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Peter smiles, not at all offended. “Baby, I satisfy everyone.”
“Gus is a bit like you. We fuck so well, but we can’t fully connect. I think we could though. We have so much in common in ways I never expected. But he’s so closed off. I can tell he’s always leaving things out.”
“So tell him to open up,” Peter pushes. “Like I always say, if you want something, ask. Tell him what you need. The great thing about older guys is they’re shockingly good at answering straightforward questions. It’s a generational thing.”
“He’s not that much older than us.”
Peter shrugs. “Either way, it’s worth a shot. But do something, Julia. You need to go for Gus or you need to get over him, but I can’t have you moping around one of the most special places on earth and staring into space.”
He’s right. It’s a waste.
Later, back in the suite, I part the balcony doors that open into views of the Caribbean. The night around me prickles with energy, and I know the sounds of music and revelry across Cartagena will drift into my room tonight.
But I’ll be in my bed, thinking about him and wondering if he ever thinks about me.
My last words to him play on repeat, making me wish I had never said them. It was a deal, August. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. Would I forgive him if he said those things to me?
It doesn’t matter. Peter is right: I either need to go for him or get over him.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, holding the balcony railing. The view is such a stark difference from Montana, but it leaves me with the same tranquility. When I blink my eyes open, I see crashing waves that look black from where I stand. It’s awe-inspiring, and I can’t help but consider how much better it would be with someone at my side, even if we were staring at the world in contented silence.
I turn around, hold up my phone for a selfie, and take a picture.
Before I can second guess what I’m doing, I type out a text and send it along with the image of me.
Me: Come and get me, August.
Chapter 18: Gus
“ Lo siento.”
I don’t speak Spanish, but apparently it’s how you apologize in the language.
For the third or fourth time, the owner of the Sofitel Legend mutters the words while he escorts me through the hotel’s hallways. Lo siento, lo siento—in between promises of chefs, women, alcohol—anything I want.
What I want is for him to take me to the Presidential Suite, which I know is currently occupied by none other than Julia herself. What I want is to screw her brains out and make her regret sneaking out again. But even a billionaire can’t get everything he wants.
I’m certainly going to try though.
The manager is steadfast, however, and I can’t fault him for refusing to bring me to the suite. I get it. If any other man were trying to track down Julia, I would want the hotel to put up a fight.
Once the manager is gone and I’ve sent away the complimentary butler, I shower and set out to find the room myself. After fifteen minutes, I’ve made it to the door, which makes my blood boil.
It was that fucking easy for me to get to her suite.
I tamp down my haughty, searing temptation to buy the damn hotel outright and fire the management and security teams. Luckily, the urge immediately subsides when sounds come from the other side of the door.
I knock loudly. When nobody answers, I knock again even harder.
“Jesus, I’m here,” Julia exclaims before she wrenches open the door. Her eyes widen when she sees me, taking me in from head to toe with surprise painted across her face.
Somehow, in the past month, I’ve made the grave error of forgetting how gorgeous she is in real life.
“You came.” A smile unfolds on her lips.
Normally, I wouldn’t mind a gleeful, almost warm reaction from the ice princess herself, but I’m too busy furrowing my brow at the scant, cherry red bikini she’s wearing.
“What the fuck are you doing,” I grit out. I push my way into the suite and slam the door behind me. “Are you crazy, answering the door wearing only that?”
