I tighten my hold, enjoying the warm softness in my arms. Mmm. I feel fantastic, not a trace of tension in my body. It’s better than some expensive hot-stone massage. I could getveryused to this.
Sex with Max fixes everything.Oh yeah. I relive several fresh memories, what we did and how she reacted. Anybody who can’t get a response out of her—that’s their problem.Don’t blame the Steinway,blame your lack of talent.
“Max,” I murmur, my eyes still closed. “Freckles.” I say that out loud, my heart fluttering, like an awkward teenager telling a girl he likes her. The tips of my ears heat, and I cover my face with my free hand.
No response.
Hmm. Maybe she’s tired? Although last night was amazing and gratifying, we’ve also worked at a nonstop, killer pace since we left for London. Now that the Ohimesama deal is done, we can probably enjoy ourselves a little. Might even do some sightseeing or check out that cultural expo thing before heading back to L.A. We have…two more days? Need to check.
I shift, then stop when I realize the softness in my arms isn’t Max but a couple of body-warm pillows. Her side of the bed is messy, but cool to the touch. I listen carefully. There’s only silence.
Is she checking her phone?Possible. She works hard.
But her focus and drive during sex? Absolutely divine.
“Hey, Siri, what time is it?”
“It’s eleven thirty-six a.m.”
I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. My head feels a little wooly, but nothing unmanageable. Can’t believe I slept so late. That rarely happens. My body automatically tenses up around five, ready to rise and start the day in the gym. Of course, my internal clock is off from being in two international cities.
I get up, grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a swig. Max’s suitcase is here, but her shoes and purse are missing. Must’ve gone to eat at that free buffet she was so worked up about. She gets grumpy without food in her belly first thing in the morning.
Although… I rub a hand over my stomach. How can she eat after all that alcohol? I don’t normally get hangovers, but my belly feels slightly queasy. I tend to regulate, but lost track last night, especially after that fiasco with her father and boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend. Satisfaction tugs at the corner of my mouth. Forget sightseeing. Our time would be better spent in bed. Getting our money’s worth out of this suite. Turns out the bed’s just right, too. Not too big, not too small. The perfect size for two healthy, consenting adults. I’ll make her forget all about that rotten cucumber of an ex. Actually, what did cucumbers do to deserve such a comparison? He’s more like one of those inch-long baby pickles.
Whistling, I shower, then change into a suit. I should’ve brought something casual, but didn’t expect the trip to be so extended. Beissen was supposed to take no more than two weeks, and Ohimesama wasn’t supposed to require a face-to-face meeting.
After putting on my glasses, I pick up the room service menu, about to order something light, then stop. Max might want something, too.
–Me: Hey where are you? Want anything for lunch?
I give her thirty seconds. Nothing.
Weird. She’s normally great at answering my texts. Is she being coy? Kinda too late. I’ve already seen every scrumptious inch of her, and I want to see it again. After all, beautiful women should be appreciated. And Max is scorching. A twelve on the ten scale.
Just as I’m about to order, housekeeping arrives. I take it as a sign and head down to the vaunted buffet restaurant Max spoke of, except the breakfast service is over and the place has been converted into a lunch and tea venue. The sky is slightly overcast, turning the streets outside gray, gray and more gray. Perfect. Now we have an excuse to stay in.
A waiter brings me the menu. The light offering consists of white truffle lobster bisque—ugh, no—and some kind of egg porridge. I opt for the second and a glass of kale juice, praying the hotel knows how to juice the bitter veggies correctly. I used to hate it until Silas made some for me. There’s nothing he can’t turn delicious. His talent is wasted at Platcher.
A uniformed receptionist walks by, holding a tablet, then stops at my table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kingswood. Is your wife all right?”
Wife?I look up at her with a slight frown.
“She didn’t look well when she left this morning.”
“…left?”
A professional concern appears on her face. “Yes, she seemed to be in quite a rush.”
So Max didn’t come to the buffet while I was asleep?That’s…very odd. She didn’t say a word about leaving. And she’s usually very upfront. “Do you know where she went?”
“Ahh, no, very sorry. But perhaps a hospital…?” Before she can continue, a waiter places my food in front of me. “Well. Enjoy your lunch, sir.” She slinks away fast.
I shake my head. The woman probably has me mixed up with somebody else. After all, the hotel’s packed with foreign guests. And Max and I aren’t married—the reservation record should indicate two different last names.
But even as I spoon up the porridge, the receptionist’s worried expression gnaws at me. I pull out my phone.
