“I trust you found your stay satisfying,ja?” he says with a wink.
“What?” I blurt.
Christoph looks confused; of course, he doesn’t know about Eric staying.
“I mean yes,ja! Thank you so much!”
Did I have the best and then second best andthen thirdbest orgasm of my life in one night? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Do I want it to happen again? Yes. Wait—no!
“Wunderbar!” He claps his hands together. “AlsoI’m so sorry for the misunderstanding about the room. I do hope Eric didn’t mind giving up the suite to you for the night.”
My stomach lurches at the idea of Christoph bumping into him on the way down to the lobby. Here it is: another reason why this shouldn’t have happened. We both risk looking unbelievably unprofessional in front of our biggest potential business partner for the Ditto launch, putting the chances of either of us getting the promotion at risk. Sure,hehas this kind of reputation already, and even if he hates it, it works in his favor. The last thing I would want is a new business contact to assume that about me.
“I think he was fine with it,” I insist, eyes wide and head bobbing frantically. The elevator dings open. “I have to run but we’ll be in touch on Monday about partnership contracts.”
I smile my most enthusiastic toothy smile, which probably makes me look like a crazed extra inWallace & Gromit.
He waves his hand, disregarding the “business talk.” “Ja,ja, no worries. Talk soon!”
He ushers me into the gilded elevator. I wait for the giant metal doors to slide shut before I collapse against the railing.
I need every single minute it takes to get to the place I’m meeting Jack for breakfast to compose myself, and even then I’m vibrating as I sit down opposite him.
Jack looks like someone you would take home toyour parents, and they would say “what a nice young man.” Because that’s what he is: A Nice (has kind eyes, politely insisted on buying my coffee and pancakes and is asking lots of questions), Young (more baby-faced than in his pictures but still handsome in an unkempt, rugged kind of way), Man (he is built like one of those men on the front of old romance novels straddling hay or a fainting heroine, long dark hair flapping in the wind).
This is what you need.A Nice Young Man. Someone who isn’t going to tell your whole family you’re engaged and then leave you less than twenty-four hours later. Or someone who isn’t going to make you feel like the most special person to ever walk the earth, while planning to steal your dream job from right under your nose.
The cafe, adorned with exposed brick walls, French jazz posters and four resident baristas all with matching moustaches, is busy but quiet. Not pin-drop quiet but it feels library-esque—as if anything louder than a dull whispered tone would get you ssshhhed by a middle-aged woman with cat’s-eye reading glasses on a chain. We’re sitting in wingback armchairs, half-empty plates of pancakes on the table, facing diagonally outward as if we’re performing the famed stage showFirst Date Isn’t Going Greatfor everyone else in the room.
My still-swollen lips trace the edge of my warmmug. It’s crazy to think four hours ago I was begging Bancroft to—
“—and then he rolled in a puddle of mud and feathers. He came out of the woods looking like a chicken!”
I snap back into the room as Jack belly laughs and holds his phone up to show a picture shining from the screen of a muddy, feather-covered dog in a field looking pleased with himself. Shit, I haven’t been listening to a word this Nice Young Man has been saying for the last five minutes. What is wrong with me?
I wonder if anyone within earshot notices the laugh I give to Jack’s phone screen is completely fake.
“Do you have dogs?” He looks at me hopefully, as though this question is the deal-breaker on which he judges every potential girlfriend.
“No,” I breathe out over the edge of my latte. In my hushed tone, it comes out harsher and more repulsed than I wanted.
“Oh.” He creases his brow and pouts.
He looks into the white foam separating in his cup and seems genuinely gutted, as if I’ve just told him I kill puppies for a living instead of just not owning one.
“But I really like them!” I offer with a tight-lipped smile and raised eyebrows.
“Oh!” He lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing back into the chair. This guy isreallyinto dogs. Do I dare admit I’m a cat person?
My phone dings, reminding me to submit my evaluation notes for Heimach Hotel. How the hell am I going to summarize the past twelve hours?
My brain scrambles to find literally any other topic to talk about with Jack. I wade through sticky thoughts of Bancroft’s teeth on my neck, his hands in my hair and settle on: “So what do you do for work?”
He sheepishly stares into his cappuccino, swirling the remaining liquid around the mug until it leaves a fluffy coat of brown foam up the edges. “I’m... I’m a bartender?”
He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes. I furrow my brow; why does he look so uncomfortable at his answer? Does he think I look down on bartending as a profession or something? Then it dawns on me.
“Shit, you’ve already said that. I’m so sorry! I had a... rough night last night. Hardly slept.” I down a huge glug of my latte for emphasis, lifting it in a remorseful “cheers” gesture toward him. “My brain’s a bit frazzled this morning.”
