Beautiful Stranger

“Isn’t that the way the world works? In a city of millions you’ll always see the same person.”
    “But how often is it the person you most want to see?”
    I blinked away, feeling a bubbling mixture of unease and thrill drill up from my belly.
    He ignored my awkward silence and pushed on. “We’re still on for tomorrow, yeah?”
    “Why wouldn’t we be?”
    He laughed, dropping his gaze to my lips. “Because it’s a holiday, Petal. I wasn’t sure I had holiday privileges.”
    “It’s not a holiday for you.”
    “Sure it is,” he said. “It’s the day we got rid of you whinging Americans.”
    “Ha, ha.”
    “Lucky for me there are no other holidays on Fridays this year, so I don’t have to worry about missing my new favorite day of the week.”
    “Have you looked that far ahead at the calendar?” I felt myself moving a little closer to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body even in this over-ninety-degree heat.
    “No, I’m just a bit of a savant.”
    “Idiot savant?”
    He laughed, clucking his tongue playfully. “Something like that.”
    “So where am I meeting you tomorrow?”
    He lifted his hand again, and ran his index finger across my bottom lip. “I’ll text.”
    And he did. Almost as soon as I turned the corner and reached the subway, my phone buzzed in my pocket with the words 11th Ave and W 24th St. There’s a high-rise across from the park. 7:00.
    No indication of what building, what floor, even what to wear.

    When I got there, it was clear there was really only one building he could mean. It was modern stone and glass, and overlooked the Chelsea Waterside Park. It also had a ridiculous view of the Hudson. The lobby was empty but for a security guard behind a desk, and after I fidgeted for about a minute, he asked me if I was Mr. Stella’s friend.
    I paused, wary. “Yes.”
    “Oh, good. I should have asked sooner!” He stood, almost as big around as he was tall, and waved me over to the elevators. “I’m supposed to send you up.”
    I stared for a beat before snapping into action and walking into the elevator beside him. The guard stuck a key in a slot and then hit the R key.
    Roof.
    We were going to the roof ?
    With a friendly wave, he stepped out. “Have a nice Fourth,” he said just as the doors closed.
    There were twenty-seven floors in the building, but the elevator was clearly new, and very fast, and I barely had time to think about what could be awaiting me before it let out a quiet ding and the doors opened.
    I was in a small hallway, facing a short flight of stairs that led only to a door marked, R OOF A CCESS . N OT FOR P UBLIC U SE.
    What else could I do but assume that, today, the sign didn’t apply to me? This was Max, after all. I had the sense that he respected rules just long enough to learn how to properly bend them.
    The door opened with a shrill metallic creak and slammed heavily behind me. I turned and tried opening it back up, to no avail. The day was hot, windy, and I was stuck on the roof of a building.
    Holy crap. Max had better be up here or I am going to flip out.
    “Over here!” Max called from somewhere to my right.
    I blew out a relieved breath and walked around a large electrical box. Max stood, alone, with a blanket, pillows, and a giant spread of food and beer at his feet.
    “Happy Independence Day, Petal. Ready to be fucked outside?”
    He looked unbelievable, dressed casually in jeans and a blue T-shirt, tanned, muscular arms, and all six foot five of him moving toward me. His physical presence, out in the sun and with the wind whipping his shirt all over his chest . . . holy hell. Let’s just say it did things to me.
    “I asked if you were ready to be fucked outside,” he said quietly, bending to kiss me. He tasted like beer, and apples, and something inherently Max-like. Warmth, sex, comfort . . . he was my comfort food, the thing you indulge in every now and then, without guilt, knowing that it grounds you even as it’s probably not all that good for you.
    “Yes,” I said. “So you’re not worried about helicopters or cameras or”—I looked past him, pointing to the people on a roof in the distance—“the people over there with binoculars.”
    “Nope.”
    I narrowed my eyes, ran my hands up his chest to his neck. “Why don’t you ever worry about being seen?”
    “Because it would change me to worry about it. It would keep me indoors, or make me paranoid, or stopme from fucking you on the roof.