Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(47)

At last, a part of me that had been unsettled could find peace.

As I sip my coffee, I return to my conversation with Polly about happiness. My mind boomerangs farther back in time, to the trip to Copenhagen with Veronica. As we’d left, she talked about how happy she was after her night with the boat captain.

Briefly, I wonder if I’m happier now for the same reason Veronica was exuberant—because of a new man. Great sex can have a hell of a halo effect.

Best for me to be wise to that, aware of it.

I’m especially aware of the impact Christian has on me as I remember our last night together in Copenhagen. I see his parted lips, the ripple of his muscles as he moved in me, how his hair fell over his eyes when he collapsed on me.

As I gaze at the hotel, it gives me an idea. Hotels are made for nights of celebration, and for lovers. For arrangements. For part-time trysts.

I grab my phone. Christian must be on his way to Heathrow now.



Elise: Do you want me to get a hotel room for tonight?





He responds immediately.



Christian: Next time. Tonight, I’m going to take you to your home.





A pulse beats faster inside me, spreading from my chest, down my legs, transforming into something else, something far more dangerous, something I don’t really know how to name. He’s never been to my house before, and it feels thoroughly intimate to let him into the place where my empty bottle of Marchesa Parfum d’Extase sits, sterile and bleached but still alive. A statue in a mausoleum. But it’s not Eduardo I’m clinging to with that bottle. It’s the reminder to never make the same mistake again.

I settle the bill, call Joy and tell her she’s needed immediately, and head to one of my favorite boutiques. When she arrives, her red hair thick and curly, I declare, “I need a new outfit for tonight. I’m going clubbing.”

“Ooh la la.” She shimmies her hips.

“I need something that will make a man eat out of the palm of my hand.”

She gives me a do-tell look with her big green eyes. “Any particular man?”

“Hush. You know who it is.”

By the dress racks, she leans in close and whispers, “Just say it. Just say his name.”

“I don’t know why you’re egging me on like that.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “You’ve got a thing for your husband, don’t you?”

I shoot her a sharp stare. “Please. I just want to look sexy.”

“Darling, you always look sexy, and you know it. You want to look extra special for him, don’t you, because you haven’t seen him in two weeks?”

My heart flutters, and all these sensations popping around inside me are starting to drive me crazy. To wind me up again.

I need something familiar. Something reliable. I understand how clothes make me feel. I know how shoes delight me.

“It’s okay if you like him,” Joy says softly as she flips through a display of pink, blue, and neon-green dresses, shaking her head at each one.

“I do like him. That isn’t what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?”

That’s the problem. I don’t know what this wild feeling is—this unclear emotion rattling around inside me. It’s a language I don’t understand.

But this burgundy wrap dress communicates in words I comprehend. The skirt hits mid-thigh. It says take me, have me. I buy it and wander around the streets with Joy, so very grateful that this city has brought me friendships like this.

Maybe that’s why it feels like home.

Because of these people.



*

Later, when I’m at my house and freshly showered, I slip into a black lace bra and matching panties. As I check out my reflection, the flush in my cheeks, I understand one thing with the crystal clarity of a native language: I want Christian to want me with a raging fire.

Because that’s how I feel for him. Like every bone inside me has been set aflame, and the heat is swallowing me whole.

Standing in front of the mirror, I snap a picture with my phone, and I send it to him.



Elise: Just for you.





He’s probably just landed, or he’s on his way to his flat before he meets me.



Christian: Preparing to rip that off you very soon.





*

I walk to the club with a drum beating in my chest, with music pounding in my ears. Anticipation winds tight inside me, mingled with want, chased by need. I’ve missed Christian over the last two weeks. Missed him more than I expected to.

As I enter the club, threading my way through the bodies writhing and dancing, my eyes adjust to the low lights, my ears to the pulse of the techno rhythm. I catalog the sights and sounds, the press of people, the clink of glasses, the smell of liquor and cherries and sweat.

I order a vodka tonic and drink most of it down. Then, everything in front of me, all the things inside me, become static once more when I see him.

My brain sputters, and logic and reason slink away.

I don’t understand a single thing anymore that isn’t physical, that isn’t elemental, that isn’t this man I married and don’t live with, and hardly share anything with.

But he’s drawn to me.

He stalks across the darkened dance floor with such purpose, his eyes intense. He finds me at the bar and reaches for my drink, taking a swallow, then placing it down. No words are needed when he cups my cheeks and drops his mouth to mine, kissing me relentlessly.