." My editor, Jackie, had given me a nice bottle of Glenfiddich for Christmas the year before. I’d been saving it for a special occasion. If this didn’t qualify, I didn’t know what would. “It probably doesn't pair well with Thai food, though."
"What are you having?" he asked.
“Oh, definitely the scotch."
"Scotch it is, then." His smile was promising and terrifying all at once.
And so we sat on my floor, burning our throats with good whisky, slurping noodles and going through the extravagant goodies in Nick's bag. Every presenter and nominee at the awards — Nick was the former — got one. Hollywood gift suites were legendary for their extravagance, and the haul from this one lived up to the reputation. We pulled out gourmet snacks, chocolate truffles, energy drinks, diamond jewelry, some kind of fancy face cream, a designer scarf, sunglasses, VR goggles, headphones, a year's membership to an exclusive day spa, a personal chef for a month, a coupon for a free psychic reading, and in case all of that wasn't enough, an itinerary for an all-expenses-paid trip to a Tahitian resort. It was like Christmas morning, if Santa’s elves read Vogue.
"I don't get it," I said, surveying the loot spread out on my floor and doing the math in my head. There must have been well over $10,000 worth of stuff there. "I mean, I get it. It's just so totally unfair."
"You mean all this going to people who need it the least?"
“Exactly.”
"It's all marketing. You give away a hundred pairs of sunglasses and if even one famous person is seen wearing them, you sell thousands. It’s not right or fair. That's just how it works."
"It's kind of like a superpower, though. Like with the food. You must never have to pay for anything."
“I always pay. You know what they say, 'With great power . . .’”
“You know, Spider-Man has always been my favorite superhero,” I said, bumping his shoulder. It felt natural, like we’d been doing this for years. “And I’m suddenly feeling a great responsibility to try these." I picked up the box of truffles and offered him one.
"No, thanks. I just devoured a ton of Thai food." He patted his flat stomach and I had a mental flash of the fascinating pattern of sinews and skin hiding under there.
I shrugged. ”So did I.“
Despite my small frame, I’ve always had a bottomless appetite. My friends used to complain that I ate constantly and never seemed to gain weight. That had changed in the last few years, though. My hips and thighs were fuller than they used to be, my stomach more round than flat. I didn’t let it bother me, though. Food was one of life’s pleasures and I wasn’t going to be like the stick-thin actresses I interviewed, starving and miserable. I didn’t blame them — Hollywood had fucked-up standards when it came to beauty — but I had plenty of things to worry about without piling body issues on top of it.
The chocolates were decadently rich so I only ate a couple. Nick gave in and let me feed him one. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, savoring the taste. I nearly lost it right there. Next, I moved on to a bag of cinnamon pita chips. The bag proved stubborn, so I gave it a good tug and it flew apart, scattering its contents all over the floor. Nick's gentle laughter made me feel a little less self-conscious about my clumsiness. We both shifted to our knees to pick up the mess, shoveling bits of crispy pita into our cupped hands and returning them to the open bag.
Our bodies were close, our heads closer. He seemed to come to the realization at the same time and we both went very still. It must have looked like a scene from a nature documentary, two four-legged creatures staring each other down, waiting to see who would move first. Finally, he walked his hands slowly backward until he was sitting on his heels. As if connected by an invisible string I drew myself up to a kneeling position too. He ran his tongue along his lower lip, the universal sign for, "I want to kiss you." My pulse quickened.
I could have done it. I could have closed the distance between us and pressed my lips to his. His eyes were almost black, lids heavy. He wouldn’t have stopped me. There were probably millions of fans out there who had daydreamed this exact scenario, and would definitely be kissing him right now. So why wasn’t I?
I slid back down to my hands and knees and slinked towards him like a jungle cat, sugar-coated pita shards crunching beneath me, digging into my knees and palms. His expression was unmistakable, open, wanting. When I was close enough he reached for me and pulled me up to him. I put my hands on his shoulders for support. The heat of his skin radiated beneath his starched dress shirt. If I were going to stop this, now would have been the time. But I wasn’t going to stop.
He raised his eyebrows, the question implicit in his expression. I nodded and his lips twitched up into a smile before he leaned in and kissed me, gently at first. Then we were both moving together and it wasn’t gentle anymore. I could taste the fascinating blend of whisky, peanuts, and dark chocolate on his tongue. I was wrong before, it was a great pairing. Nothing mattered but the luscious feeling of his mouth against mine, the electricity of his soft fingertips skittering over my skin. His hands were everywhere, on my back, in my hair, surrounding my face. And just when I thought all these new sensations might overwhelm me—
Bzzt bzzt.
True to its horrible timing, my phone vibrated. Loudly. Nick backed away and the separation brought me back to reality. "Kate?" he said. His voice was raspy, his lips swollen and pink.
“Shh.” I touched my fingers to his lips, then leaned in for another kiss. He shifted away.
Bzzt bzzt.
"It's late. What if it's an emergency?"
I sighed and groped for the phone without looking away. His eyes were full of sparks and I wanted to enjoy the feeling for as long as I could. My hand swept across the coffee table and knocked it to the floor near his knee. He picked it up, glancing quickly at the screen before offering it to me.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head as if to dislodge whatever he’d seen. "None of my business."
The screen showed a text message from Adam: "Saw u on the red carpet. Missing u 2-nite."
