“I’m leaving.”

  “No. Come on. You promised to stay for one drink!”

  I throw my purse and laptop bag over my shoulder and look up at her, unable to see her face clearly through my tears.

  “Shit.” Dina cringes at me. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. Don’t make a scene. You stay.”

  “I’m not letting you—”

  “Please,” I beg her, blinking madly as I sidestep back from the bar and turn toward the door.

  “Where’s she going?” asks one of the guys as I push forward through the crowd.

  “She’s just upset. Don’t—”

  “Courtney!”

  Josh’s voice makes me turn around. I look over my shoulder to see him standing at the bar, his hands flat on the chrome counter, his eyes focused on me with a kind of wild severity. Suddenly, without warning, he does that vault-over-the-bar move, plowing through the crowd to catch up with me.

  I get to the door, grateful when someone walking in holds it open for me, and I rush out onto the sidewalk just as hot rivulets start to streak down my cheeks.

  “Courtney! Courtney, stop!”

  I hear him behind me, calling my name, but I don’t look back. I keep walking as fast as I can. Home isn’t far, and once I’m home, I’m safe. I can cry my eyes out all night long.

  But suddenly, I feel his hand on my arm. In an instant, he yanks me around, and I’m facing him, looking up into his fierce, furious eyes…

  “Talk to me!”

  …into his big, blue, beautiful eyes.

  I don’t think.

  I act.

  Standing on tiptoes, I reach around his neck and pull his face down to mine, arching my back as my lips touch his. He’s startled at first, and his lips are slack and soft, though his body is rigid except for his chest—he’s taking deep breaths after running to catch up with me. Each inhalation pushes his torso into mine, and I can feel his strength, how big and solid he is, rhythmically pressing into the softness of my breasts.

  I flick my tongue over his closed lips, and a feral growl escapes from the back of his throat as his arms tighten suddenly around me. Now I am at his mercy as he holds me tightly, his lips moving hungrily over mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to taste me. I welcome the invasion, locking my fingers together behind his neck, my nipples pebbling into little stones inside my bra. I can feel the throbbing length of him bulging against my belly and try to get closer to him. I moan softly, and he swallows the sound before sliding his lips to the column of my throat. Hot kisses trail from my jawline to my collarbone as he whispers my name like a prayer.

  “Courtney, Courtney, Courtney…I knew it could be like this,” he murmurs, his voice deep and heavy, his breath warm against my skin.

  “Yes,” I breathe, tilting my head to the side so that he has better access to me, wanting his lips on every inch of my skin, on every tiny part of me.

  He rests them on my pulse. “I can feel your heart. It’s pounding.”

  I swallow, opening my eyes and wetting my lips for more.

  He doesn’t disappoint me.

  His mouth crashes flush onto mine, and my lips are sealed with his as his tongue slides forward, velvet and warm, seeking its mate. He slides his hands to my backside, which he grabs and shoves forward roughly, against him, into his erection. The synapses in my brain fire, and a huge dopamine release makes me mold to him like jelly. The whole world is diluted to this moment, and at its center, at its core, beating its throbbing heart like a gong…are me and Josh.

  His lips abandon mine, and I protest their loss with a whimper, my fingers tightening at the base of his neck.

  “Jesus, Court,” he sighs, leaning forward to nuzzle my nose with his. “Um. Let me…let me go back and punch out. Annie can, um, cover…”

  He’s still speaking, but his voice, talking about punching out and shift coverage, vaults me from a place of dewy arousal to brutal reality.

  Wait. Wait! Courtney Jane Salinger, what the hell are you doing?

  The voice in my head is so shrill, I unclasp my hands from the back of his neck and slide them to his shoulders, pushing him away.

  “Wait…” I clear my throat. “Wait. Josh, wait.”

  My words are desperate and breathy, and my chest heaves against his as I weakly try to put space between us.

  He looks into my eyes, refusing to release me. “I want this. I want you.”

