Chapter 7

The neon sign outside buzzed with a low, electric hum, a steady B-flat that vibrated through the windowpane and into the very marrow of my bones. It was 2:17 AM. The world outside was a blur of wet asphalt and passing taillights, but inside, time had thickened, turning into something viscous and sweet like maple syrup pooling on a plate. I was tangled in his arms, sprawled across the backseat of his rental car, the leather seats still holding the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the stale smoke of the event hall we’d just fled. My hair was a wild halo of tangles against his crisp white shirt, and his hand, large and warm, rested possessively over the curve of my hip, right where the hem of my slip dress had ridden up. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to break the spell. For weeks, I had been a whirlwind of deadlines, client calls, and polite smiles, a woman composed of sharp angles and efficient movements. But here, in the dim, amber glow of the dashboard lights filtering through the windshield, I was just flesh and bone and longing. I could feel the steady rise and fall of