Page 75 of The Billionaire's Ride

“Sounded like more than a little.” Kate walks over and runs her finger along the shiny black finish. “I love that song. Can you play it again?”

“Sure.” I smile and start from the top, praying I remember all of the keys in the right order. So far so good. She leans on the piano and watches me. Then, a single tear falls down her cheek. It’s enough to stop me from playing. “What’s the matter?”

She flicks it away. “Nothing. This just reminds me of my parents. My mom.”

I rise from the bench and bring her into my arms, holding her close, but say nothing. I’m not sure what I believe about the afterlife but in this moment, I wonder if our mothers are watching over us. What would they say about our union?

Kate steps back, sniffing away her tears, and says, “You look like Bruce Wayne.” She obviously wants to move on, so I oblige and play up the role by flashing my cufflinks.

“Who do you like better, James Dean or Bruce Wayne?”

She runs her thumb along my chin. “I like Just Drew better.”

“Good answer,” I say, and bring her in for a kiss.

With her floral perfume, she smells like a garden of ecstasy. She pulls me closer, and moans in my mouth. My entire body wakes up. Forget New York, I’m in a Kate Golden state of mind. I trail my finger down her chest, all the way to her thigh, and begin to come up beneath her lacy hem to that cozy paradise between her legs.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she says, swerving her hips back. “Dessert is for later. C’mon, let’s get a cocktail before dinner.”

We ride the bike to the East Side, and enjoy a set of cocktails at a stylish pub—I mean bar. Then, we head Uptown for an incredible stake dinner, sharing a bottle of red wine. Our conversation is about nothing and everything. Life feels so easy when we’re gazing into each other’s eyes in the ambient lighting and laughing along the way.

She’s in such a good mood that she’s giggling like a schoolgirl when we get out onto the sidewalk. “Isn’t New York the best?” She throws her hands in the air.

“It is.”

“C’mere, I want to remember this.” Kate pulls me close, readies her phone for a selfie, and snaps a photo. Both of us grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, my God! Look at my hair!” She laughs and smooths her hair back. “This humidity is crazy.”

I look at her dark strands, a little wild but she still beautiful. Happy smile, happy hair. “I like your hair like this. It’s sexy.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “Do you think everything about me is sexy?”

“I do.”

“Well, right back ‘atcha.” She taps the tip of my nose, and now I’m sure the drinks have hit her. She’s cute when she’s buzzed. She’s not the only one who’s had a few too many, so we agree to leave the bike on the street and hail a cab back to the West Village.

In the dark cab ride home, we can’t manage to keep our hands off of each other. She’s too shy to snog in front of the driver, which makes her an even more adorable tease. We spend the twenty-minute ride whispering in each other’s ear, all the dirty things we plan to do to each other later. Things she doesn’t want the driver to hear.

Our mouths are locked together as we push our way through her front door, and we slam it shut. She tears my jacket off my shoulders, and my fingers finally get to touch that magical silver zip at her back.

“Wait!” She pulls away. “How drunk are you?”

I shrug. “I don’t know . . .”

She treks into the living room and plugs her phone into the stereo system. “Are you drunk enough for this?”

Latin-style drums ting and tong a familiar beat, and that ‘70s disco melody courses through the room. Oh, my God. It’s . . .

“That’s right ‘Copacabana.’” She sways her hips and shoulders like a mambo dancer while my face turns bright red as I drop my head in my hands.

“C’mon, we got to dance to my drunk song. It’s your turn now, you Fanilow!” She has zero shame as she shimmies her shoulders.

“Did you just call me a Fanilow?”

“Oh, yes I did. Now get over here.” My girl grabs my hand, swinging my arm around to-and-fro in an adorable attempt to get me to move. I plant my feet firmly on the floor. I’m notthatdrunk.

“Drew! You’re not dancing!”

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