The sound grates against the final, frayed thread of restraint I’ve been clinging to since the show wrapped. I could distract myself from the evening’s trajectory while I had costume fragments to pick up and pasties to shill. But from the moment I stepped onto the main floor in my street clothes, it’s been a countdown to this. Darcy called a car, we dropped off Chloe and Gales at an after-hours restaurant, and the next stop was the Standard. No discussion. No hesitation. I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath since seeing the hotel’s sign.

My breathing inches toward normal as I step into the room. The suite is paneled wall-to-wall in wood, with all the upholstery in shades of deep red. There’s a dining table off to one side, flanked by a three-quarter banquette and a pair of chairs with red leather seats. Farther into the room is a platform with wedge-shaped cushions I assume are supposed to comprise a lounge space.

The only break in the color scheme is the floor-to-ceiling window that spans the exterior wall of the room. I walk toward it, drawn by the sweeping view of the Hudson. As I round the corner of the hallway, I can see into the sleeping area, and—

“Is the bed round?” I deposit my bag on the table and move toward the red disk. But before I get there, I note another oddity, a giant teacup bathtub between the foot of the bed and the window. “How many times have you used that?”

“In all the trips here?” He stands beside the dining table, his hands in his pockets. The hanging lamp over the table is the room’s only source of light, and it bathes him in a soft glow. “Zero.”

“Ugh. You have no appreciation for luxury.” I pivot back to the view.

He chuckles. “I appreciate they didn’t slack on the shower.” His reflection in the glass grows larger as he comes closer. He sheds his jacket along the way, tossing it onto the couch thing. “But if you’d prefer the tub, I’m game.”

My eyes follow the progress of a ferry crossing the water below, but my remaining senses are homed in on Darcy’s approach. He’s close enough that the warmth of his body seeps into my back. I rest against his chest. I track a flat barge as it makes the slow trek toward New Jersey and focus on the steady rhythm of Darcy’s heartbeat against me.

“You asked about the song,” I say. The work of Henry Mancini was the only subject of conversation on our drive over. “But you didn’t say what you thought of the peel.”