He shrugged, cracked open a fortune cookie.

“You put the seat down to piss, don’t you?” I asked, grinning.

“Nah. Don’t like getting my dick wet.”

“Will. The only way you could give a woman pleasure is by handing over your credit card, mate.”

And somehow, in the flurry of insults that followed, Will made me forget to act like a pathetic arse about the whole thing and I stopped worrying about whether Sara was f**king with my head.

After lunch, I left the office, hailing a cab almost immediately for a quick jaunt to see a new art installation being set up in Chelsea. I’d helped an old client find and open a gallery, and he was showing a set of rare E. J. Bellocq photos for only a few weeks. All it took was a one-line email from him—They’re here—and the rest of my day was shot. I was mad to see the never-before-shown reconstructed pieces from the damaged negatives of Bellocq’s “Storyville” collection. Although I had come to his work rather late in my education, his had been the art that triggered my fascination with photographs of the body, of its angles, its simplicity, its everyday vulnerability.

Though, until Sara, I’d never taken a picture of myself with a lover.

And there was the real rub. My shots of Sara and me together in no way mimicked Bellocq’s art, but still it reminded me of her. Her thin waist, soft stomach, and the gentle curve of her hips.

Glancing down at my phone, I wished for the thousandth time that I had one single picture of her eyes when we were making love.

Fuck.

Having sex. When we were having sex.

It was warm, without being unbearably thick outside, and after viewing the photos, I wanted to walk off my excitement for a bit. Chelsea to midtown wasn’t awful, but around Times Square I realized a man with a camera was following me.

I always assumed that the paps would learn I wasn’t nearly as interesting as they suspected, but that hadn’t yet happened. They stalked my weekend activities, my fund-raisers, every work function. It had been almost four years since anything of interest had happened to me—other than a date with the occasional semifamous woman—but at least half of the time that I dared to walk Manhattan alone, someone found me.

And suddenly my light mood vanished; I was ready for home, for a mindless viewing of Python and a few pints. It was f**king Tuesday and I wanted Sara.

“Piss off,” I called over my shoulder.

“Just one shot, Max. A shot and a comment on the rumor of you and Keira.”

Fuck. This rubbish again? I’d met her once, a month ago at a concert. “Yes. I’m totally f**king Keira Knightley. You really think I’m the person you should ask for confirmation?”

A cab screeched to the curb, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me as the back door flew open. A smooth, bare arm reached out, the hand frantically waving me in before Sara leaned forward, grinning. “Get in already!”

It took several seconds for my brain to connect to my mouth, and my legs. “Shit. Yeah. Brilliant.”

Ducking in the cab, I shoved my briefcase on the floor and looked over at her.

“Hey, Max. You looked a little . . . stalked.”

“You spotted that pretty well,” I said, eyeing her.

She shrugged, giving me her strange, elusive smile.

“Fucking paps,” I grumbled.

Sara crossed her legs and gave me a tiny shrug. “Poor baby. Need a cuddle?”

She had a fire in her eyes I hadn’t seen since the night at the club when she dragged me down the hall.

You’re in trouble, mate.

She wore a short red wrap dress and it had come undone a bit at the top. I understood the feeling. I gazed down at her left breast, the black lace of her bra peeking out.

“Nice to see you,” I told her cle**age. “I’ve had a day. Can I bury my face in you?”

“No sex in my cab!” the cabbie barked. “Where are we going now?”

I looked to Sara for guidance but she only raised her eyebrows and smiled.

“Up toward the park,” I muttered. “Not sure yet.”

He shrugged, turning the wheel away from traffic and muttering something under his breath.

“You look beautiful,” I told Sara, leaning to kiss her.

“You always say that.”

I shrugged, and licked her neck. Fuck. She tasted like sweet tea and oranges. “Come home with me.”

She shook her head, laughing. “No. I have tickets to a show at eight.”

“With whom?”

“Myself,” she said, straightening and looking out the window. I reached for her hand, slipped my fingers between hers.