Page 93 of Brooklynaire
Then he kisses meagain.
21
Nate
That morningI’m as happy as a guy has ever been. I send Ramesh out for bagels andcoffee.
“I’m not meeting him at the door,” Becca grumbles. “I may never look him in the eyeagain.”
“Suit yourself,” I say, swatting her bare butt as she heads for my shower. “Ramesh is a smart man. He’ll put the food on the entry table and get the hellout.”
“When does Mrs. Gray show up?” she asks over the sound of thewater.
“Nine.Why?”
She doesn’t answer, but she gets ready to go beforethat.
At a quarter past eight, I kiss her goodbye. “When will I see you next?” I askher.
“See me or see menaked,” she asks with asmile.
“I meant the first thing, but the second thing sounds good,too.”
“Tonight’s game, maybe? But I won’t be in the box. I’m watching with Georgia from Coach’s compseats.”
“Okay.” I kiss her jaw. “Dinner Tuesday night? I know you have to go to Detroit onWednesday.”
“Yeah.” She smiles up at me. “Goodplan.”
“I’ll make areservation.”
She opens the front door. “You mean you’ll ask someone to make it foryou.”
“You never know. I can probably figure out how it works. For you, baby, I’ll do it. Hey,Bingley?”
“Yes, mylord.”
“How do you make a restaurantreservation?”
Becca leaves my houselaughing.
* * *
The workweek getsoff to a rocky start. Monday is a long slog through meetings in Manhattan. The main point of business is choosing a buyer for my router division. After the Canadian company made an offer, I also got one from Alex’s cablecompany.
Weirdly, Alex hasn’t called to talk to me about it herself. Everything is coming through her investment banking team. So that’sodd.
And—as she predicted—I don’t see Becca at the game that night. Not only do we lose game four, but I hate that she’s avoiding me. I’m still Becca’s dirtysecret.
But Tuesday night she’s all smiles. We eat sushi at a new place in Brooklyn Heights and then walk home again. I light a fire in the den, and Becca sets up the Scrabble board. But two turns in we jump eachother.
Go slow, I remind myself as we make out on the sofa. But apparently that’s just not possible. Ten minutes later I have all her clothes off and mine, too. I direct her to lean over an ottoman in front of the fireplace. I nudge her knees apart, and shemoans.
Taking her hips in my hands, I pushinside.
“Nathan,” she gasps, her hands gripping thefurniture.
I do her right there. And it’s amazing. But it isn’tslow.