  But for how long? that insistent voice demands.

  “Please,” I say, flattening my hands on his chest. “Let me go.”

  His arms loosen. His eyes search mine. “What? What just happened? Court, I want this. I want you.”

  I want you too.

  I step away, feeling confused and frustrated. “I—I know, but I don’t…I mean, I don’t know if this—if this is right for me.”

  He backhands his mouth as if trying to wipe away our kiss. “Right for you? What the fuck does that mean? You just kissed me.”

  “I know I did. I’m sorry.”

  My purse and laptop bag slipped off my shoulder while we were kissing, and I lean down to pick them up off the pavement.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “Just—just talk to me.”

  He is so incredibly beautiful, and he’s come to mean so much to me over the past few weeks. But I am really close to making my dreams come true. I can’t let him—or anyone else—derail me now.

  “I have never lied to you, Josh. I want to get married. You know that.”

  “So do I…someday.”

  “No,” I say, clenching my jaw and telling myself to be brave. “Not someday. Now. I want it now.”

  “Damn it, you’re stubborn!” He runs a hand through his hair. “Courtney, be reasonable. Come on. Give us a chance. Give this a chance.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell me you don’t care about me!” He steps forward and cups my face with his hands. They’re big and so warm against my cold skin, and I want to close my eyes and lean into them, lean into him, forever. He feathers a kiss on my forehead, and his voice is soft and gentle by my temple. “Tell me, baby. Tell me you don’t care.”

  “I…can’t,” I admit, because I do. “I do care about you.”

  He kisses my forehead again, and tears fill my eyes because his touch is so reverent, so tender, it makes me want to stay like this forever. But forever isn’t being offered. With all the strength I have, I force myself to step back, away from his oh-so-temporary warmth and sweetness. “Please.”

  “Please…what?” He crosses his arms, his face hardening. “Is it because I’m a bartender? Because I’m a—a struggling playwright? Because I don’t make a decent living and have a posh apartment to offer you?”

  I gasp as indignation rises up like spitting lava inside of me.

  “Don’t be an asshole, Josh. I have never looked down on you. You know that.” I swipe at an escaping tear. “But the one thing I want—the only thing I want—is marriage, is a forever commitment. And you can think I’m crazy or stubborn or unreasonable or anything else, but you knew, from the beginning, what I wanted.” I gulp softly and muster the last of my courage, because for me to walk away without regrets, I need to ask him one question: “Are you ready to offer me that?”

  He stands there on the sidewalk across from me, his arms still crossed over his chest, and his eyes searing into mine. He licks his bottom lip and bites it, looking away from me for a second before sighing.

  “No,” he whispers, the sound small and strangled.

  Gutted but not surprised, I heft my bags higher on my shoulder. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Fuck! Courtney, come on! There’s something here! Why can’t you give us a little time to figure out what it is?”

  “How much time?” I shoot back.

  “What?”

  “How much time? A year? Two? Three? Five? Ten?” I quit blinking back my tears and just let them fall freely. “When might you be ready for forever?”

  He shakes his head and sighs again, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall at his sides. On one wrist, he wears a braided leather bracelet, and I know it’s warm from his skin, and oh my God, all I want is to touch that wrist and feel that warm leather under my fingers. I’m jealous of that small scrap of leather. I’m jealous it gets to spend all day, every day, pressed against this man, flush against his skin.

  “I don’t know,” he mutters.

  His voice snaps me back to reality, and my glistening eyes meet his.

  “That’s why, Josh. That’s why I can’t give this time. Because I don’t know how much time you need, and neither do you.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” I say, sniffling. My lip quivers when I add, “Be h-happy. I want you to have the b-best life ever. Just…” I clear my throat. “Just leave me alone, okay? Please, Josh. Please just leave me alone.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me with the same frustrated, confused, angry feelings I share with him until I can’t bear it anymore. I turn away and start walking home, but I won’t lie: I’m listening for his feet behind me. Part of me is praying that he’ll call my name, that he’ll offer me something I can accept.

