Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(6)

But it’s cute enough, and I head inside, my pulse skittering in excitement.

My God, what if he’s a serial killer?

Don’t leave with him, then, girl.

What if he’s a lech?

Walk away.

What if he’s not even here?

He’ll show.

I do a clean sweep of the bistro and its ten tables and Lilliputian bar. There is no Skarsg?rd look-alike.

Perhaps he’s in the little boys’ room.

Or little lads’ room.

Thinking of his English accent makes me smile, and I grab a seat at the bar and order a glass of white wine. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. You don’t ask a woman out while dressed in nothing and then ghost her.

I glance around, then fiddle with a napkin. I need something to do.

Do I stare at my phone as I wait? Or does that make me look too millennial? I don’t want to seem like I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed like an addict when he wanders in.

The bartender slides over a glass, and I pay, then engage in small talk with him—the spring weather, how it’s been a warm season, and so on.

That kills all of two minutes.

Drumming my fingers on the bar, I straighten my shoulders and sip my wine.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Screw not looking like a phone-obsessed junkie. I have a magazine on my cell phone, and I’m going to read a long, in-depth article on growth in the travel sector. There. I’ll be doing business, like I’m not even waiting for him.

I’m keeping myself occupied, and if he shows, fine.

I barely notice the men who stroll into the bistro as I read. Well, I do notice that none look like the man from the dock. I do catalog that none have the impish grin of the handstander.

I’m keenly aware that it’s seven thirty-five and my wineglass is empty, and the sector is growing at 11 percent with the biggest opportunity being on the luxury side, and I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.

No one stands me up.

I leave, hail a cab, and return to the hotel where I promptly get acquainted with the way my evening was intended to unfold: a bubble bath, some music, and a novel.

After I’ve finished soaking, I grab one of those plush hotel bathrobes I never use because I’m not a person who likes bathrobes—since nudity or clothes seem like vastly more reasonable choices—but tonight feels like a bathrobe kind of night.

Bathrobes are for disappointment.

It’s easier to drown your temporary sorrow while wearing terry cloth.

Flopping down on the bed, I crack open my book again.

A little while later the door creaks, then it slides open with a loud, demanding groan. Laughter spills into the room. A man with a soft lilt to his English accent says, “I’ll make your last night so worth it.”

Worth it.

Those words resonate with me.

Trysts can make a night worthwhile. Can make a moment sing.

I’m glad Veronica’s going to have a fabulous night.

Even if it means my game plan has changed.

They stumble around the corner, and I wave at Veronica and Lars. Her lipstick is smeared. I hold up a hand before she can even breathe a word. “I’ll go make myself scarce in the lobby bar.”

“You’re a saint,” Lars says to me with a flirty smile. “A French saint. And she’s a French angel.”

“I don’t think she’s an angel, Lars,” I say.

“Even better.” He buries his face against her neck, smothering her skin in kisses.

“You don’t mind?” Veronica’s breath catches. “Oh my.”

That last comment was not meant for me.

“Enjoy yourself. Seize the night.”

“I will,” she says breathily. “Did you already seize yours?”

“He didn’t show.”

She knits her brow. “He didn’t?”

“Trust me, I scanned all of Jane for my handstander,” I say, tugging on panties and leggings under the robe, then dipping into the bathroom to pull on a sweatshirt.

When I pop out, Lars lifts his chin at me. “Did you go to Jane the bistro, or The Jane, the hip, trendy lounge bar that’s supposed to be popular with French ex-pats down on Kronerghaven?”

I freeze. “Are you kidding me? There are two Janes?”

Lars laughs, as he yanks Veronica impossibly closer. “It’s such an easy name to say and to spell. It was good for the tourists. But the newest one is The Jane.”

Veronica gasps and jumps up and down. “You know he went to the other Jane. You could still go and find him.”

Her excitement is adorable and thoroughly misplaced. I shake my head. “It’s eleven thirty. Have fun. Good night.”

“Bonsoir,” Lars says, a dirty sound to his voice that makes it clear he intends to give Veronica a hefty dose of bonsoir.

Grabbing my book, my glasses, and my phone, I head to the bar.

I’ve no interest in drinking though, so I find an empty chair at the edge of the lobby bar and tuck my feet under my legs.

I read till one in the morning.

With no sign of Veronica, I head to the front desk. “Do you have any extra rooms tonight?”

A ponytailed attendant smiles, taps the keyboard, then frowns. “We are all sold out.”

“Are you sure?”