Rena makes a sound of agreement as we start down the steps. “Still, I bet you've stared at him shirtless. Given some romantic name to how he smells.”
I swipe my card and pass through the turnstiles, then turn toward my line, which is different from the one that takes Rena back to her place and Kendall to hers.
“Having a Friday night friend who’s not giving it to you is not pulling his weight,” Rena calls. “How many Marcs are you going to turn down before you either say yes or break down and fuck your best friend like a normal adult?”
Bless New Yorkers. No one even turns to look.
I take the subway to my stop, turning over Rena’s words.
It’s not that Ben isn’t attractive. He is—every inch of him is designed for the urban jungle, from the strong body that looks even better in weekend denim than designer suits, to a carved jaw that intimidates in the boardroom and makes a woman’s fingers itch, to a firm mouth that’s as tempting pursed as it is in a cocky “I just made a deal that will blow your mind” grin.
His brilliant engineer’s brain and dry sense of humor don’t hurt either.
It’s impossible not to look at a man that confident, that self-possessed, that successful, and not experience some primal desire to align yourself with him.
But I’m not the woman men like Ben stop to look at. Even back in college, I wasn’t the girl with the perfect hair and makeup and clothes, and I wasn’t the party girl. I was the one people liked to have in their group because I’d get shit done while they were off chasing the party girl.
When I emerge from the subway and head back to street level, I check my phone.
The picture message from Ben is a ceramic dog on a flat white surface, the blue sky and clouds over a shiny reflection that could be water in the background.
I shake my head, grinning. Unbelievable.
Another text has come in since the first one.
Ben: Missed my flight from LA.
Concern floods me as I type back.
Daisy: Everything okay?
Ben: Meeting ran long. Fill you in later.
Daisy: Get home safe.
It's not a big deal. I tell that to the disappointment.
Ben and I weren’t always friends. For a while, he was part of a constellation of acquaintances in college, stars colliding in seemingly random patterns at pub nights or studying.
It was only later that our collisions became more purposeful. Inevitable.
I get to my Upper West Side brick walk-up, taking the stairs to the third floor in my four-inch heels and letting myself into the first door on the right.
“Lil?” I call into the dark.
My two-bedroom apartment is spacious for the city, in a renovated building. My suite has low-profile furniture in soft neutrals with pops of metallic and black. The kitchen is quartz with white cabinets. The walls of the living room, kitchen and my bedroom have art from a number of local on-the-rise female artists—paintings, photography, and pencil drawings. It’s a modest collection but I add to it when I have the time and money.
There’s a note on the counter from my little sister to say she’s crashing with her classmate on campus.
With tonight free, maybe I will stop by and see Marc and his friends. I’m thirty and it’s Friday night. So after showering, I get changed and put on a green dress that’s shorter than I’d wear to the office.
After turning out the lights, I’m in my foyer and bent over, stepping into my open-toed sandals, when the door sounds at my back.
“I thought you were out tonight…”
I turn, but it’s not my sister at the door.
The man towers over me in the semi-darkness. Terror has my heart hammering in my ears.
I must’ve left the door open.
I start mentally calculating how far I am from the knife block in the kitchen. Before I can decide whether to run for the door or the knives, the man speaks.
"Remember the day senior year when Hunter let live chickens into my apartment and we had to wait for animal control to collect them? I always thought that was the longest day ever. I take it back. Today was the longest day ever.”
His familiar voice has me sagging in relief.
I reach past him and hit the light switch, the overhead light flooding us in a warm glow and soft shadows.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I accuse. “You said you weren’t coming.”
The door swings shut behind him, his suit jacket following the strong lines of his shoulders, his chest as he yanks off the tie and drops it on the table by the door.
Despite the clothes, he doesn’t look like some Ivy League prep. He looks like a lion someone thought they could tame. As if he could act polite, follow every social nicety when it gets him what he wants, but underneath, he’s ruthless.
Ben frowns, perplexed as I take in the black overnight bag resting at his feet, the key he holds. “I said I missed my flight," he corrects. "When I messaged you, I’d already paid a guy for his seat on another one. When was the last time one of us missed this night?”
My heart squeezes. “Never.”
Ben reaches into his bag and pulls out a T-shirt and a bottle of tequila, then passes me the bottle before shrugging out of the jacket.
He walks past me into the bathroom. The water runs for a moment, then stops.
I pour the tequila into two glasses, then go get the Xbox out of the linen closet and hook it up while he changes.
Ben has more money than he can count, and I have more equity than most entrepreneurs my age. New York rules say we should be out on the town, wining and dining. And we do—all week long. Ben for his venture capital firm, me for my business.
This is what we do to recover from that.
Is it weird? Maybe.
But it’s cheaper than therapy.
I consider changing, but the bathroom door’s already opening. My friend tugs the hem of his fresh white T-shirt down to the belt on his Armani pants as he emerges.
Sorry, Marc.
I sit my ass on the floor in front of my couch, tugging down the dress that rides up high.
Ben takes his dress shirt to his bag by the door and returns, then he slides down next to me and grabs the controller I’ve set out for him and the tequila.
“The inventors of Duo deserve a medal.”
His low, rumbling voice has me smirking. “You just like the excuse to play Fortnite as a grown man.”
“Don’t question my masculinity,” he drawls. “This is two-thousand-dollar tequila.”
I cut him a look. “I didn’t realize spending some people’s mortgage payment on a bottle of alcohol made you legit.”
Ben has steady brown eyes that see far too much, a sharp jaw, strong nose, and carved lips that make you want to trace them with a finger to see if there's any give at all.
Now, those lips curve in a wry grin as he clinks his glass to mine. I drain mine and set it on the table.
“That was meant to be enjoyed,” he says.
“Trust me, I enjoyed it. I lost a big client, but it’s fine.” I take a deep breath, lifting the controller and navigating through menus as I get us set to play. “Ready?” I ask, and he nods.
We spend a few minutes getting into the gameplay. We’ve done the opening enough before that we don’t even need to talk, our cooperative strategy is so synced.