Drinks tonight?

He waited for a response, but none came. The bill arrived, and he paid it with cash. As he left the restaurant, he checked his phone again. Still nothing. Walking back to his office, he felt agitated, on edge. What if Natalie wasn’t infatuated with him after all? Perhaps the wide-eyed ingenue act was exactly that—an act. Maybe the little bitch had been playing him?

“Watch it, asshole,” he snarled at a tourist whose eyes were clamped on the digital map on his phone. But it wasn’t the distracted Midwesterner he was angry with; it was Natalie. He’d dumped Emily to be with her, and now, she was ghosting him. He was pissed at her, and at himself. He had given this unsophisticated girl the power to hurt him, and he didn’t like it.

In the cavernous lobby of his office building, his phone finally buzzed. Pulling it from his coat pocket, he saw the name: Nathan. He’d added the fake name to his contacts on the slim chance that Celeste or Violet glanced at his phone. But it was Natalie. Relief flooded through him. She was into him, after all. Of course she was.

I’d love to. Where?

He would respond to her after his meeting, make her sweat a little, give her a taste of her own medicine.

“Hold the elevator!” Gabe called. With a spring in his step, he jogged toward it.

18

The Arrangement

The L train rattled and shook its way into the Third Avenue station. Nat stood, along with the other morning commuters, pressing themselves toward the door, straining for their final destinations. She was running late for class, but at least she’d be there. She’d been tempted to skip again—she was exhausted, mildly hungover—but she didn’t want to fall behind. Ava had notes from their perspective class for her, and she had an acrylics project due and a lettering assignment to work on. But as she climbed the stairs to street level, she realized she would be present in body only. Her mind, her heart, her moral compass were firmly stuck in the events of last night.

Gabe’s text had surprised her. They’d already made plans for Saturday; she hadn’t expected a man so busy and powerful to also be so spontaneous. She had hesitated before replying. Was seeing him again so soon a mistake? And on Valentine’s Day? She had made a pact with herself. She would go on two or three dates, make a little money, and then she would stop. Nat was not sugar baby material. But what she had with Gabe felt different. He was so attractive, so charming, so attentive. She had already kissed him, had slept in his arms. She was already falling for him.

The blossoming relationship was debauched, immoral, wrong. But she’d wanted to see Gabe again, wanted to kiss him again, even. It wasn’t about the money—though she couldn’t deny that it was extremely helpful. She had pushed aside her niggling conscience and agreed to meet him for late drinks. They’d arranged to meet in the East Village. There was a poky little bar he liked that played live jazz at a volume that still allowed conversation. As she’d gotten herself ready, she’d experienced a confounding twist of emotions: anticipation, excitement, and something that felt a lot like shame.