Page 30 of Happy Wife

I had been to New York City only once before, on a school field trip. It was an excursion that was heavy on educational mainstays, like the Museum of Natural History and the Central Park Zoo, and then we went to Times Square to have our middle school minds blown by the sky-high billboards and fluorescent lights. The three-day trip was a highlight from childhood, but when Will asked me to go to New York with him, I understood that it wouldn’t take much for him to overshadow the glamour of being thirteen and staying in a Westin with a pack of eighth graders and a handful of harried chaperones.

I also knew that—unlike Winter Park, a city frozen in a shiny, glittery snow globe—New York is one of those places that changes like a kaleidoscope. Turn the lens this way or that, and yourviewtransforms completely. Everyone has a different vantage point.

But once the trip was under way, I came to understand something that I couldn’t have fully prepared myself for ahead of time: Will Somerset’s take on New York was a sexy, opulent glimpse of the lap of luxury.

We had brunch at the Pierre, walked along Central Park to the Museum of Modern Art, then took a car to the Battery for drinks and dancing at some exclusive rooftop bar Will somehow had access to through a legal colleague.

Now that we were unencumbered by the watchful eyes of basically everyone Will knew, PDA seemed to be a requisite activity at every stop. We held hands at restaurants. Will draped his arm around my shoulder as we strolled through the museum. Then we made out feverishly in the car on the way back to our hotel before staying up half the night, tangled up together in the puffy, cloud-like bedding of our room.

“Let’s never leave here.”

“What would we do in New York?” he said. My hand was on his chest, and he was tracing the outline of my fingers with his own pointer finger.

“Oh, I’m not talking about New York. I’m talking about this bed.” I nuzzled closer. “Come on. Talk dirty to me. Tell me more about the legal protections afforded through squatters’ rights in New York.”

“I think the firm would come looking for me sooner rather than later.”

“Boo.” I gave him a sarcastic thumbs-down. “I demand better dirty talk.”

“I’m not even sure Fritz could take a deposition if I wasn’t there.”

“Don’t you have an army of associates on the payroll? Let’s talk passive income. Let’s talk colonizing this mattress.”

He shifted his weight to prop up on one elbow, curling his arm around my waist and pulling me against him. He kissed me deeply before sliding me underneath him, sending molten heat down my body as he trailed kisses from the back of my ear to my collarbone.

“I’m suddenly feeling completely unmotivated to get dressed for dinner,” I said breathily.

“A pity.” Will looked up at me, one eyebrow rising, and made atskingsound.

“We have to go back to the real world tomorrow.” I tried hard not to think about reporting to work at the museum on Monday. “Let’s order room service.”

When he started nipping at my inner thigh, I dug my nails into his back, and I thought I heard him moan a little. But it didn’t stop him from pushing me so far over the edge that I was pretty sure the entire hotel could have heard me.

The dreamy rush I got from just the scent of him felt like a drug. And after weeks of holding the fantasy of Will at arm’s length, New York had weakened all my defenses. Being with him—being a real couple and not just some fun distraction—suddenly seemed so logical, so attainable. And I fell headfirst into the daydream of being his as we explored the city.

The only downside to the trip was how quickly it ended.


“I miss New York already,” I said the next day, unable to help myself as I stared out the window of the limo at the palm trees and low-level buildings of Winter Park. “I wonder what it’s like when it snows in the city.”

Will reached across the backseat bench and took my hand. “We’ll go back at Christmastime.”

That’s months away. A few weeks ago, I might have shrunk under the pressure of him saying something that serious, but now, everything just felt…right. So I allowed myself the indulgence of another little fantasy—this time, one where we returned to New York to catch a show or maybe visit some fancy art opening.

I squeezed his hand like a lovesick dope and said, “I would really like that.”

He held my gaze for a minute, and it felt like we were committing to something more than another trip. Maybe guys like Will—guys with their lives in order—don’t have the “boyfriend” talk. Maybe they just decide.

I was writing his name with little hearts above it in my mindby the time the car pulled into his driveway. The driver made quick work of unloading our suitcases before Will thanked him with assurances that we could get the luggage inside.

“I’m going to put our bags in my room and order takeout,” he announced as he unlocked the front door. “Why don’t you grab a bottle of wine from the wine room and meet me in the kitchen? Thai food sound okay?”

“You’re trusting me with the wine selection?”

Thismustbe serious.

Will didn’t have a wine “room” so much as a wine mausoleum. The temperature-controlled glass enclosure in an alcove off his living room must have housed a couple thousand bottles of wine. There was custom lighting and magnums on display and racks and racks of vintage labels.