Chapter 5

With a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I exhaled and kept my gaze fixed on her face—striking, familiar, and still impossible to believe belonged to the same woman who had thoroughly wrecked my composure just the other day. A recently vacated seat opened up across from me, and I slid into it, phone in hand, fingers already navigating to her contact.

This was going to be entertaining.

Christian: Is your hair short these days? Or long?

Of all the ways I could’ve initiated this conversation, that felt like the safest route. Because if I’d led with what actually occupied my thoughts—her luscious breasts slicked in oil as I thrust between them in the steam of my morning shower—well, odds were she wouldn’t text back.

Lena: Should I assume you have a preference?

Christian: Long. I’ve always had a thing for long hair on a woman.

I didn’t dare face her directly, but the train window gave me exactly what I needed—her reflection. Her head lifted subtly, just a glance in my direction, before she dropped her focus back to her screen.

Lena: Then I’m sorry to disappoint. It’s cropped short. Very short, actually.

Liar.

I caught the faint curl at the corner of her lips—a smirk that had mischief written all over it. Alright. You want to play?

Christian: Shame. I’d been replaying this scene all day of you with hair long enough to wrap around my waist while you ride me.

That wiped the smile right off her lips. Her mouth parted, and I’d bet anything that if I were within arm’s reach, I’d have heard the sharp intake of her breath. She squirmed ever so slightly before her response came through.

Lena: Sorry to burst your bubble. I’m under strict orders not to participate in any form of oral activity for the foreseeable future.

What the hell?

Christian: Whose rules are those?

Lena: Whom’s. If we’re going to play, let’s at least get the grammar right.

Christian: Textbook grammar from the same woman who sends explicit selfies to complete strangers?

Lena: I do not send p**n to strangers. You pissed me off. I wanted you to know exactly what you were walking away from when you chose to play the high and mighty card instead of acknowledging me.

Christian: In that case, I’ll be pissing you off more regularly.

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she turned her attention to the world beyond the window. My stop was fast approaching. And as ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t shake her last message. The whole “oral activity ban” was now on a loop in my brain, making it impossible to think about anything else—especially not the pitch I had to give in thirty minutes.

I gave in.

Christian: Alright, fine. Whom?

Lena: Delia.

Shit. Was she into women? That possibility had somehow never even entered my mind. But seriously, what kind of lesbian sends those kinds of pictures to a guy?

Christian: Are you gay?

As the train began its deceleration, nearing my station, I had half a mind to blow off the meeting just so I could stay on board and find out where she got off. Still, I let my eyes drift her way one last time. Her gaze was down, fingers tapping her screen, but she was smiling—a smile that wasn’t rehearsed or hollow. It was effortless and real and kind of…messy. And beautiful.

My phone buzzed just in time to keep me from staring too long and giving myself away.

Lena: LOL. No, I’m not gay. Delia pierced my tongue two days ago. Hence, the mandatory oral ban while it heals.

Fuck.

I shut my eyes, hoping to rein in the rapidly spiraling thoughts. Bad move. That only intensified the mental image of her kneeling in front of me, sweet mouth parted, that devilish tongue ring catching the light as she—

Eyes open. Wide.

I stumbled off the train seconds before the doors sealed shut, barely making it onto the platform. And now, with that new piece of intel embedded in my brain, I had no idea how I’d survive the rest of my day.

⸻

It was one of those picture-perfect mornings where not a single cloud dared to ruin the blue stretch of sky. I stared out the window, wondering what the hell had gotten into me lately. I’d encountered attractive men before—hell, even dated a few. But something about Christian Merrick had me regressing like a teenager at her first dance, awkward and unsure every time he so much as stepped near.

I hated how reactive my body was around him. The chemistry was loud, shameless, and uninvited. Nothing about it felt controllable. And as much as I’d tried to force that same spark with Jason—the last decent guy I dated—it just wasn’t there.

I’d taken an earlier train today. No reason, really—just felt like it. But I hadn’t counted on running into him. When our eyes connected, there was a flicker. His pupils dilated. For a heartbeat, I let myself think maybe—just maybe—he felt it too. But he looked away, unreadable. The indifference stung a little more than I expected. Still, I managed to keep my face neutral. He didn’t recognize me. And that? That was a blessing.

I intended to keep it that way.

A heavy stack of unopened letters landed on my desk with a loud thunk, snapping me out of it. Ida, in all her disgruntled glory, stood over me.

“Think you can draft some responses for the online column?”

“Sure thing,” I muttered, already reaching for the first envelope.

“Maybe this time, make it less…inappropriate?”

I had half a mind to tell her where she could shove her propriety. Instead, I gave her the most noncommittal, “I’ll try.”

She rolled her eyes. “Try isn’t cutting it. Get it right.” Then she slammed her office door like she was trying to shake it off its hinges.

I flipped her the bird behind her back. Felt good.

An hour in, I’d managed to sort through the mess and flag a few letters that didn’t reek of hopelessness or codependency. My first attempts? Disasters. Paper balls everywhere. But then it hit me—the secret to channeling Ida’s cold, detached tone. Step one: write the honest answer I’d give. Step two: reverse-engineer every sentiment into the worst advice possible.

It worked like a charm.

Dear Ida,

Last year I caught my boyfriend cheating. He called it a mistake, swore it wouldn’t happen again. I stayed. But now there’s a guy at work I can’t stop thinking about. I’m wondering if sleeping with him would help me move past the betrayal. Thoughts?

—Paula, Morningside Heights

Step 1 (honest version):

Dear Paula,

Absolutely not. Infidelity is a breach of trust, not an excuse to retaliate. Healing requires clarity, not more chaos. If you’re still hurting, talk to him. Don’t create new wounds to cover the old ones.

Step 2 (Ida-style):

Dear Paula,

Sure, why not? Let’s call it emotional balancing. He cheats, you cheat—now you’re even. Relationships are about mutual growth… or mutual destruction. Roll the dice. Sleep with the office hottie and see where the chips fall.

After that, I hit a groove and banged out enough drafts to last through the week. Handed them off to Ida with minimal eye contact.

When my phone lit up midday, I grabbed it, pulse ticking up, half-hoping it was Christian. God, how sad was that? Turns out, it was Aspen. I’d completely forgotten we’d made plans for tonight. My knee-jerk reaction? Cancel. But I didn’t. I lied.

Can’t wait. Should be fun.

He was a friend-of-a-friend type. Polite. Well-mannered. The kind of guy I should want.

But the truth was, I’d rather be at home, obsessively refreshing my inbox, waiting on a message from a man who probably wouldn’t look twice at a girl like me if he ever knew the full story.