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ONCE SLOANE WAS back inside the penthouse, she pressed her back against the elevator door and exhaled heavily. Her heart was raging, beating a mile a minute. She could still smell the Irish Spring lingering on Peter's exposed skin, and it reminded her of the same scent that wafted off of Spider-Man in the chilly November air. The woody aroma and fresh citrus notes had her mind in a tizzy, and Sloane was now wondering why fucking Irish Spring soap was suddenly doing it for her. How did something so simple that anyone could buy at a CVS make a person more attractive? It was the soap version of cheap cologne.
But there was something about the way Peter leaned into her, the way the scent blew into her nose on a cold breeze – everything about it had her shivering and sweating at the same time.
Sloane thought about his lips, what it would be like to kiss him –
No, no, no, her mind chastised. She already wanted to fuck some stranger in a mask that she met on abandoned rooftops. The last thing she needed was catching feelings for said stranger's nerdy sidekick; the man who had thought the world of her in high school, when she had been at her lowest.
Sloane collected herself and walked through the foyer to the dining table, expecting to help clean up. But Frank already had everything collected off the table and cleaned, as if nothing had been there in the first place. He was currently standing in the kitchen, nursing a glass of scotch. Sloane raised a suspicious brow. Had Frank cleaned this all himself, or had it been a maid service? She didn't put it past him.
In the living room, Sloane spotted her mother watching the small flames in the fireplace and pouring herself a glass of whiskey. When she set the bottle down and looked up, she noticed her daughter standing in the doorway and motioned her over. "Come," she said, an oddly pleasant smile on her wrinkled face, "have a drink with me."
Well, Sloane certainly wasn't going to deny a free drink.
She walked over to the couch and sat beside her mother. It reminded her of old times, back when they lived in the triple-decker. Except her mother used to hand her glasses of hot chocolate or juice instead of whiskey, and her father was right next to her, reading her a story. Something about it felt so familiar as Sabrina placed the wide glass of whiskey in her hand, and Sloane wondered if her father's ghost was next to her right now, a book in his hand. A chill ran through her.
