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I didn’t ever do a second round.
One and done.
I had my work, my family, and my friends.
And I had a different woman every night of the week.
That was all I wanted.
All I needed.
“But what I can promise is that nothing on that list of plans will even compare to what I want to give you,” I said.
She was smiling without showing her beautiful white teeth. “God, you’re cocky.”
“I’m confident.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“It’s vastly different.” I handed her a piece of paper, where I’d written the name of the hotel and my room number. “A cocky person would say you’re coming to my hotel room, where you’re going to be blown the fuck away by the size of my dick. A confident person would show you the way, knowing you’ll find out on your own.”
She slid the paper into her apron. “How do you know I’m not married? Or taken?”
“Your eyes gave me that answer the first time they locked with mine.” I nodded toward her apron. “All the information you need to find me is in there. Now, I just need to know whether you’re coming or not.”
Her grin finally showed her teeth, but it only lasted a few seconds before she began to walk out of the first-class section, stopping just long enough to say over her shoulder, “For how confident you are, Mr. Spade, I’m surprised you need an answer.”
FOUR
Lily
One day and one night—the amount of time Brady wanted to spend with me. A decision I’d contemplated while I finished my closing duties on the plane, still thinking about it when we were shuttled to our hotel, where the crew would be picked up the next afternoon for our return flight to Atlanta.
What I’d learned about him during our trip to Edinburgh was that he had clout. Only people with power were given their room numbers before they physically checked in to their hotels. I knew that because I spent seven days a week in hotels all over the world. And he spoke with authority—I could hear it in his words; I could feel it in his presence.
But he was more than just a guy who had extreme influence.
He was the type I could barely pull my eyes away from. The kind you just wanted to stare at because everything about him was so fascinating—from how he worked on his laptop to the intensity with which he watched TV, even the peacefulness on his face when he had taken that short thirty-minute nap.
Simple tasks that he made look strikingly sexy.
But beyond his provocative looks, I got the sense he was someone who had a stylist deliver his clothes, and the watch he wore—the same brand my ex had—was one of many that he kept in a locked drawer in his walk-in closet. He dabbled between first class and private jets; he preferred his scotch aged and worth hundreds, living a life that most could only dream about.
The reason I knew was because I’d dated someone just like him.
David was the reason why I was … emotionally unavailable.
Six months had passed since we’d broken up. Six of the longest months of my entire life, in addition to the year and a half we were together, equaling two years of hell.
Math that even I could calculate.
Since I’d called things off with him, I’d spent every moment I possibly could in the sky. What I hadn’t done, during my little downtime, was do anything for myself.
Instead, I buried. I kept busy so I wouldn’t have to think. I wouldn’t have to face the ramifications of our past relationship head-on; I wouldn’t have to process the damage it had left behind.
I saw the results.
I felt them.
