Except.
No. That looks like I’m clingy. Like it’s a keepsake I’ll treasure forever when this is just a one-night stand. I hurry over to grab it when there’s a knock on the door. My heart clatters around in my chest, my stomach swooping in excitement. Well, that man can kiss. I bet he can fuck.
“Just a second,” I call out.
“Of course,” a muffled voice answers as I grab the bird and drop it into—what do I do with it? It’s so cute, and I don’t want to crush it. Thinking fast, I rush to my suitcase, flip it open, and find an empty blue box. Haven brought me salted caramels from Elodie’s Chocolates, and we devoured them last night. Perfect. I put the bird inside so it doesn’t get crushed.
Well, I like birds. That’s all.
I stand and smooth a hand down my shirt, settling my nerves and my excitement, and head to the door.
When I pass the clock, it vaguely occurs to me he’s two minutes late. Huh. Banks hardly seems like a man who’d ever be behind schedule. But I’ll have fun with that. I unlock the door, yankingit open while saying, “You’re late, but I’ll let you make it up to me if you put me on my hands and knees and give me a good, hard spanking.”
Then, my dignity flies out the window as I come face-to-face with a man with red hair and ahospitality firstsmile. He’s holding a folded sheet of paper. Crisp. White.
“I have a letter for you, ma’am.”
I cringe, embarrassment gripping me in a tight noose. “I’m so sorry…I thought you were…I was expecting…”
His smile never wavers. “No worries.” He dangles the letter. I wince, and like it contains anthrax, I take it while I search for an escape pod to hurl me through the black hole of dating and hookups and return me to Darling Springs.
“Thanks,” I say, the word tasting like sour milk.
“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. Champagne on the house?”
So it’s that obvious I’ve been stood up. And that I was expecting a spanking, no less.
But no one, not a damn soul, gets to feel sorry for me. I dealt with enough of that when I was in high school.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and say, “Actually, if you could tell the valet to bring my car around.” I flash an apologetic smile, then improvise. “I was called home, so I have to leave right away.” I wave the paper airily, like I don’t care about his excuse, whatever it is. “Poor guy. He was so devastated when I told him I had to go early. But business calls.”
The smile never leaves the man’s face. “Of course.”
“Feel free to send that champagne to Banks…” I shrug, laughing off the fact I don’t know his last name or room number. “He’ll probably need it more than I do.”
Then I shut the door, slump against it, and let out the world’s most frustrated sigh.
I wish I could say I crumple up the note. But I don’t. I’m not that tough. I open it, dreading the words, but reading them anyway.
Three lines.
Three lines that feel like lies. Because the truth? The truth is that somewhere between then and now, Banks lost interest in me. Could be the way I kissed. Could be something I said. Or it could be that I wanted him too much.
My stomach roils.
Whatever the reason, he ditched me, and these excuses—these three little sentences—don’t change how foolish I feel.
They’re crumple-worthy. I ball up the paper and toss it across the room. Then I pack my things at rocket speed, grab my bags, turn off the lights, and go.
Less than two hours later, I’m driving along a winding road, nearing a wooden sign rising up in the hills, lit up at night and declaring:You’re entering Darling Springs.
It’s bright and beckoning even in the starlight. I turn into town, leaving San Francisco, lying men, and failed one-night stands far behind.
6
MS. FIX IT
RIPLEY
