I’m happy—happy that I called Trent—when Tahoe arrives with Callan and another guy I don’t know. He looks at me from across a roomful of people, the music at full blast, and then he looks at Trent.

He looks so thoughtful all of a sudden, scowling a little bit.

I’m breathless and I finish off my drink to try to hide it. Someone slaps his back, drawing his attention.

“What’s his problem?” Trent complains. “He thinks he’s king of the world, man. Hate guys like him.”

“You were happy last weekend when he paid for our dinner, and before that when you went to his party.”

“Sorry, it’s just that…I don’t like the way he looks at you. Can I get you another drink?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He heads off when “All We Need” by Odesza starts playing. Tahoe stares at me. I stare back at him, my heart pounding when he starts making his way toward me.

He walks the walk, this guy. It feels like the crowd parts to let him pass.

His lips start curling. A foot away, he extends his arm a little mockingly and opens his big palm. “I believe this is our song,” he says, flat and no-nonsense, very unlike the socially playful Tahoe I normally see at the club.

I want to laugh but he looks serious.

“It is, isn’t it?” I say, playing along.

He’s lying. We have no song. But I’m bored and it looks like he is too. I give him my hand like a lady, laughing, and let him draw me onto the dance floor. He smiles and looks down at me as he finds us a spot and leans in close, his body heat crackling all around me.

“He the one?”

I nod, lift my arms and lock my wrists over my head, and start moving to the music.

He moves sinuously, like a wildcat, and as he does, he looks at me again, longer this time. “So how are you?”

“I’m good.”

It’s hard to concentrate when my body is so close to his.

Shivers run down my spine and I think he feels it because he drags a hand across the back of my neck and down my back. “Why are you even giving him the time of day?”

“He’s my booty call.”

His eyebrows pull into a frown and mischief sparks inside his eyes. “Getting a condom stuck inside you not enough of a cockblock for you two?”

He takes my wrist in his grip and leads me off the dance floor, and I’m puzzled as I follow him. “Where are we going?”

“Anywhere else.”

He leads me to the elevators, ushers me into the first one that opens, and pushes the T button, where the word Terrace is engraved beside it.

I’m not prepared for the view. It’s spectacular. Wind slaps us as we step outside, and I’m surprised to find speakers on the terrace, playing the same music that had been playing downstairs. Several empty seating areas are scattered beneath the night sky. I suppose during the summer people like coming up here, but we’re heading into the holiday season and Chicago has been cold for weeks.

Sam Smith’s “Like I Can” starts playing, and he says, as we take one of the empty lounge seats, “Maybe that’s his song for you. Think he likes you like that?” He shifts forward and props his elbows on his knees as he studies me.

Sam Smith sings, “He’ll never love you like I can…”

“Oh, no.” I laugh, reaching up and trying to control my hair.

He’s still thoughtful. “Why so certain?”

“Because nobody can like me like that.” My smile fades. I can’t believe I said that.

We stare at each other for a long moment. Not a breath leaves me, not a sound. It’s as if I’m absorbing every part of this moment—the song lyrics, the shade of his blue eyes, the line of his jaw and the slits of light caused by the angle of the moonlight.

His stare generates a heat in my stomach that’s so hard to bear.

“So this Paul,” he says, stretching an arm over the back of the lounge seat, his hand dangerously close to my nape. “What does he do?”

“I don’t know. But I hope he’s eating shit and busy dying.”

He chuckles—the sound low but resonant enough that it reaches deep inside me—and the corners of his lips hike up. “You don’t keep tabs on him?”

“No, I’m not interested in the daily life of cow dung.”

He laughs, and I grin, and he shifts a little and I shiver.

He starts to remove his jacket.

I open my mouth to protest but when I’m engulfed in it, I can’t talk. I duck my head when I feel myself go red and I don’t want him to see it.

“Thanks,” I mumble, tugging it closer.

I burrow deeper into the warmth and stare out at the city. “He sent me a letter, a few months ago. I tucked it into my underwear drawer and decided not to open it. The guy didn’t get that when I said I didn’t want to hear from him ever again, it included the written word.”

“Let’s go open it.”

“Excuse me? I don’t want to open it.”

“Yeah you do.” He pokes my tummy with a finger, and I hold it.

“Really.” I squeeze his finger.

He extracts his finger and this time touches his fingertip to my nose. “Liar.”

I open my mouth and bite his finger before he can pull it away.

“Whoa. Hungry little cat, are we?”

I let go, laughing.

“What are you doing with this guy Trent, Regina?”

“What?”

“What are you doing with him?”

I stare. “I feel like getting laid very hard.”