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That comment starts a little firestorm in my head. The one advantage Madi has in having an overbearing father is that predatory men in the industry can’t get to her. The downside is, she’s overworked. The truth remains that the sharks circle when they smell blood in the water. They’ll circle Serena if she gets picked up. She’s young, naive, and beautiful. Despite my efforts, there are predatory men a-plenty along this career path.

I toss my phone aside. I’ve done my best not to tease myself by considering calling her before now. Tonight, I’m having a little trouble. I go to the minibar and pour a whiskey. Usually, I don’t drink when I’m on the road. But there are some nights when my bed seems colder than usual, when my phone won’t stop going off, and work feels like a never-ending road. Those are the nights when my hand starts itching to pick up the phone, to give her a call.

Maybe just to hear her voice.

Maybe to see if she’ll lower her voice…talk to me the way she did when it was her and I alone in bed.

I pour another whiskey.

Deep down, I know calling her would be a bad idea.

I lift the glass to my lips, flipping it and taking the whole thing in one gulp.

But…what if I went to her instead?

A faint buzz starts in the back of my mind. Is it alcohol or the thought of touching her skin, burying my face in her hair and breathing in again? I could fly to New York right now. I don’t have a private plane, but I have a friend who would lend me his anytime. I could get my ass to New York City tonight, send a car for her, and have her in a hotel room by midnight. It’s still late afternoon. Time and money are no object, not when it comes to this.

No, it’s everything else that’s on the line.

I put my finger in the glass, pressing down, and spin it. How many times have I sat at a bar and done this? Alone, at that.

Did I make a mistake in letting her go?

How important is my professional reputation? In my opinion, priceless.

I slide the glass down the bar and back again, pouring another glass. This one goes down easy, and somehow my phone is in my hand, typing out a message to my assistant. She can get the plane for me within the hour. I can have a car outside the hotel to take me there, luggage in hand, by then.

I pace around the room. A trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.

I thought I knew who I was. Then, I met her, and I’m working with a whole new set of rules.

My phone sits on the minibar. I pour one more splash of whiskey. It takes a lot to get me drunk, but a little liquid courage and a buzz never hurt me. Then, I send a text that really gets my blood racing.

One more time.

She doesn’t see it for a good ten minutes. I leave the room and walk up and down the hall. A woman pulling a cleaning cart gives me a curious look. I can’t be bothered with anyone. They can think I’m losing it, and they’d be right.

She sees it. I freeze, phone in my palm.

What do you mean? she asks.

She answered me. That’s a good sign.

Just one more time. The Whitehall Hotel. I’ll send a car for you, I send back.

She sees it, and there’s a long silence. My heart is on my tongue. If she says no, I won’t be surprised, but God…I’ll be crushed.

How do you know I’m in New York?

I shake my head once. God, she’s argumentative.

I talked to Coen the other week, and he mentioned it.

Give me one good reason to go. I was supposed to fly home to Wyoming the day after tomorrow to visit my sister. This fucks up my plans.

I could play my cards safely. Or I could go with my gut. I decide the latter: I gave you a good reason the morning I took you to the airport.

I go back to my room. The door shuts, and my phone buzzes. I can feel deep inside that the answer to all my turmoil is in that text. So I delay it because I’m a coward… Or I like the way she makes me suffer. Or because I have hope.