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I let out a sigh. “Our fathers grew up together, just like their fathers before them and before that and so on. They were once best friends, but then something happened, and now, they are enemies.”
“Right, and that means the kids are, too?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Such a shame because they are very good-looking Italian men.” Savannah sighs as she sips her drink and looks over one last time at the table of men.
“Babe, this is Vegas, good-looking men with accents are dime a dozen here.”
Savannah chuckles. “Hell, yeah they are.” She lifts her drink up and we clink glasses. “Now let’s have some fun.”
Does Savannah know I went home with Alessandro? If so, why the hell did she let me go home with him? I pull out my phone to check that I don’t have any messages. None. Is she not worried about where I am? Or does she know I went home with someone and thinks I’m safe?
I make my way through the lobby and toward the elevator. I press the button to my floor and watch the numbers count down toward me. I’m almost there, and then I can have a shower and put last night behind me. The doors open, and the elevator is empty, thank goodness, I don’t need any more witnesses to my shame. I swipe my key and the doors close without anyone else entering. I sag against the wall, catch a glimpse of myself, and shiver. I look like a mess. My brown hair is knotted and pulled up into a high messy ponytail, my makeup is smudged, and I look well fucked.
No. No. No.
There is no way in hell a Conti could fuck that good. No way. That man has never given a woman an orgasm, he has selfish written all over his face. His handsome face. Ew, no. Maybe. No. A little. Fine. The man does have aesthetically pleasing qualities that I can see based purely on the fact I have eyes, nothing more. He’s still the enemy, even if he has a nice dick. I kind of wish I could remember what the nice dick did to me.
Wait. No, I don’t.
The elevator doors open on my floor, and I stride out, happy that I’ve almost made it without running into someone I know. It’s just a couple more steps, and my dirty secret will be safe, no one will know what I’ve done.
Made it.
Pushing the door open to my room, I step in and let the door slam behind me. Instantly, I relax back in my own environment. Kicking off my shoes, I walk over to the room service menu—I’m starved. I scan it before calling down and ordering. I’ll have enough time to jump into the shower before it arrives. Getting undressed, I curse remembering that the asshole took my underwear. What kind of psycho does that? Is it a fetish? I have never had any of my boyfriends sniff my underwear like he did. It was hot. No, it was not. There’s nothing in the world that man could do that I would deem hot. Him standing there naked. Well … “No,” I chastise myself before stepping into the hot stream of water. Yes, this feels amazing. I grab the soap and lather myself up before scrubbing every square inch of myself, trying to erase my night with Alessandro Conti.
I feel like a new woman when I step out, wrap myself in the fluffy white hotel robe, and head back into my suite. Moments later, there’s a knock at my door, thank goodness because I’m starving. I walk toward the door, and letting room service in, they roll the breakfast cart into my room and set it up before leaving again. It’s all gone in about two point four seconds. I was ravenous. You worked up an appetite. Ew. No. A shiver slides down my spine. I never want to think about the fact that Alessandro Conti’s dick was inside me. I pour myself another cup of coffee, trying to make myself feel human again.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates and when I look down, the message says,
CALL ME – URGENT.
My stomach sinks as I realize it’s one of my magazine friends. She only messages me things like that when she’s been given a juicy story about me. I press call on my phone.
“Fuck, Nat, don’t tell me it’s true,” Francesca asks.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“You and Alessandro Conti.”
I still.
What did she just say?
“Alessandro Conti?” I ask her, hoping to sound calm and collected.
“Yes. That the two of you got married in Vegas last night.”
“Wait, what?” I scream down the phone. The calmness is completely out the window now. “I thought you said I married Alessandro Conti.”
“I did. That’s exactly what I said. One of our photographers was there and took photos, we are the only ones with these images. He was the only one there,” she explains.
“What the hell are you talking about? There is no way in hell I would have married Alessandro Conti. It’s a lie. They’ve faked the photos, it’s not real,” I tell her.
Silence falls between us as I hear typing on her end and then a beep on my end.
“I just emailed the photos,” she explains.
