Settling herself in the study, Cole opened her laptop and stared miserably at the arid desert of accomplishment that was her CV. She did her best to spruce it up. Truthfully, she hadn’t been completely idle at Oxford—if anything, her near pathological avoidance of her degree had made her pretty productive in other areas. She’d written for any paper, magazine, and doomed websperiment going. And then there’d been her celebrated stretch as editor of the Bog Sheet—indeed, upon such foundations were Pulitzers won. Ho hum. But at least it meant she had a portfolio. And that was…that was something, right? Her social media presence wasn’t bad either. Twitter could go bite a rabid baboon, but her Instagram was popular-ish, even with people who didn’t know her personally. Basically, she was probably a credible potential candidate. Apart from the bit where she had nothing to apply for because the career advisor had been right and she should have sorted this out last Oct
Aiden was back in a couple of days, probably having made, like, $100,000 an hour while Cole had flailed around trying to come up with pitches and eating a lot of Coco Pops directly from the packet. It was disconcerting because she’d never lacked for inspiration before. There’d always been something going on at college—news or gossip or drama or simply a fresh target for satire. And even at school, she’d got serious column inches out of stuff like the time Glen Lowrey got a D on his chemistry homework, set it on fire with the Bunsen burner, threw the smoldering pieces in the bin, and then the bin exploded. They went to print with the headline BIN BURNER LOWREY IN NEW ARSON SHOCK. And she’d got detention for gratuitous sensationalism. The problem was, here at the top of One Hyde Park, there was nothing. Just wealth and quiet and bulletproof glass. She mean, unless she wanted to write about being the…kept woman? Temporary fucktoy? Of a gay billionaire. Except no. Ju
Or maybe detachment wasn't the right word either. It was hard to think in the middle of the sensual onslaught to which she was subjecting herself. And probably that she was trying to think at all was a sign of some hitherto undiscussed messed-upness on her part. But she guessed she just wanted him to be more involved. She wanted pleasure to be this bottle of strawberry wine they passed between them on a summer day. She wanted it to be sparks in a plasma ball jumping from her to him and back again. And she definitely didn't want to be serviced by a beautiful bonk robot as if she was stuck in Westworld. Which was totally ungrateful of her because there was some amazing stuff going on. Her body was having a really happy time—but where was Aiden? Every time she tried to touch him back or participate in any way, he'd move her hands or reposition her with infuriating gentleness. Cole wouldn't have cared if he'd pinned her or overpowered her, come at her rough and cruel and full of threats o
Cole was blushing even more. Blushing everywhere. Heat rushed through her body like a river undammed. This was so embarrassing. Except it was an oddly sexy embarrassing—a kissing cousin of desire—because she liked…she liked that he was insisting. It meant she was right. That he did want something more from her. And that maybe he’d let her give it. “Come on, Cole,” he said, leaning down and kissing her lightly. A tease, perhaps, or invitation. Reassurance, too, of a kind. “You’re going to tell me.” Of course she was. “Give me a minute,” she grumbled. “My fantasy life happens to be rich and complex.” His mouth curled into a rare, soft-edged smile. “I would expect no less.” There was a silence. Oh shit. It was supposed to be her line. Cole cleared her throat. “I, uh—” Her throat had clogged up. She tried to swallow in a sneaky and subtle fashion and ended up making a Gollumish gulping noise. Maybe she couldn’t d
Aiden had been elusive after that. Busy, she guessed? At any rate, it turned out guests weren’t a problem, as long as she gave Bellerose enough notice to clear it with security and update Aiden’s diary so he knew she wasn’t available. She was actually super excited to see Harper. And she thought he was happy to see her, although it was slightly overshadowed by his reaction to the apartment. “Holy fuckballs,” she said, her bag slipping off her shoulder and thumping onto the floor. “When you said to meet you at Hyde Park, I assumed you were just using it as a landmark and we’d be off to some scuzzy bedsit you were renting in Peckham.” “Yeah, I’m just crashing here while my crack den is being repainted,” Cole replied. Harper turned dazedly, her eyes skidding over glass and silk and marble, much as hers had done when she first arrived. As, to be fair, they still did because she wasn’t sure how anyone ever got used to a place like this. “Seriously, Cole. How can
“What? You know you’re a good writer,” Harper said. “Maybe at university. But this is the real world now. The stakes are different.” “Not really. It’s the same pool of people if you think about it.” Huh. Cole thought. “I guess.” “Then maybe…write something?” Cole opened her mouth— “And don’t whimper about it.” “But I’m so cute when I’m whimpering.” “Save it for your billionaire.” Cole whimpered anyway. “I don’t know what to write about.” “Yeah, you’re right.” Harper gazed around the flat. “Nothing to write about here.” “I can’t…OMG. That would be a total violation of Aiden’s trust.” “I’m not suggesting you give us a blow-by-blow of your relationship. But isn’t this lifestyle magazine gold dust?” “Regular reader of those, are you?” “I went to school with half the people who show up in Milieu these days so”—she blushed—“yeah. Of course I am.” Oh my God, too adorbs. Cole just had to tease her. “And how else would you know what handbag Kate Middleton is carryi
Sometime between opening the bottle and finishing the bottle and embarking on another one, they had decided to lie on the rug to better appreciate the beauty of the universe. Which was when dinner arrived. It was super super weird to be served in your home like it was a restaurant, except it was hard to imagine One Hyde Park being anyone’s home really, and they were tipsy, which helped with the embarrassment factor. The food went by in a blur of faint weirdness. They’d brought them this complementary starter, which was an orange and some burned toast, except the orange was actually pate and Harper exploded it with a knife when she tried to slice into it like you would a piece of fruit. The Rice & Flesh turned out to be saffron risotto with cow bits on top—although it was delicious—and Cole's savory porridge was the worst thing in the world. Probably it tasted okay once you got over the fact that it was bright green and the frog legs croquettes had
The next day, Cole called a car to take Harper to the airport, just about managing not to ask Bellerose's permission this time, and since she wasn't exactly overendowed with things to do, she went along with him. At the airport, saying goodbye turned out to be awful. It felt all final, and Cole got clingy as hell, trailing around the concourse with Harper holding her hand like a kid at the supermarket. But Harper wasn't exactly shaking her off either. They parted at the last possible moment with a pathetic amount of hugging. Cole was crying openly and Harper was snuffling. "I'm going to come back and visit all the time," she said. "I really need another one of those facials." Cole nodded. "You'll need it. America is bad for the complexion." "And we can still Kik and buddy watch stuff." "Yep yep." "And you can obsessively like all my Instagram posts." "I only care about the ones where you're shirtless. Fuck this cappuccino