Page 10 of Pretending I'm Yours

Our eyes lock for a brief, electric moment—a moment during which the woman’s perfect mouth parts and heat flashes in her eyes. Instantly, she’s transformed from a fish out of water to a siren, luring men to their deaths on the sharp rocks at the edge of the sea.

She bites her lip, arches her full brow the slightest bit, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s thinking of all the ways she’d like to devour me.

All the ways she’d like tobedevoured…

And then, the moment’s over.

She turns to follow one of the hostesses through the secret door to Twyla’s inner sanctum, and I’m left staring at the wooden panel through which she disappeared, thinking more unexpected thoughts.

I hadn’t planned to engage in anything salacious tonight. In my head, I thought maybe I’d end up watching. Or more likely, spending the evening with Twyla in the library, catching up.

But I’m here and already way outside my comfort zone…

Maybe it would be okay to approach the girl with the ocean eyes, to ask her why she’s at The Garden tonight, and see if I can’t be the man to fulfill every one of her carnal fantasies.

I turn my attention back to the book I pulled off the shelves, but Great Expectations has lost its appeal.

The only expectations I’m concerned with are the ones the woman in black velvet is detailing to Twyla right now.

What I would give to be a fly on the wall of my old friend’s office right now…

I finish my scotch, keeping one eye on the panel, but when it opens again, it isn’t my girl on the other side, it’s Twyla. She spots me and crooks a finger my way, playfully beckoning me to follow her.

I rise with a smile and cross the room.

“Beautiful, as always,” I murmur as we cheek kiss, a custom from Twyla’s native France that’s stuck with her long after her accent faded away.

“Thank you,” she says, pulling back with a wink. “And you look like you’ve been through the wringer. Come, tell Auntie T all your troubles.”

She turns and I follow her up the stairs. Her Italian leather pumps click lightly on the marble, their supple brown perfectly completing an outfit my ex-wife would have killed for.

Erica had a fashion addiction equaled only by her addiction to cheating with people I unknowingly passed on the street every day. After the debacle with the doorman, I hired a private investigator to see what else my wife had been up to while I was working too hard. Turns out she was also involved with the UPS man, one of her trainers at the gym, and the kid who cut deli meat at the upscale grocery store down the street.

When I told Twyla as much, she insisted I havemy“meat” tested for diseases, refusing to tolerate the idea of me giving Erica everything she wanted in the divorce if my soon-to-be ex had saddled me with some exotic STD.

Luckily, my “meat” got the all-clear, and I emerged from my marriage without any lasting physical damage.

Emotionally, I’m not sure I can say the same.

I’ve told myself I’ve just been too busy at the office to get involved with anyone since my divorce, but deep down, I know fear is part of it, too. I’m afraid to open my heart, afraid of being deceived and betrayed all over again.

But I’m suddenlynotafraid of running my hands over a woman’s velvet-covered curves in a dark corner…

As we step into Twyla’s office, I glance around, disappointed to find that we’re alone.

Where has Velvet gone and how can I ask without sounding like a creepy old man? The woman had to be at least fifteen years my junior, maybe more, but that look she shot my way makes me think she wasn’t bothered by our age difference.

“Another scotch?” Twyla asks as she crosses to the wet bar.

“No, thank you,” I say, taking a closer look at the décor now that it’s clear we’re alone. The office is what I’d expect from my old friend—elegant but provocative, with leather-bound books lining one wall and erotic art adorning another. The view of the East Village through the window behind her large desk reveals that the snow is still falling outside, swiftly covering the trail I left on my way here.

New York is a city that excels at keeping secrets in all seasons, but especially in winter. In the early darkness amid softly drifted snow, New York seems to whisper that it’s okay to loosen your hold on your self-control, to ease into the shadows and indulge the longings you’ve kept hidden through the glaring summer and wholesome fall.

“Just for me then,” Twyla says, settling behind her desk with a glass of amber liquid sloshing around one giant round piece of ice. “The great and prudish Anthony Pissarro finally graces my naughty establishment with his presence.” She swirls her drink with a grin. “Should I mark the occasion by naming a playroom after you? Perhaps commission a plaque for the men’s room?”

“Very funny.” I sink into the chair across from hers, the leather butter-soft against my back. “This is actually the least unexpected thing I’ve done in the past two hours.” I pull in a breath as I loosen my tie, my pulse picking up again as I speak the words aloud for the first time, “I quit my job.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

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