Page 42 of Sapphire Sunset

Or maybe Logan had.

Yeah, right, dude.He’s got a big, fabulouslife in New York City. He’s not thinking about some dumb jarhead he made outwith five years ago.

None of that mattered. What mattered was the minute Loganlaid eyes on those baby blues again, his hand went to his zipper, exposing hishard cock to the cool air, and in no time the blend of memory and fantasy—imaginingwhat Connor would have looked like riding him, what it would have felt like tofeel the guy’s arms and legs wrapped around him, wondering if every inch of himwould have tasted as delicious as his neck, wondering if he smiled right beforehe came—had Logan dazed and stroking.

It worked like clockwork, and it always ended in an eruptionthat made him feel emptier and more sated than he ever had in some strangeguy’s creepy apartment, the kind that left him lying on the sofa for a whilebecause cleaning himself up meant leaving his fantasy of what could have beenwith a guy he’d thought about almost every day since they’d first met.

6

It was the champagne that did it.

One second, Connor Harcourt was toasting a successful eventwith his team. The next, he was knocked backward in time to the night of hiscollege graduation party, when flutes like the one he held now had circled theDolphin Ballroom at Sapphire Cove and a gorgeous security agent had barged intohis life without warning.

It wasn’t the taste or even the buzz, but the particulargolden shade it could adopt in the right light. Inside this former Midtown Manhattancathedral turned banquet venue, the glass in Connor’s hand had turned the samecolor as those sparkling flutes he’d carried through the grandest ballroom athis family’s resort. A resort he hadn’t set foot in for half a decade.

A different lifetime, a different Connor. A naïve kid whohadn’t yet built a real life for himself. Now he had a career divorced from hisfamily’s money and all the entanglements it brought.

Nothing in his life was more important than work. Work hadsaved him when his old life and dreams collapsed. Work would save him if theshit hit the fan again.

And this afternoon, work had been a triumph. Together withhis team, he’d helped make The Center for Diverse Fiction’s annual awards dinnera glittering success.

His team was basking in the afterglow.

The organizers had already dropped by to thank him. A singlehandshake and a cursory smile toward the end of a party meant unhappy clientsthey’d be hearing from on Monday. But this afternoon, they’d lingered, brighteyed and cheerful and not nearly as harried as they’d been at the outset,talking through their favorite aspects of the lighting and the meal.

Jaycee must have heard from them too. Busy with anotherevent across town, she’d already texted him heart eyes and “thank you” hands.And the guests, seated as they were at floral-festooned tables amidst thebeautifullyuplitcolumns of the old, deconsecratedcathedral, had broken out into small pockets of low but excited chatter as thefinal winner of the evening accepted her award. Above them, the vaulted ceilingwas covered with Tapestry’s special surprise: vivid projections of all the bookcovers of the nominees, which swam and shifted around each other like asluggish school of brightly colored fish. A similar design to what he’d used toproject his classmates’ pictures onto the walls of the Dolphin Ballroom thenight of his graduation party.

Stop thinking about that night.Stop thinkingabout Logan Murdoch and his lies.

The stakes had been high with this one. It was only the secondevent under Tapestry United, Jaycee’s nonprofit wing of the company, devoted tosecuring funding for struggling charities working to foster social justice andracial inclusion. Thanks to Jaycee’s extensive contacts list, organizationslike The Center for Diverse Fiction, which had moved their offices out ofManhattan a year before to avoid skyrocketing rents, were able to throw lavishfundraisers, honoring their guests and potential major donors with a level ofluxury and style typically reversed for the .01 percent.

Champagne toast concluded, it was time for another Tapestrytradition.

Connor tapped his flute with a fork to draw them away fromtheir individual conversations.

“Now, Sarah, as the newest member of our crew, you might notbe familiar with this little ritual, so allow me to explain. At Tapestry at theend of an event well worked, which basically means one where the roof didn’tfall in and people didn’t die of anything besides natural causes—”

“Should we maybe raise our standards?” Sandra Paulson, his mostsenior coworker, always phrased her instructions as questions.

“Someday,” Connor answered, “but the point is, at the end ofeach event the team leader goes around and recognizes what is, in their opinion,the most outstanding contribution each member made to the night’s proceedings—”

“They used to be called the Tapestries,” Sue Lofton cut in,“and we had little trophies we made up, but Alan said they added too much tothe budget.”

“At some point, I’m going to be allowed to finish this,right?” Connor asked.

There were some nods and some grunts, but nobody acted likethat was a sure thing.

“Okay. Sue, once again, you showed amazing facility with thelighting coordinator, and I want to commend you for your excellent execution ofthe ceiling projections we treated the client to this evening.”

As Connor pointed to the cathedral’s ceiling, Sue did a halfbow while taking a sip from her champagne. “Thank you. Follow me on Insta,” shesaid as if addressing her many fans.

“Chad, you did a great job of charming the office manager atthe sound coordinator’s warehouse when she was refusing to send a replacementamp for the main podium.”

“What can I say?” Chad stretched his muscular arms as if hewas hugging the world. “I’m charming.”

“Well, if you keep saying that, the charm might wear off,”Connor continued.

Chad put both hands over his heart as if he’d been shotthrough with an arrow.

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