  But he doesn’t follow me.

  He doesn’t call my name.

  He offers me nothing.

  He lets me go.

  When I get home, I take my phone out of my pocket and pull up a text box, then type in “Walter DeWitt.”

  The message I send reads as follows:

  Walter, I’m happy to accept your offer.

  I will leave for London tomorrow night.

  Thank you for the opportunity.

  Courtney J. Salinger

  CHAPTER 10

  Josh

  The first thing I think when I open my eyes the next morning:

  She kissed me.

  She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and it was the best kiss I have ever had in my entire life.

  The second thing I think:

  And then you let her walk away.

  Fuck. FUCK!

  But of course I let her walk away.

  What other choice did I have? Marriage?

  No. No way. Come on. That’s nuts.

  We don’t know each other well enough for marriage. Besides, I can’t support a wife. I’m not ready to be a husband or—or pay a mortgage. What about health insurance? What about a house? I can’t afford my own apartment, let alone one we could share.

  My head starts to ache because, fuck me, I can’t offer her anything. Not to mention, this whole scheme makes her unreasonable, irrational, and crazy, so I shouldn’t want to be with her anyway. Right? Right.

  Except, no.

  Wrong.

  In spite of everything, I’ve fallen for her. Hard. At maximum, smash-your-body-on-the-pavement-below velocity.

  My mind has seized on her, fixed on her, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the fierce hammering of my heart when I think of her. She’s what I want, and after last night’s unexpected and scorching-hot kiss, I want her more than ever.

  I also want to bellow with frustration and yell every curse word I ever learned, but Mike’s sleeping in his bed on the other side of our tiny room, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake him up, since he probably only got home a few hours ago.

  I pick up my phone from the fruit-crate-cum-nightstand beside my bed and open a text box.

  Courtney, we need to talk. I’m free today. Text me.

  I stare at the message for a second, making sure it sends, then put my phone down and stretch. Looks sunny outside. I think I’ll take a long run and then come back and shower. Maybe she’ll have texted me back by then.

  Except she doesn’t.

  Not on Saturday morning, or Sunday morning, or Monday morning when I wake up and check my phone first thing. By then, I’ve sent six messages about us talking about what happened on Friday night and haven’t heard as much as a peep from her.

  My desire to talk to her grows proportionately to the amount of time I’ve waited, and by Monday night, driven to near madness by her silence, I leave her a rambling voice mail after several beers, asking her to please call me back. But she doesn’t, and I eventually fall asleep with my phone on my chest.

  The next morning, I can barely think about anything else. I’m sitting in a studio at the New Dramatists, where I’m supposed to be writing, but all I’m doing is rereading the same line of dialogue over and over again, wondering why Courtney won’t talk to me. Finally, I snap. I need some kind of resolution, and I’m finished with her icing me out. If she won’t pick up her cell or text me back, she leaves me no choice but to call her at work.

  I open an internet browser and search “financial companies New York Courtney Salinger” and am gratified when a name I recognize—DeWitt, Morris & Jones—comes up. I close the door to my writing studio and dial the number, waiting a moment until the call is answered.

  “Good afternoon. DeWitt, Morris & Jones. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hi. I’d like to speak with Courtney Salinger, please.”

  “Ringing Miss Salinger’s line. Hold please.”

  A moment later, another woman’s voice answers. “Courtney Salinger’s office. This is Pam speaking.”

  “H-Hi.” I didn’t expect an assistant to run interference between me and Courtney, but I also don’t have a plan, so I clear my throat and say, “I’d like to speak with Courtney, please.”

  “Miss Salinger is not in the office at present. May I take a message?”

  Fuck. Has the assistant been warned to give unknown male callers the runaround? Hmm.

