E l y s e
itting on a barstool, sipping the most delicious champagne I’ve ever tasted—1999 Krug, if you must
know—while watching Sinclair Voss, New York’s most eligible bachelor according to Page Six and sex god
extraordinaire, chopping shallots and datterini tomatoes is as close to reallife porn as I’ve ever come outside
of that private room at Alchemy.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, admiring the deft way he wields a knife.
“Many places,” he says, “mainly at home in Long Island. But I learned to cook this last week at Cipriani. I had
one of the chefs give me a private lesson.”
My mouth drops open. “You are shitting me.”
“Nope. I’m not a bad cook, but I wanted to impress you, and I also wanted not to get stressed out by
multitasking. I’d like to be able to hold a conversation while I cook.”
“You don’t need to impress me,” I tell him. More than you already have.
“Yes, I do. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t tend to invite women over. I try to ke ep things on neutral
territory.” He ke eps talking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m in danger of sliding off this stool and
melting into a puddle on the floor. “And the chef confirmed what I already suspected: if you use the best
ingredients, you can ke ep things simple. And ke eping things simple is the key to not losing your shit, so you
can wow beautiful young women who are trusting you to deliver an edible meal.”
The meal is more than edible. It’s delicious. We sit right here at the island, which is a relief. I don’t want to
get linguine alla vongole all over the temple doors that serve as a dining table. Whatever insane favors he
pulled in to secure that private lesson at Cipriani, the man can cook.
Watching him moving about in his beautiful home, I feel like I’m seeing a whole other side of him. Or I’m
seeing him more fully, perhaps. He’s softer here. Less intimidating. His guard is down. And it hits me all over
again, that sensation of insane privilege that I’m the one he’s allowing to see all this. If getting naked with him
at Alchemy felt like one hell of a jackpot win, then tonight is something to treasure even more.
I like him.
I like him a lot, in a way that goes beyond mere physical appreciation for his looks and his bedroom skills. I
like him in a way that makes me feel swoony and terrified in equal measure. And, even though I know he’s
pulling out all the stops for me—the vintage champagne, the penthouse, the delicious meal—it doesn’t matter.
I can’t help it. I ke ep wanting to pinch myself, to remind myself that, even though this evening will have to
come to an end, I’ll have had this. I’ll have known how it felt for Sinclair to look at you as if you’re the only
woman who exists on this earth.
He’s so solicitous, so gentle. I wonder if he would have acted like this if I’d acc epted payment. Or would it
have been different? Would he have pushed me up against an art-free space on his foyer’s wall and fucked me
there and then? Don’t get me wrong, that wouldn’t have been unwelcome, but this is a whole other
experience. I told him I wanted a date, and boy, is he giving me one. He’s pulling out all the stops.
Over the excellent linguine, we chatter about Alchemy. He tells me he’s known Felix Wolff for years, that
they’ve played pickleball together pretty much since Felix moved to New York, and that their other buddy,
Kieran, is super introverted and painfully shy and hides behind his insane muscles.
And he wants to know about me, too.
“Where did you work before Alchemy?” he asks, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a starched linen
napkin. “You’ve only been there for a couple months, right?”
“Right. I was at The Mark for a while before that. And I’ve done a lot of other jobs too—bar work and waiting
tables, mostly. I was a maid, too, at a hotel in Midtown.” I shudder at the memory. I’m not embarrassed about
it, just traumatized. “That was the most exhausting job in the world.”
“Jesus Christ. I think if you walked into my hotel room in a maid’s outfit, I might have a heart attack.” He
gives me a sexy grin, and I appreciate him lightening the mood.
“The outfit wasn’t remotely sexy,” I tell him.
“I bet it was on you. So... that’s mostly it? Bar work?” He seems to be choosing his words.
“I’m a model, too,” I confess, looking down at my near-empty bowl.
Now I actually am embarrassed, because it’s not like I’m Gigi Hadid.
Serving and cleaning is honest work, but it’s humiliating having to admit how little real success I’ve had in
my main career.
“Nothing would surprise me less,” he says quietly.
“I haven’t done anything big,” I clarify hastily. “My legs are too short. It limits the opportunities.”
“Your legs are perfect.” His expression is very serious. “As is your face.
I’m sure you’ll find great success—you just need the right job.”
That’s very sweet of him to say, even if he’s biased. Not for the first time, I give silent thanks that he’s
oblivious to my epic failure to land that gig at Voss. It would be even more humiliating if he had an example
of my not making the mark that sat quite so close to home.
I don’t think I could bear it.