Nick's jaw tightened. He must have seen Adam's name, possibly the entire message. I wasn’t mad at Nick, though. All of my anger was directed toward Adam and his uncanny timing. I should have erased his number from my phone as soon as I broke up with him. But I wanted to know when he was calling me, so I could avoid him. I never imagined someone else would see his name and jump to the wrong conclusion.
“We should probably talk.” Nick sounded resigned, and I forced myself to focus. He swallowed one last swig of his scotch and set down his empty glass on the floor between us.
I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to go back to kissing. But the magic of the moment was gone.
“Yeah. We probably should.” I climbed up to the couch. He followed, settling in at the opposite end. It wasn’t a large couch, but the space between us felt vast.
"I want to ask you something, but I'm not sure how to say it.”
"You want to ask me about Adam." It wasn’t a question. I crossed my legs underneath me, my forearms resting on my thighs. "It's okay. Go ahead."
"I don't know you that well, but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s into fame. It’s one of the things I liked about you when we first met."
This nice preamble was almost worth the "but" I knew was coming. "That's not a question," I said, raising my eyebrows, challenging him.
"But”—and there it was—“what I don't understand is how someone like you could be with someone like that.” The last word dripped with contempt. It wasn’t mere jealously; Nick’s distaste for Adam was absolute and longstanding. Which made sense. They were like oil and water. Or oil and really good whisky. Either way, they didn’t mix.
My smile turned overripe. "How did you know?”
"I Googled you. After the junket. I’d read your work before but I wanted to know more about you. Your articles came up, but there were also some pictures. You and Adam together. I was kind of surprised. Are you two still—“
I shook my head. “You’re making a lot of assumptions here.”
“You’re right. It's none of my business. I never thought to ask if you were single.” He winced and covered his face with both hands. His insecurity was so unexpected, so human. It made me fall for him even harder.
"I am,” I said, reaching over and coaxing his head back up so I could look him in the eye. “Adam is not an issue. It wasn’t . . . It ended badly. Six months ago. So I’m single. Like Kraft cheese.”
He smiled at my dumb joke. “We don’t have to talk about it if it’s difficult for you. I’ve already screwed up our first meeting and our first date. I don’t want to mess this up too.”
“The date was on me, not you,” I reassured him. “It isn’t easy, but I’m fine. Look at me staying right here, not making a break for it."
“You can't storm out of your own apartment.”
“I could kick you out.” I gave him a playful nudge and he relaxed.
“But you haven’t,” he said.
I scooted closer to him on the couch, hoping he took the hint. “I’m not planning on it.”
“Good, because I'd really like to kiss you again." And he did.
We alternated kissing and talking on my couch until the indigo sky outside my window turned bright sapphire. He took off his dress shirt, but kept on the plain white tee underneath. He sat with his back against the armrest so I could lay against him. I knew we wouldn’t go any further that night. His body was solid and warm next to me, and as tempted as I was, it felt like we had all the time in the world. I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart through his undershirt, nearly lulling me to sleep.
Some time later I felt him nudge me in the shoulder and realized I actually had fallen asleep. As I rubbed my eyes his face came into focus. He was kneeling on the floor next to the couch, having somehow extracted himself from behind me without waking me up. With one hand he brushed away my wispy bangs and kissed me on the forehead. I wanted to wake up like that every day forever.
"What time is it?" I asked, pulling myself up to a sitting position. My muscles were stiff, but not unpleasantly so. I stretched out my spine and stifled a yawn with the back of my hand.
"Almost five. I'd better go," he said, a note of apology in his voice. "I had a really nice time, Kate.”
It wasn’t a dream. We’d kissed last night. Or was it early this morning? Both? Anyway, we’d kissed and it was wonderful and I wasn’t ready for it to be over yet.
As if reading my mind he said, “Can I see you again?"
I didn’t want to sound too eager, so I suggested the coming weekend. I already knew the anticipation would be agony. He promised to call me as he gathered up his shirt, jacket, and tie. I wrapped myself in a light cardigan and walked with him out the door and down the steps.
"I called for a car,” he said when we reach the sidewalk. “Should be here soon. Wait with me?"
So we sat on my steps and waited. If my neighborhood were a place where people hung out on their front stoops I might have felt conspicuous. But aside from the occasional oblivious jogger or dog walker we were undisturbed.
"Thanks for the swag,” I said, to break the silence.
"Absolutely. We should try some of it out.“
"What do you want to do first? The spa, psychic, or the personal chef?" It was a joke, unless he said the chef, then I was one hundred percent serious.
“How about the trip?"
I laughed, thinking he was playing along, but he gave me a pointed look, as if to say "definitely not kidding." My stomach did a little flip. I was debating whether or not to follow this line of thinking when the car pulled up, breaking my concentration.
We stood up and dusted ourselves off, feeling suddenly awkward. Our easy rapport had evaporated somewhere between the house and the sidewalk. He squeezed my hand as the driver came around to let him in. I held on for as long as I could.
“Call you tomorrow?" he said, standing in the wedge of the open door.
“Today is tomorrow," I quipped. It sounded like a line from a movie. I cringed inwardly at my own cheesiness.
“So I’ll call you later today,” he said.
He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before ducking his head inside the car. I could barely make out the quick wave he gave me through the darkened back window as the car pulled away. I watched until it reached the end of the block and turned the corner, out of sight.