“She’s an employee of the hotel. It’s her job.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “I guess you haven’t seen the movie Waiting.”
He’s silent for a moment, perhaps considering the absolutely disgusting subject matter of that movie, before changing his tune. “Okay. You wait here. I’ll get the drinks. What do you like?”
“Tropical vacations. Reruns of The Office. New Kids on the Block. Kittens—”
“To drink.” I swear I can hear a soft chuckle escape his lips, but I can’t be sure over the music pounding from the speakers. “What do you like to drink?”
“Ohh, that,” I say with a knowing laugh. “Chardonnay.”
Not being able to take advantage of facial cues when bantering with a new partner is disconcerting to say the least, but Walter seems to be up to the challenge and properly versed in humor. I decide to trust that he’ll understand mine.
“Great. Be right back.”
I weave among the dancing couples as he makes his way to the bar and hover creepily behind Ed Sheeran and Miley Cyrus while Walt orders from Karen.
I can almost sense the moment he says the word Chardonnay—because her eyes surreptitiously scan the room. I slouch farther behind Miley and peek again.
Reluctantly, Karen smiles and grabs a bottle from the shelf behind her to pour my glass of wine and then gets to work making a complicated concoction for Walt.
My back aches from hunching, and Miley might have to consider adopting me by the time he finally turns around to make his way to me again.
I kind of want to tease him about it, but the desperate little bird on my shoulder reminds me what that will do to my prospects for having someone to kiss at midnight, and I seal my sarcastic mouth tight.
There’s not much worse than standing around watching everyone else in a room toast to the future with someone they love while you whither in your lonely destitution.
A little dramatic? Probably. But my dismal business situation has me riding quite the emotional wave. Cowabunga, dude and all that.
Walt hands me my glass, and I take it gratefully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I lift the bottom edge of my mask and slip the glass underneath to take a hearty gulp, and he does the same.
Lost for words now that I’ve forbidden myself from saying anything too sarcastic, I flounder in my awkwardness and fidget obsessively. A tug at the fabric on one strap of my dress, a smoothing hand across my stomach, and a tap of my toe on the marble floor later, the lights of the room finally flicker their absolution.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a disembodied voice says over the speakers of the room. “Make your way to the windows and find your companions. The ball will be dropping in one minute.”
I’m half expecting Walt to excuse himself to find his wife or girlfriend or someone else, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds out a gallant arm. “Shall we, Beyoncé?”
Oh, Walt. We definitely shall.
With my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, he guides me across the room and to the windows, even managing a spot for us right up front with an unobstructed view.
We face forward silently as a countdown begins from thirty.
Lights flash in Times Square below, and the crowd in the room gets restless. They chant the numbers exuberantly, but with each progressive number of their countdown, I retreat deeper into uncertainty.
Disquiet about why I’m here and what I’m doing with a guy I only know as Walt and insecurity about the big interview with Turner Properties.
What if I fail?
What if I put everything I have into this business of mine, and I walk away with nothing but years of stress and aging?
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I almost don’t notice when the crowd turns bloodthirsty for satisfaction and winds their way down from ten.
A roar of noise penetrates the windows from below, and still, I don’t flinch.
It isn’t until the touch of a warm, gentle hand slides across my back and puts pressure on me to turn that I realize Walt has rolled up the very bottom of his mask and is reaching for mine with the hand not at my back.
Seconds masquerade as millennia, and cheers take over the room. The transition of one year to the next is official, and Walt’s lips are on mine.
Slow and exploratory, he teases and tastes and builds energy in the bundle of butterflies at home in my stomach.
The kiss is…exquisite.
It’s new and unfamiliar, but satisfyingly right.
It’s everything I’d want out of a midnight kiss with a stranger and more.
There’s a buzz between us—a hum of electricity or energy or some other new age shit—and my body sways toward his naturally. His big hands move down my sides and over my hips until they’re gripping the silk material covering my ass, and a soft moan escapes my throat.
He feels so good. Tastes so good. Like mystery and excitement and promises of sex and sin.
I slide my hands to his broad shoulders, letting my fingers explore the firm and taut muscles of his upper body.
Time is nonexistent. The partygoers around us go poof. And the music coming from the speakers of the dance floor disappears entirely. This mind-blowing, deepening kiss commandeers all of my senses until the only thing I can hear is the excited rhythm of my heartbeat pounding inside my ears.
Our lips tease and explore and take all of my breath, so that when he finally pulls away, when the moment finally ends, when we finally come back down to earth, I don’t even have the air left to sigh.
All sorts of reckless possibilities run through my mind and pulse in my vagina as I work up the nerve to ask Walt back to my room. It’d be a night of wild chemistry if nothing else, and a good cleaning for these dusty pipes.
With his hands gently gripping my fingers, he leans back and looks down at me, and I can’t stop my gaze from fixating on his now visible mouth.
God, no wonder he’s such a fan-fucking-tastic kisser.
His lips are full and round and just…perfect.
Damn near entranced, my eyes follow the path of his tongue as it sneaks out and runs across his bottom lip, almost like he’s savoring the taste of our kiss.
It’s incredibly arousing. Even my vagina agrees. The horny little bitch is already throbbing and aching over the mere idea of spending the night with him.
“Hmmm…interesting…” he says on a near whisper, and I honestly get the vibe that it’s more for himself than for me.
But I can’t be sure.
And interesting? What does that mean?
Good interesting? Bad interesting? “You are an incredibly weird person, and I never want to kiss you again” interesting?
I have no idea, but I can’t stop myself from trying to find out. “What’s interesting?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes search mine for a good ten seconds.
And he squeezes my fingers with his hand as his attention snags for the briefest of moments over my shoulder. But he quickly recovers and brings his gaze back to mine.
Before I can urge him for an explanation or for his name or for him to let me see the face behind the mask, he leans in closer to my body, and his warm breath brushes across the skin of my cheek. “If we were anywhere else,” he whispers, and his soft lips just barely tease against my ear. “If we were anywhere else in the fucking world but here, my next kiss would be between your legs.”