Page 44 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

I’m really fucking disappointed. How could I have been so blind? How could I not have noticed the way she was writhing when I flipped her over and started fucking her from behind? How could I not have seen this coming?

How could Mr. Corporate make such a huge mistake?

I reach for my phone on the bedside table and thumb through my contacts until I find his face. Claudette is still talking, her words coming out in a rush that I need to ignore. I can’t.

I press Corporate’s contact. But it goes to voicemail, even when I try his office. Not even his assistant is answering his calls today. It’s Saturday. And she said he had a full schedule of meetings today.

It’s not unusual for him to work weekends. He does whatever it takes to headhunt the perfect corporate executive. Meets them wherever they are. Travels all over the world.

And maybe it’s not so weird that he doesn’t pick up? How would I know? I’ve barely talked to him over the years. I’m only talking to him now because Perfect and I are still sorta close and he recommended I ask Corporate for help in finding a manager.

I end that call and tuck my phone in my shorts pocket.

“I’m outta here,” I say, dialing the front desk on the hotel phone. “Get my car ready, Denise.” I hang up and look at Claudette. “I’m going back to San Diego for the rest of the weekend. You can hold things down?”

Claudette stops rambling on about Ivy Rockwell, and she nods. “Of course, Nol. Of course. I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry. I’m sorry you got hurt by this. You know I just want to protect you, right?”

“I know,” I say as I pull a shirt on and slip my feet into some old Chucks I’ve had since college.

We walk out of the bungalow together, make our way into the main building, and then say goodbye in the lobby.

My little silver Porsche Carrera is already waiting and I can’t get in fast enough. I tip the valet and slide behind the wheel, eager to forget about this day before it even properly starts. It’s only nine AM.

I shift into gear and speed down the resort driveway, the tall palm trees I paid almost half a million dollars to ship and plant blurring by as I pass.

Why? Why did Ivy do this? How did I misread her so badly? Was it Claudette? Did she somehow taint my instincts? Was I just being stupid? Horny? I’ve been out here for two weeks. No girls, no clubs to run, no fun.

But Ivy has to have an explanation.

Doesn’t she?

Chapter Eighteen - Ivy

I am already packed since I barely brought anything. So all I have to do is slip my shoes on and grab my carry-on bag.

I guess you blew it, Ivy.

I guess I did.

I make my way to the lobby and inform the desk staff that I will be waiting in the bar until the plane is ready. There’s no bartender. It’s not even nine in the morning. But I don’t care. I’m not looking for a drink, I’m trying to hide.

And I’m eternally grateful that I didn’t sit in the main lobby, because a few minutes after I sit down Claudette and Nolan appear. There’s a quick, awkward goodbye, and then Nolan leaves.

I can’t believe how badly this all turned out. And maybe last night’s mistake is my fault, but I’m not responsible for that résumé.

Claudette talks to the desk staff, and then the girl points towards me. Claudette turns around, and I swear, even though she is all the way across the lobby, I can see her eyes squint down in anger.

Here we go.

I guess I won’t get out of here without some bruises after all, even if it’s only to my ego.

Claudette’s shoes make a tapping sound as she comes closer, but she stops just at the edge of the bar entrance. “The jet is ready, Miss Rockwell. The car to take you to the airstrip will be here momentarily. Please, wait outside.” She turns on her heel and walks away.

Banished. I’ve been banished from their resort forever.

I don’t bother trying to explain. What does it matter? My fancy weekend is over.

So I get up and drag my carry-on case behind me as I make my way through the lingering haze of Claudette’s sick perfume to the front of the lobby. There is no car outside, but I have my orders. So when the automatic doors open, I step into the unbearable summer heat.