"Despite them," I agree. "Perhaps it's all the brick in this city that appeals to me."
She snorts once in humor, a small victory. I stretch out my legs in front of me and tighten my arms around her. "My favorite ice cream flavor is mango."
"Mango?"
"Yes. Mango sorbet, actually."
"Well, the way I see it, I'm leaving all the cookie dough and mint chocolate chip to the rest of you. It's a win-win situation. Let's see what more…" I cast my mind out for anything about myself, anything that would be interesting enough to keep her focus on me and away from the height we're currently sitting at. "You asked me why I attend the Gilded Room party, even though I'd already answered you."
"The real answer," she murmurs.
"Right. The real answer." Sighing, I lean my head against the steel wall behind us and bare my soul. "The last decade, I've become accustomed to a certain kind of woman approaching me. The one who expects designer handbags for birthdays, Valentine's days and Christmases, who shivers at the mention of a prenup."
Not that I'd dated many, not with Joshua and my job. There were none that I'd ever consider turning into a stepmom, and even fewer I think would actually relish the task. Joshua would be an unfortunate consequence of getting me, and my wealth, rather than a reason to stay.
But Joshua has never been an unfortunate consequence. He might not have come to me naturally, but over my dead body will he ever feel like he's a burden.
Freddie's caressing fingers makes me realize I've fallen silent. I cover her hand on my chest with my own, wrapping my fingers around hers. "Anyway. The women I meet at the Gilded Room don't know who I am, at least the majority of them. When one speaks to me, I know they don't want me for my money."
Freddie twists in my grip, like she's looking at my face. Perhaps she is, but it's too dark for either of us to see anything. "But they only want you for your body," she whispers. "Is that better?"
I walk my hand up her arm to cup her cheek in my palm. It's wet, and I use my thumb to brush away the panicked tears that have fallen in the darkness. "It is," I say. "Perhaps only marginally, but it's better. How are you doing, sweetheart?"
"Holding it together."
"Do you want us to breathe again for a bit?"
She nods, and we do another round of ten breaths. In and out, slowly and surely. I stroke my hand over her hair. "We'll be fine, Freddie. I don't think it'll be long now."
She doesn't call me on it, shivering instead. "Cold?" I ask.
"It's just the fear. God, I feel silly."
Fuck. I really don't want her to feel afraid, but there's nothing I can do but keep her distracted. "You're not silly," I tell her.
"But I know that I am, because there isn't any real danger. And now you're seeing me like this." Her breathing speeds up until it's in pants, her hands on my chest tightening into gripping claws.
"Hey, we're friends, aren't we? I'm here, and I won't go anywhere. Just focus on me."
"I'm trying," she whispers, but she's still trembling in my arms. In the darkness, I can't see her expression, but I can hear the increasing panic in her breathing.
So I tip her head back and stroke her full lips with my thumb, and do the only thing I can think of. I slant my mouth over hers.
Our lips meet in softness, fear meeting strength. I smooth my thumb over her cheek and try to convey comfort, stability. Try to tear her mind away from the panic.
She pulls me into it instead.
Her mouth opens on a gasp and slim fingers slide into my hair. They tug, sending shivers down my spine. Kissing her at the Gilded Room had been like drinking the sweetest wine. Here in the darkness she's whiskey, and she burns.
Her lips open and I take what's offered, sweeping my tongue over her lower lip. It's gentle.
She responds by climbing into my lap.
My hands shift to her thighs, gripping her as she straddles me. In the darkness, there's no telling where one of us ends and the other starts, and I kiss her like she's the only light available.
She kisses me back like she trusts me. Like she needs me as desperately in this moment as I need her. My fingers dig into her hips, craving the contact of her smooth skin instead of the fabric of her coat.
My entire body tightens in need.
She locks her hands behind my neck, and it's been so long since someone clung to me like this, like she needs me and only me in this moment. Her teeth scrape over my lower lip and I chuckle, my palms flattening against her back. So she wants to play rough?
Sudden light plays against my closed lids. I lift my head from Freddie's, blinking against the brightness.
A clipped voice echoes from the panel. "We're very sorry about this inconvenience. We should have the elevator moving again shortly."
"Thank you," I call out.
The line clicks off and I turn my attention to Freddie, still straddling my legs. Her eyes are red and wet, her lips puffy, and I know the latter is my doing. "How are you doing?"
"Good," she says, but the harrowed look in her eyes doesn't leave. I smooth my hands over hers and loosen the death grip on my coat.
"Let's stand."
She gives me a look that makes it clear she thinks I'm crazy for suggesting it, but I help her up, my arm around her waist. We sway as the elevator begins to move with a faint jerk.
She buries her face in my jacket, and I smooth a hand over her back. Over and over again until the elevator slides to a smooth halt at the top floor. It's a tangle of arms and haste in making it out into the narrow corridor, and then Freddie's hand finds mine and she's pulling me to a door at the end. Her hands tremble as she pulls out her keys, so I take them from her and unlock the door.
All of her is trembling. She pauses in the middle of her tiny studio and covers her face with her hands. There's not a sound, but her shoulders shake.
I shut the door behind me and wrap my arms around her. "You're okay now," I tell her. "You're home."
"This is so silly," she says in between racketing sobs. "I'm sorry, Tristan, I don't know…"
"It's not silly. That was a stressful situation, and now it's over. Of course you're reacting to it." I look around the room for a couch, but there is none, only a bed tucked into a corner of the room. It's neatly decorated with a gray spread and colorful pillows.
I pull us toward it, and we sink down together, her still in my arms.
"You're not," she accuses.
"I'm not reacting?" I smooth my hand over her hair, looking up at the ceiling in the tiny studio. The bed smells like her, of floral perfume and shampoo and the woman clinging to me. I'm most definitely reacting. "I wouldn't say that. That wasn't a pleasant experience."
She shudders in my arms. "I'm only taking the stairs from now on."
"You live on the fourteenth floor."
"Then I suppose I'll get in great shape."
I chuckle, curving my fingers around her waist and holding her as she calms down. Her crying abates as quickly as it had come on, a consequence now of released tension and not fear. It's gone entirely when she props her head in her hand and looks at me.