Chapter 1: Anticipation & the First Sip
The wine was too warm. Channah spun the stem of the glass between her fingers, watching the merlot climb the sides in a lazy, garnet wave. It was the same shade as the flush she could feel heating her neck. She took a slow breath, the air tasting of polished oak and distant whiskey. The booth was secluded, a pocket of shadow beneath an unlit chandelier. Perfect for a private reunion. Or a spectacularly awkward one.
Twenty-five years. The number bounced around her skull. She was a therapist now, for God’s sake. She spent her days guiding people through their emotional minefields with practiced calm. Yet here she was, a forty-nine-year-old woman feeling like a freshman again, her stomach doing a slow, persistent roll.
It was the memory of the fantasy that did it. It had popped into her head, fully formed, while she was picking out her lipstick—a sharp, glossy red. It wasn't a vague, romantic notion. It was specific. Visceral. Ryan, behind her. His hands on her hips, the heat of him, the delicious, shocking friction as he took her that way. And then, after, turning her around, letting her taste herself on him. A college daydream, shelved for decades, now unpacked and vibrating in her present like a live wire.
The door to the bar swung open, a wedge of city noise slicing through the low murmur before it hushed again. And there he was.
Time had rewritten him, but the melody was the same. The lanky frame had filled out, broadened across the shoulders under a simple black t-shirt. Silver threaded the dark stubble along his jaw. A intricate sleeve of tattoos wrapped one forearm, ink she didn’t know. But the eyes—that same cool, perceptive blue—scanned the room and landed on her corner. A slow, knowing smirk pulled at his mouth. It was the same smirk that had once made her feel seen and deliciously conspired against.
He walked over, not with a rush, but with an easy ownership of the space between them. He slid into the booth opposite her. “Channah Bloom,” he said, his voice lower, rougher than she remembered. “Red hair. Still.”
“Still,” she managed, her professional poise glued somewhere to the ceiling. She gestured to his arm. “You’re illustrated.”
He glanced down as if surprised. “Oh. That. Yeah. Late onset rebellion.” His gaze traveled back to her face, then did a quick, appreciative dip. “You look incredible.”
“So do you.” It was true. The years had carved him into something more substantial. “Tattooed therapist’s wife” wasn’t a title she’d ever considered. The thought was absurd. And yet.
A waiter appeared. Ryan ordered a bourbon, neat, without looking at the menu. His confidence was a physical thing.
“So,” he said, leaning back. “You fix people’s heads for a living.”
“I help them untangle their own wiring. It’s not the same thing.”
“Sounds like a superhero.” He took his bourbon from the waiter with a nod of thanks. “And me? I build things. Literally. A construction firm. Houses. Renovations.”
“From philosophy major to building homes. That’s a leap.”
“Philosophy was for figuring out life. Construction is for living it. Getting your hands dirty.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You were always in your head, Channah. Even when you weren’t.”
Her face grew warmer. He was talking about the fantasy. He couldn’t be. Could he? It had never been spoken aloud, only transmitted in the dark of a dorm room through trembling hands and hitched breaths. It had been the line they never crossed.
“I think about that sometimes,” he said casually, swirling the amber liquid. “What we didn’t do.”
The air between them crackled. The low music, the clink of glasses, it all receded. Here it was. The precipice.
“Why didn’t we?” she asked, her voice surprisingly steady.
“You got scared. Or I did. The timing was off. The world was too big.” He shrugged a powerful shoulder. “It felt too big for that. Too real.”
“And now?”
“Now the world’s the same size. We’re just smaller in it. Or wiser. Depends on the day.” He set his glass down with a definitive tap. “I never forgot that night you whispered it to me. What you wanted.”
Channah’s heart hammered against her ribs. So he did remember. In exact detail. The fantasy wasn’t just hers; it was a shared, suspended thing between them. She took a large swallow of wine, the warmth doing nothing to calm her.
“It was a long time ago, Ryan.”
“It doesn’t feel like it right now.” He reached across the table, his calloused fingers brushing the back of her hand. A jolt, simple and electric. “We have a lot of caught-up time. And I’m not a patient man anymore.”
His touch, his words, dismantled the last of her careful neutrality. The therapist vanished. The woman remained, pulsing with a long-deferred want. The fantasy wasn’t a silly relic. It was a blueprint. And he was reading from it.
“My hotel is two blocks away,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s quiet. Private. We could have a real conversation.”
She knew what the conversation would be. It wouldn’t involve many words. The understanding was in the space between their shared glances, in the heat of his skin on hers. It was in the way he said ‘real conversation,’ a code they’d just invented.
Channah pulled her hand back, not in refusal, but to finish her wine. She did it in one final, decisive gulp. She met his eyes, seeing the patient predator there, the boy she’d known now housed in the body of a man who knew what he wanted.
“Okay,” she said. The single word hung in the candlelit air, a door swinging open on a long-locked room.
He stood up, dropped cash on the table, and extended his hand. Not for a handshake. A pact. She took it, his grip firm and sure. He led her out of the bar, his body a shield between her and the other patrons. The night air was cool on her flushed skin.
On the sidewalk, he didn’t ask for direction. He simply turned, his hand on the small of her back, a claim and a guide. The city lights blurred. Her heels clicked a frantic rhythm on the pavement, matching her heartbeat. They walked in a charged silence, the two blocks stretching and contracting. Every step was a choice. Every step was a surrender to the past and a plunge into a very specific, very immediate future.
He stopped at a sleek, modern building. Used a key card. Held the heavy glass door open for her. The lobby was deserted, all cool marble and muted lighting. The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing them in a silent, mirrored box.
He faced her then, crowding her gently into the corner. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his eyes tracing her face, her lips, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. His hand came up, his thumb brushing her lower lip, smudging the red.
“Always with the bold lipstick,” he murmured.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto a plush, silent hallway.
He led her to a door, unlocked it, and ushered her inside. It was a suite, dark, with a wall of windows overlooking the city’s glittering grid. He didn’t turn on the main lights. A single lamp by the large, made bed cast a soft glow.
Ryan turned to her, closing the distance. He cradled her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Last chance to run, Channah.”
She shook her head, her red hair catching the light. Running was the last thing on her mind. The fantasy was here, in this room, in this man. It was no longer a memory. It was a destination.
And she was finally ready to arrive.