Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(7)

“So sorry. But yes, I’m sure.”

I return to my chair. Surely, Veronica can’t go all night long.

But at two thirty, it’s still me and my book.

I yawn, barely able to stay awake anymore. My eyes flutter closed, and before I know it, I sit bolt upright at five thirty, greeted by the blazingly bright morning sun, and a massive crick in my neck, having spent the night curled up in an uncomfortable emerald green leather chair in the lobby of my hotel.

But it was worth it, evidently, I learn when I return to the room, greeted by a contrite but glowing Veronica.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t fetch you. We were busy, and then we were busy again, and then I crashed, and I’m the worst friend in the world.”

“Don’t even think twice about it. I’m glad you were—wink, wink—busy,” I say as we pack.

“I’m terrible. But you truly are a saint,” Veronica declares as she stuffs clothes and makeup hastily in her bag.

“I’ll be awaiting my official canonization any day, then.”

Sitting back on her heels, she tugs the zipper with vigor, sealing her suitcase. She grabs her phone when it buzzes, then scans the message as I check and double-check that my passport is secure.

“Eek! The airline gave me a first-class upgrade.”

“Lucky you.”

She dances her way over to me, her eyes twinkling. “No. Lucky you. It’s my gift to you for the valorous act of compassion you performed last night for me.”

“No, I can’t,” I say, but I can, I truly can.

“I insist.”

Twisting my tired arm won’t be hard. “Really?”

“Take it. You deserve it.”

All the way to the airport, Veronica tells me it was the best sex of her life. The best night of her life. The most interesting man she’s ever met. She can’t stop smiling. She can’t stop beaming. “I’m happy, Elise. I’m ridiculously happy.”

Happy.

What does it take to be happy anymore?

“Will you see him again?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Doubtful. He’s a boat captain in Denmark. I’m a candy-maker in France.” Veronica runs a handful of popular artisan candy shops in Paris. “Besides, I don’t need something to last to make me happy. I don’t even need something to happen twice for me to enjoy it. Though, let me tell you, it was three times.”

She’s brimming over in the morning-after glow of great sex, buzzed on the lingering effects. I know too well what that’s like, to be so blissed out that anything feels possible.

Turning, I stare out the window as the brick buildings and cobbled pedestrian streets give way to sleeker, more modern structures. I wonder how I should live my life now—a year after everything with Eduardo fell to pieces. Like Veronica, daring and wild? Or perhaps like me, the woman who lubricated a magical kind of night for a friend?

She’s glowing. I’m thinking.

She’s bubbling. I’m contemplating.

Who do I want to be?

When we reach the airport, make our way through security, and step onto the plane, I sink into a plush, first-class seat.

It’s so lush, so comfortable, and so precisely what I need.

I sigh happily, then laugh at myself. My friend is on cloud nine from orgasms. I’m walking on air from a leather seat.

Maybe last night wasn’t such a loss after all. Maybe it was the start of starting over.

As a spectator.

As the sidekick.

As the friend who sleeps in the lobby so one of her besties can seize the day.

Yes, that’s the better path for me. I have a business to run, a company to shore up, and a heart that I won’t let out to play again. Life is for living well, not loving well.

I shut my eyes, briefly wondering if I’ll ever see the man from the dock again.

The world doesn’t work like that. You only see a naked handstander once.

That’s just how life is.





4





Christian





The night they were supposed to meet

Win some. Lose some.

After an hour at The Jane, during which I engage in several heated discussions with other patrons about football, European-style; the best digital currency to invest in; and finally, the astounding versatility of eggs as a food topping—you can slap a fried egg on rice, pizza, a crepe, noodles, and so on—I resign myself to reality.

My little mermaid isn’t coming.

Grabbing my pint, I down the remainder of the beverage and set the glass on the bar.

Maybe one last scan.

I survey the sleek bar with its chaise lounges and royal-blue couches. Tall men and women have poured themselves over the cushions, clinking glasses, chatting, flirting.

None look like the woman from the boat.

“C’est la vie,” I tell the bartender.

He nods knowingly and repeats the saying. He has no clue what it means to me in this moment. But he’s a good bartender, so he agrees.

Maybe it was foolish to think she might actually show up. The woman did add a perhaps before she said she’d see me. There’s hardly a more noncommittal word in the English language than perhaps.

My gaze drifts to my phone by force of habit, as if there might be a text telling me she’s late, but she promises to be here any minute. As if she’ll say I can’t wait to see your sexy arse.