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Men don’t speak to me the way he does. They never have. I should have shown myself out the minute he ordered me to make myself come with all the flippancy in the world—like he could take it or leave it.
…I’m kind of glad I didn’t immediately leave though. It was the best orgasm I’ve had in years.
Stop. What is happening to me?
I’m splayed on crisp white sheets in the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Principe di Savoia. Jay prefers the Bulgari Hotel, but I’m paying, so I opt for old world elegance every time. Not to mention, the Presidential Suite has a private swimming pool and Turkish bath. Necessary? Of course not. Worth it? Absolutely.
I roll onto my stomach and let my cheek rest against the pillowcase, breathing in the subtle fragrance of fresh hotel linens. If I want to get my head in the right time zone, I should be asleep, I know, but my mind refuses to settle.
When I check my phone, I have thirty-seven text messages—nothing out of the ordinary. I won’t acknowledge most. Over the years, I’ve learned to ignore the pressure of the red notification icon. Most days, I barely notice it. This morning, however, I find myself scrolling in my messages app, lingering on my sparse thread with Gus Winter.
Gus: Safe travels.
That’s it. That’s the only text he has ever sent me.
It came three days ago, the morning after our encounter in London, probably around the time he awoke to find his bed empty. Those two words were the epitome of a dismissal: a shrug in the form of an iMessage. I didn’t respond then, but now I wish I had. It might have been my only shot to get the last word.
Maybe the deal is done. Perhaps he really was content with the frantic make out session and the orgasm I gave myself in his lap.
No—no way. After all his bravado and confidence and the way he looked at me, how could he be content with a simple make out session?
He’ll text me eventually. I know he will.
I know it.
I’m not doubting this at all.
I hoist myself up and discard my eye mask on the nightstand. The mild temperatures promise a gorgeous day in Milan, but my mind is elsewhere. The only solution, it seems, is to grab my brain by her shoulders and give her a swift wake-up slap. We do not waste brain cells on men. Especially men who are virtual strangers to us.
That’s all Gus is, after all—a stranger. I’ve read his company 10K and countless Forbes and Business Insider articles about him. I’ve listened to six podcasts about him. I spent at least an hour reading Tweets about him. Still, he’s a mystery to me—an impenetrable wall of success and business acumen.
I can think of no better way to forget him than by starting my day with the hotel’s complimentary bottle of champagne. I pop the bottle and the cork flies off, landing under one of the couches in the main room of the enormous suite. I’m pouring myself a glass when my phone lights up with a text message. I dart for it, but my optimism deflates immediately.
Jay: Why are you up so early??
Maybe the sound of the cork woke him. Jay always sleeps late, no matter where we are. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t function without at least nine or ten hours, so I let the attitude slide. Instead of responding, I place my phone into my bathrobe’s pocket and grab the bottle before I enter the pool room.
I’ve stayed in many suites with private pools in my lifetime, but none compares to the Pompeian opulence of the Hotel Principe di Savoia. Its rich murals and elaborate ceiling offer a slice of ancient life, and warm lamps make the room the epitome of cozy luxury. Sighing, I take a seat on the tiled floor and dip my legs into the shallow end of the pool. The warm water hugs my feet, contrasting with the cold, hard bottle in my hand. When I take a swig, I drink too fast and the bubbles catch in my throat.
My cough subsides after two hard pats to my chest, but it’s invigorating. It’s like I needed to cough out the tension in my lungs so I could pull in new, clean air.
Swishing my legs, I watch the water ripple in the soft glow of the Milanese morning radiating through the windows. The day is tranquil for now, even with the gentle hum of the air purifier. I know I should savor it. Milan buzzes when she awakens, and my day will be a blur once things get started.
Three days ago, I awoke to a rare, tranquil twilight like this in London. Gus’s arm had rested comfortably across my stomach—and honestly, it wasn’t the worst way to awaken. If not for the sun coming through the penthouse window, I could have made the fatal error of waking up after him.
I take another swig.
And another.
This is ridiculous. The unfinished contract grates at me; loose ends always do. Despite what everyone believes, I’m a busy woman with places to be and things to do, and I don’t have time to wait around for a man to set my schedule. I deserve closure. Anything.
Fuck it. I’m tipsy, it’s early, and I don’t need this hanging over my head anymore.
Me: So should I delete your number, or should I expect another summons to end this shit? Are we done here?
Immediately after I send the text, my chest tightens. It’s not heart attack tight, but anxious. Anticipatory. If he’s still in London, it’s morning there. He should be awake. He should respond.
Ten minutes pass without a message.
