Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(5)

“Please. That only happens in America. Who’d arrest me in Europe?”

Laughing, she practically shoves me out the door. “I’m not posting your bail.”

“Of course you are. You’re the only one who has access to all my accounts.”

When I leave, I head to the hip new lounge, Jane, more eager than I expected to be. Funny, how I spent all of thirty seconds with that woman this afternoon. Thirty seconds, fifty feet across the water, with a boatful of others watching on. But even so, I want to see her.

Talk to her.

Entertain her.

From her voice, she sounded American, but not entirely. I think she might be French too.

I don’t really care where she’s from though.

I care where she’s going.

Hopefully, home tonight with me.





3





Elise





Dark jeans, pewter-gray ankle boots that boost me up a critical three inches to a whopping five and a half feet, and a black blouse, the top button undone to show a hint of flesh. Well, I’m not a nun.

I screw up the corner of my lips, peering at myself in the hotel mirror. I’m so . . . dark. “I look like a widow,” I mutter.

“No. You look like a trendy, modern woman who likes black,” Veronica corrects as she slides chandelier earrings into her ears. She wrenches her gaze back, studying one earlobe. “Why am I wearing these? They might get stuck on a pillow.”

“Or a chair cushion. Don’t rule out the possibility of rambunctious furniture sex.” I wink.

“You’re right. Best to wear studs.”

She bustles out of the bathroom, grabs her jewelry case from her suitcase, and finds, I presume, the studs she’s looking for. Meanwhile, I root around in my bag for another option. Locating a silky purple top, I tug it on. It slides off one shoulder. Just the right amount of sex appeal without being inappropriate.

I hold out my arms wide, giving a half twirl. “How do I look now?”

“Like an eggplant.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a witch.”

“A very sexy eggplant. Please. It was a compliment.”

I eye her getup, which can be described in one word—clingy. “And you look positively like a woman who’s going to enjoy the fuck out of her last night in town.”

She grins widely. “Let’s hope I enjoy the fuck out of it.” She wiggles her hips. “Also, no need to wait up for me.”

“As if I’d wait up for you.”

I smooth a hand over my blouse as my stomach flips with nerves. “Am I really doing this?”

“Yes.” She slides her foot into a red stiletto. “Aren’t you always telling me to enjoy life’s pleasures? To take a lover? To savor each day?”

I tap my chin, smirking. “That does sound vaguely like me. But only in theory.”

“It’s exactly like you,” she says adamantly as she slicks on lip gloss. “Now let’s put it into practice. You’ve been talking ‘seize the day’ ever since you finally came up for air after—”

I wince.

I don’t like hearing his name. I don’t want her to say his name. Once, not so long ago, his was the only name I ever wanted to hear. At night, in bed—all day long.

Veronica quickly reroutes herself, like a GPS after a wrong turn. “And I love your carpe diem-isms. So, let’s go carpe the hell out of the night. Besides, why is it less crazy for me to see Lars than for you to see . . .” She trails off, waving her hand as if to say you-know-who.

I point to her. “That. Right there. That’s why it’s less crazy. I don’t even know my pseudo-date’s name.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” she says softly, her words laced with meaning.

Maybe she’s right. When you’ve had your heart shredded in a Cuisinart, then your sense of order in the universe sliced off at the knees with a serrated blade, maybe it is best to do things differently.

Tonight will be different. Tonight doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Tonight can be a moment in time. A pleasure I take, not just one I talk about.

We leave our room, head down the escalator, and through the brass revolving door that swooshes us onto the street. The doorman hails a taxi, and we slide inside.

Veronica gives the driver two names. “I have no idea which one is closer, but I checked on my GPS, so I think it’s—”

“I don’t need a GPS. I know exactly where both are. I will take you first,” the driver says. A few minutes later, he drops Veronica at a restaurant, and then he shoots me a grin.

“Who needs GPS? I’ve lived here my whole life. There isn’t a sight in this city I can’t find.” He taps his forehead and smiles confidently at me in the rearview mirror.

A few minutes later, the car jimmies up to the curb, and he smacks a meaty paw on the black leather seat. “See? No GPS, and here you are.”

“Brilliant,” I say, and press the fare into his palm.

On the street, I glance up at the sign.

It’s a little bistro.

“Huh,” I mumble, because it looked bigger when I checked it out on Yelp. But if I’ve learned anything from my decade in advertising, it’s that photos can beguile you.