Trillion(77)

He nods.

“I don’t know … some article I read a few years back. Why?”

“Because they’re bullshit.” His eyes glint. “I’m not in the forty-percent, I can tell you that. And I can promise you, I last a hell of a lot longer than seven minutes. And there’s nothing I love more than making a woman come—whether it’s on my cock, my fingers, or my tongue.”

My throat constricts around the words attempting to come out, and I almost choke on them. Heat blankets my skin before settling between my thighs, and I’d love nothing more than an icy burst of February air right about now.

His words are a sharp and unexpected contrast against his reserved, gentlemanly exterior.

“It’s too bad.” He bites his lip, looks me up and down, and leans in. “Was really looking forward to tasting that heart-shaped mouth of yours tonight. Amongst other things …”

For a few endless seconds, I consider taking him back to my room. I contemplate throwing caution to the wind like confetti. I deliberate whether or not I would hate myself for it in the morning.

Lastly, I calculate the risk factors.

I cinch my hand around my purse strap and pull in a deep breath. “Good luck with … tonight. And thank you again for the wine.”

I don’t wait for him to respond, and as soon as my heels hit cement sidewalk outside, I release the breath I’d been harboring.

I’m several yards closer to my hotel’s entrance when a man behind me yells, “Hey!”

Dozens of people litter the sidewalk. It could be anyone calling after anyone.

“Hey!” The voice is closer now, along with the soft trump of dress shoes scuffing concrete.

I steal a look from my periphery, and come to a complete stop when I realize it’s the guy from the bar, and he’s chasing after me. But before I have a chance to react or concoct some worst-case-scenario situation in my mind—he hands me my phone.

“You forgot this,” he says. Our fingers brush in the exchange. Our moonlit gazes hold for what feels like forever.

Clearing my throat, I force out a quick, “Thank you.”

He nods, and we both remain planted where we are, as if I’m waiting for him to speak or he’s waiting for me to have a change or heart.

“I’m sorry …” I point to my hotel—a rookie move given the fact that he’s still just a nameless stranger looking to get a piece. “I’m going to head in … alone.”

“I know. You made it abundantly clear that you don’t sleep with strangers.” He laughs through his perfect, Greek God nose. “Maybe next time we meet, we won’t be strangers.”

I smile, amused.

And then I head inside, opting not to share with him the statistical odds of the two of us ever running into one another again.



CHAPTER TWO



Cainan



One Month Later …



Beep … beep … beep … beep …

I wake to a steady sound, slamming into an unfamiliar shell of a body, which as it turns out is mine. A dreamlike haze envelopes me, and when my surroundings come into focus, I’m met with white walls, white blankets, white machines connected to white wires leading to a strip of white tape on my wrist holding an IV in place.

I’m in a hospital.

I try to remember how I got here, but it’s like trying to recall someone else’s dream—an impossible task. And it only makes the throbbing inside my head intensify.

“My wife …” My words are more air than sound, and it’s painful to speak with a bone-dry mouth and burning throat.

“Mr. James?” A woman with hair the color of driven snow leans over me. So much fucking white. “Don’t move. Please.”

She’s a calm kind of rushed, hurried but not frenetic as she makes her way around the room, pressing buttons, paging for assistance and adjusting machine settings.

The room fades in and out, murky gray to pitch black, and then crystal clear before disappearing completely. The next time I open my eyes, I’m fenced by three more women and one white-coat-wearing man, all of them gazing down on me with squinted, skeptical expressions, as if they’re witnessing a verifiable miracle in the making.

I’m certain this is nothing more than a bad dream—until my head pulsates with an iron-clad throb once again, accented by a searing poker-hot pain too real to be a delusion.

“Mr. James, I’m Dr. Shapiro. Four weeks ago, you were involved in a car accident.” The doctor at the foot of the bed studies me. “You’re at Hoboken University Medical Center, and you’re in excellent hands.”

They all study me.

I try to sit up, only for a nurse to place her hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, Mr. James.”

Another nurse hands me water. I take a sip. The clear, cold liquid that glides down my throat both soothes and stings. I swallow the razor-blade sensation and try to sit up again, but my arms shake in protest, muscles threatening to give out.

“Where’s my wife?” Each word is excruciating, physically and otherwise.

She should be here.

Why isn’t she here?

“Your wife?” The nurse with the water cup repeats my question as she exchanges glances with the dark-haired nurse on the opposite side of my bed. “Mr. James … you don’t have a wife.”