The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,15

no hope,” she says without hesitation. I hear the dryness of her throat, the determination in her voice. She wants nothing from me as badly as I want nothing from her. We’re a perfect match.

“Then let me in,” I say.

She does.

FIVE

Amelia’s apartment is clean, and not just tidy. The walls are so white I wonder if they were recently painted. There aren’t any marks on the blonde wood flooring. She has two great windows, but because this isn’t one of the top floors, the view is mostly of the apartments across the street. As dusk settles, lights flicker on in neighboring buildings.

“Drink?” she asks from the kitchen.

“Sure.” I stick my hands in my pockets and look around. The Upper West Side apartment is bigger than any I’ve been to in the city, but still significantly smaller than my house. From where I stand in the living room, I can see into the kitchen and her bedroom at the same time. She makes good use of the space with a large mirror propped against one wall, and a slim, gray couch that faces an empty space on the wall. I might’ve guessed she wouldn’t have a television. She doesn’t seem like the type to embrace guilty pleasures.

“Nice place,” I say.

“Still think I’m a prissy city girl?” she asks.

“More than ever.”

“Good.”

In the center of the coffee table sits three glass globes of varying sizes. I lean closer for a better look. The bottom halves are sloping layers of white rock and soil. They’re topped with green, blooming succulents edged in purple and pink. Each vessel has an opening large enough for a hand. I have space for a garden in my backyard but no interest in cultivating it. Bell has asked for roses, not that she understands anything beyond the fact that they’re pretty.

“Where’d you get these plants?” I ask.

“They’re terrariums. I make them.”

I raise my eyebrows, watching as she moves around the kitchen. “Yeah?”

She nods. “I don’t really do hobbies, but I guess if I had one, they would be it. There are more in my bedroom and my office.”

“You’re talented.”

She sets two empty tumblers on the counter. “And you’re far away.”

I take the invitation and round the breakfast bar separating the two rooms. The countertops are smooth and shiny, and my first thought is that I’d like to fuck her on one, but my second is that they’re legit marble, and Amelia could be quite wealthy. “How long have you lived here?”

“You’re wondering how I afford it.” She bends to open another cabinet. “Reggie bought it when we got married. He’d dumped a bunch of stock right before the market crashed in 2008. Then, with the fortune he’d saved, he bought it all back at a discount. Most of it multiplied in value.”

The market collapsed before I was in any position to own stock, but I knew some people burned by it—and by assholes who cheated the system. What I know of Amelia’s ex doesn’t make him look good. “Sounds shady.”

“It is,” she says, pushing heavy-sounding glass around the wood cabinet. “When we met, he spun it to make himself seem clever. He didn’t go to college, which had been a source of embarrassment for him until he became rich. Then he wore it like a badge of pride—filthy rich on a high school education. I eventually realized he’d been tipped off about the market, which is the complete opposite of cleverness.”

She stands with a bottle and unscrews the cap. When I notice the label, I raise my eyebrows. I don’t think I would’ve been more turned on if she’d taken off her top. “Glenlivet?” I ask, inching closer to her.

“It’s my drink.”

It’s Cellar Collection, and expensive as fuck. “Do you serve that to all your guests?”

“No.” She glances at me from under her lashes. “Just the ones I want to fuck.”

I hum, my chest vibrating, my stomach dropping. Her light perfume mixes with the whisky’s spice. She smells and looks good enough to devour.

She pours each drink carefully. “I hope neat is okay,” she says, and she isn’t asking.

“Perfect.”

She hands me one, and we clink glasses. “To tonight,” she says.

We each take a sip, and the liquor goes right down. It’s been a while since I indulged like this. With the change in my priorities came a change in how money’s spent.

“So,” she says, glancing into her glass, “how do we start?”

“How?” As satisfying as the whisky is, it’s no match for the taste of a woman. I set