  “Can you tell me when she’ll be back? It’s important that I speak to her.” I manage to say this in a cool, collected voice.

  “Miss Salinger is away on business, sir, but I am more than happy to forward a message to her.”

  “A-Away? When did she leave?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, I didn’t know she was away.”

  But already I feel my muscles relaxing and my mind easing. That’s why she hasn’t texted me back or called. She’s away on business. She could be anywhere. Maybe she doesn’t have cell service. Either way, she’s probably busy and waiting to get in touch with me when she returns.

  “Sir? Did you want to leave a message?”

  “Um. No. No, thank you. I’ll…I’ll just leave a message on her cell.” Or seven.

  “Fine. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Thank you for your help. Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I press “End” on my phone and place it on my desk, sitting back in my chair.

  She didn’t mention that she was going out of town, but for all I know, she goes out of town for a few days every other week. How would I know? It’s not exactly something we talked about while yelling at each other on the pavement outside of Tidewaters.

  I can’t help wondering where she is, and I have a fleeting notion to call her assistant back and ask or call Dina to find out more. But half a dozen texts, a rambling phone message, and a call to her office today already has me looking like a stalker. I decide to practice patience and hope she’ll show up at Tidewaters on Friday.

  In the meantime, I think about why it’s so urgent that I speak to her.

  I mean, we’re sort of deadlocked, so what is it I want to say?

  I stare at my bedroom ceiling on Wednesday night, having a conversation with myself.

  What do you want, Josh? What will you say to her when you finally talk?

  First and foremost, I want to convince her not to get arranged. I want to convince her that we deserve more time.

  So, how do you plan to do that?

  This is a sticky question because she’s adamant that she (1) doesn’t want to waste her time on a relationship that goes nowhere and (2) wants a solid commitment. Honestly, I don’t see her giving me, and us, a chance if I don’t give in a little.

  I think about what commitment I’d be comfortable making to this woman right now. How far am I willing to go? How much can I stretch myself without feeling panic or pain?

  I could definitely offer her exclusivity. Hell, I haven’t looked at another woman in weeks anyway, so that’s an easy one. And—gulp, this is a big one—I’ve never lived with anyone, but I’d take a chance jumping to cohabitation if that would make her feel more secure about my intentions. Living together. Some people don’t do that for months, and I imagine it would be pretty awkward in the beginning, but if it would help her see that I’m serious about her, I’d be open to it.

  It surprises me to learn that I wouldn’t necessarily mind fast-tracking some of the normal steps in a relationship. After all, we’ve already dated and kissed. I’ve met her parents. Seen in a certain light, we’ve already been moving pretty quick. And even if a step like moving in together felt like “moving too fast,” I could figure out how to adjust. After all, it’s what she wants, and half of being in a relationship is meeting the other person’s needs and wants. I can do that for her. She’s worth it. And I know she cares about me too. She admitted it. Surely a reasonable compromise is in the cards for us.

  But that night, I dream of Courtney on her wedding day.

  She’s wearing a white gown, but when her father lifts the veil, I’m looking through her eyes…at a total and complete stranger. He’s tall and blond—a cross between a tan California surfer and an ax-toting Swede. He’s huge and built in ways my stocky Irish blood can barely fathom.

  “Courtney Jane Salinger, I’d like for you to meet your husband, Sven Ragnar Torgersson, who is a certified millionaire with several houses, a booming financial career, and powerfully potent seed that will give you many strong sons and beautiful daughters.”

  Sven winks at Courtney…and I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, “No!”

  “What the fuck, man?” demands Mike, throwing a pillow at me from across our dark bedroom. “Shut up! Christ!”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, thoughts of Sven’s “powerfully potent seed” making me shake with fury and fear. The idea of my Courtney having sex with Sven is almost unbearable.

  I pull on sweat pants and a sweatshirt and go up to the roof of our apartment building, looking out over our neighborhood and then up at the orange-hued sky.