Heat explodes in a swirl of red and pink and coral on my cheeks that I know he can see even under the dim lighting. Yet, he just continues to play, every skillful finger pressing the keys perfectly to produce magic. His fingers were one of the first things I noticed up close about him. They’re long and slender—perfect pianist fingers. They were created to make love. To fuck. To create.

I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I hear him singing beside me, causing me to wake from my dream. It’s just the first line of the first verse. But it’s enough to have me panting with the need for him to trace those lyrics with his tongue all over my body. I have to get out of here. I have to get away from him. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I will do. And I’m even more unsure whether he would stop me.

Ransom reads my frantic expression like sheet music and smiles. He slides those long, magical fingers from the keys and places his hands in his lap, turning to me with wonder resting on his brow. I stare back, my lips parted and my breath shallow. I stare and I wait and I beg.

“Heidi.” My name is like an elixir on his tongue, potent and sweet. Too strong to swallow all at once, but intoxicating enough to crave it inside him. I move in a fraction closer, wanting to taste it. Wanting to smell my scent on his mouth.

A hiss filters between his teeth, and Ransom abruptly turns back to the black and ivory keys. A frown shadows his smile for just the barest of moments, but it’s long enough to break the spell.

“Come on,” he rasps in the voice reserved for the secrets he sings in the dark. “Time to go.”

Chapter Twelve

We weave through streets as slick and black as oil, bypassing partygoers and club-hoppers and late-night diners. Ransom doesn’t speak as he drives, but he leaves the music up. I close my eyes and lay my head back against the butter soft leather, and replay our last moments, our last words, our last touch.

What have I done?

What am I still doing?

We pull up to my building, and Ransom is already out of the driver’s side door before I can collect myself enough to search for the handle. He opens it and steps aside, offering me a hand to aid my shaky efforts. Still, he says nothing. Even his fingers—those long, dazzling fingers—seem cold.

Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is a gentleman, in his own unconventional way. But he isn’t Tucker. And furthermore, Tucker isn’t him.

“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling self-conscious. I hug myself and shiver despite the warm, late spring temperatures.

He nods in response. That’s it. That’s all he has for me, reminding me that I am not entitled to more. I shouldn’t crave more.

I turn to the door of my building, when he turns my limbs to stone with just a single whispered word.

“Heidi.” His mouth cradles that word—cradles me—like a razorblade under his tongue. So careful, yet so dangerous.

I turn around despite the lead in my six-inch heels, but I don’t respond.

“If you wanted me . . . If you were . . .”

That’s all I need.

I nod, and bid him good night, and leave Ransom standing at the curb. It’s not until I approach the elevator that I hear the roar of 8-cyclinders drift away into the night.

My condo is dark and empty when I enter, but I’m not surprised. However, I am shocked by a beautiful spread situated on the kitchen table. I pick up the white notecard and recognize that messy doctor’s scrawl that I’ve learned to decipher over the years. I smile as I read the haphazard lines and loops, and realize that, no, Tucker isn’t Ransom, and he never will be. And I’ve never been more grateful for that.

Bunny,

It’s going to be a long night, baby. But hopefully this makes up for it.

I love you.

Tuck

I set the note aside and see that he’s arranged to have a bottle of my favorite Cab, truffles and chocolate chip cookies from Jacques Torres, Laura Mercier bath milk, and the softest, silkiest pajama set from La Perla.

He’s thought of everything, and must’ve planned all this hours ago. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, and he still wanted me to feel special. He still wanted me to feel loved and cherished, despite what I’ve done. Despite what I wanted to do tonight.

Guilt seizes my chest, and I clutch my throat. Alone and in the dark, I choke on the shame and let it roll down my face, stealing my mascara with it. I suck in a few breaths to compose myself and quickly swipe away the tears, before grabbing the basket of goodies and taking them to our room. That’s enough humanity for one night.

Gorging myself on wine and chocolate, I take the most luxurious bath known to man. Luckily, Tucker, being the kind, considerate man that he is, even thought to uncork the bottle for me and include a glass. I soak until the water runs cold and I’m all out of cookies. And after I get out and swath myself in ribbons of pale pink silk, I polish off another glass of red too.

Although I shoot Tucker a text to thank him and wish him good night, I’m not tired enough to sleep. Wine and sugar spike my bloodstream like adrenaline, and I feel more wired than before my bath. I grab the remote and flip through the channels to find that one of my favorite movies has just come on, and I settle in with another glass of wine and what’s left of the truffles. My ass may pay for this tomorrow, but I’m too distracted to care.

I’m sympathizing with Lester Burnham, understanding his desperation, his frustration, when my phone chimes beside me. I expect it to be Tucker—who else would be texting me at close to 1 A.M.?—but it’s not. Of course not. That would be too much like right.

What are you doing?

My fingers hover over the keys, wondering if I should reply or just pretend to be asleep. But I can’t find the strength to deny him. To deny myself.

Watching American Beauty. You seen it?

With Kevin Spacey? Yeah. What channel?

Showtime

There’s a pause, and I imagine him flipping through the channels.

Got it. Great movie.

Weren’t you like 5 when it came out?

8. And?

Seems a little cynical and morbid for an 8-year-old.

Not when you’re a cynical and morbid 8-year-old kid.

I take a sip of wine. Another personal detail. One that would make me imagine a little, round-faced Ransom Reed, with shaggy dark hair and eyes too old for his young years. I could have done without it. Nothing good could ever come of it.

I used to have a crush on Ricky.

I don’t know why I tell him that.

The weed smoking creeper kid with the camera?

Yeah.

Makes sense.

Why do you say that?

Because he’s dark and dangerous. He doesn’t fit in or conform. He’s the complete opposite of you. He’s the bad boy you want but will never let yourself have. Not completely.

I nearly drop my phone. Did he just . . . try to shrink me? Are we still talking about the movie?

So you think I liked him because he’s the quintessential bad boy?

No, H. I think you want him bc you want to be bad too.

I reach for my wineglass and take a huge slug without even tasting it.

Then . . . I smile. He called me H. No one’s ever called me H. Not to my face at least. And I think I like it. Not because it’s simple or charming. But because he gave it to me.

What makes you think I want to be bad?

Bc you want me.

Seeing those words on the screen of my phone incites fear and excitement so deep that it literally shakes me to my core, and I drop the wineglass, ruining the beautiful bodice of my pajama top. I curse and toss my phone to the side to save it from sudden death and jump out of bed. Fortunately, there wasn’t much vino left in my glass and my bedspread is unscathed. Unfortunately, my lovely new sleepwear is ruined. I strip and kick it into a pile, too lazy and, honestly, too tipsy to care enough to try to salvage it. Then I climb into bed completely naked, and pull the covers up to my breasts.