by Kendall Ryan
“You don’t have to drive me. I can just get an Uber.”
“Hey. I’m your friend. I want to at least see this guy before I let him take you across the Atlantic.” With a wink, Bianca leaves me alone to finish packing.
My passport gets stuffed into my purse along with a pack of gum and a mystery novel for the plane ride. And into my suitcase goes plenty of sweaters to keep me warm, plus the lingerie in case things get hot.
• • •
Later, I roll my suitcase down to Bianca’s little sedan, and we make the short drive to Dominic’s luxury high-rise building.
“Okay, I have to ask. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Bianca’s hands are on the wheel and her foot is on the brake pedal. We’ve just arrived outside of Dominic’s apartment building and I’m about to step out.
My hand slips from the lock on the door. “What do you mean?” I’m not used to Bianca being the voice of caution in our friendship. Actually, she’s the opposite.
She lowers her sunglasses to the tip of her nose. “I know things have been shaky . . . between work and Mr. Man. I just want you to be sure about it. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
I sink back into my seat, grateful for her concern. “I’ll admit, I’m kind of nervous. This isn’t really me . . . or it isn’t who I thought I was.” I meet her eyes, continuing in a braver voice. “But now, I’m learning things about myself on the daily. This new Presley is someone I’d like to get to know a little better. So I figure, why not follow my instincts and go on an all-expenses-paid trip with the hottest guy I’ve ever met?”
Bianca throws her head back and laughs at that.
“And,” I say, “I feel like leaning into this.”
“The adventure?”
“Yeah.” And the guy.
Bianca leans over and wraps me in her arms, and for a second, I feel safe and warm and loved. After the tumultuous few days I’ve had, it’s nice. Having her approval during this wild chapter in my life is everything to me. I squeeze her tight.
“I’m thankful for you,” I say, finally pulling back.
“Aw, I’m thankful for you too. Now go get some dick.”
I bark out a laugh and exit the car. Yeah, right . . .
Unfortunately, Bianca doesn’t get to examine Dominic in person like she wanted. After being let in by the doorman, I ride up to the twelfth floor alone, just me and my worn-out suitcase. I pause at his front door, my fist hovering inches from the door.
Come on, Presley. It’s hardly leaning in if you can’t even knock on his door.
Before I can make a decision, the door suddenly opens.
“Thought you’d be there,” Dominic says, those sharp eyes appraising me. “Come in.”
I follow him inside, taking note of the comfortable clothing he’s wearing for our flight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a pair of jeans. But, damn, his tight glutes are just as awe-inspiring in denim as they are in dress pants. And to make everything worse, the cotton T-shirt he has on perfectly hugs his broad shoulders and firm biceps.
I can’t help but wonder what he’d look like peeling it off.
I don’t have a lot of time to ogle this new look before I’m distracted by Lacey and Emilia’s small voices down the hall. They’re not the cheerful voices I remember from my brief visit with them.
Of course, they wouldn’t be happy to lose their father for an entire week, I get that. They must be so confused. Work trips aren’t really within the realm of a two-year-old’s understanding. I wonder how Dominic is feeling, having to leave his two little girls for an extended trip like this.
“Stay here,” he says, relegating me to the front hall. He disappears around the corner, his voice a low hush compared to the whimpers of two toddlers.
Despite his order, I tiptoe after him, leaving my suitcase at the door. Curious to see what the interaction with his daughters will be, I peek around the corner.
“Don’t go.” Lacey whines, her tiny hands clasped around Dominic’s fingers, who crouches before her.
Emilia sits sulking on the floor next to Lacey, her eyes wide and wet with tears. I can hear Francine bustling around in the kitchen, giving the family the space they need for this tearful moment.
“I’m going to miss you both too,” Dom murmurs, kissing each little girl on top of the head. “You have to promise to call me every night, okay?”
The girls nod vigorously, their curls bouncing around their faces. My heart warms at the sight. Dominic so easily made his girls feel better—not by being patronizing or cliché, but rather by admitting his own feelings to them.
If only he were like this with people his own age.
He turns to see me watching him, and my breath catches. “Let’s go.”
The limo ride to the airport is awkward and quiet. We sit in silence, a stark contrast to our more recent highlights in limos. He barely speaks to me at all, even when we arrive at the airport. We only make eye contact once, when he offers to lift my luggage onto the counter for me.
“Please,” I say, my voice cracking with disuse.
His gaze seems to pass right through me, as if I’m merely a stranger in line he happened to do a favor for. Now, as we make our way down the aisle to our first-class sleeping pods, I’m itching to speak to him.
Have you been to London before?
Where will we be staying?
What’s going on in your head right now?
There are so many unanswered questions desperate to slip out of my mouth and onto my growing list of regrets. But there’s no opportunity for even casual conversation when he slides into the seat behind mine.
He doesn’t want to talk to me; he’s made that plain. And he’s making it abundantly clear exactly what his expectations are concerning me.
Then why the hell am I here?
I turn away from his pod, refusing to waste any more time staring at his profile. If he wants to acknowledge me, he will. I won’t beg for his attention.
No, I’ll eat my dinner in silence and watch a mind-numbing movie about someone with bigger problems than my own, or I can read the book I brought with me and get lost in the pages. I won’t spare another regretful thought about this situation I’ve willingly placed myself in.
As the plane takes off and rumbles with turbulence during the ascent, I sink into my seat and close my eyes, welcoming the escape of the roaring noise to drown out my own thoughts. Even as I slip off into sleep, I can’t help but wonder . . .
What will tomorrow bring?
Chapter Seven
Dominic
We touch down at Heathrow around dawn and take a taxi to our hotel, a ritzy affair in the heart of downtown. Once we’re checked in, I disappear into the bathroom without a word, leaving Presley to unpack and wander around the opulent suite.
With only an hour to get ready for a packed day of meetings, I have no choice but to be efficient here. I shave, shower, comb my hair, and dress in a fresh suit without paying much attention to her.
At least, I pretend not to, because I can never stop myself from noticing Presley, no matter how hard I try. I can feel her big blue eyes following me as I move about the suite.
I know I’m being kind of a dick, but the gaping hole where our trust used to be still gnaws at me, and I don’t particularly feel like talking shit out. It’s not something that can be solved with a few words anyway. Besides, I have the excuse of a tight schedule to use in my arsenal of avoidance techniques. So I continue saying as little as possible.
“Hey, Dom,” Presley says quietly.
“What is it?” I don’t look at her, busy tying my shoes.
“Never mind, you’re in a hurry. Let me know when you’re coming back, and I’ll make sure to be here.”
I give her an affirmative grunt. The last I see of Presley is her sitting on the edge of the bed, still watching me. Then the door closes, and I leave her behind, still wondering what she was going to ask me about.
My first stop
is breakfast at the very posh Ramsay Terrace with a pair of top real estate agents who will pitch the living hell out of their property before taking me to view it. I order a full English breakfast with all the trimmings—I won’t have time to grab much more than a bagel for lunch—and plenty of coffee. Correction, loads of coffee, because even a first-class pod can’t negate the fact that a bumpy airplane ride is nowhere near as restful as sleeping in my own bed, near Emilia and Lacey.
That’s not the only reason I didn’t sleep well. I was too aware of Presley just down the aisle, of her beauty and our unresolved tensions. It’s too bad I couldn’t have breakfasted with her instead of chattering salespeople. If I weren’t so damn busy this week, I could have shown her around my favorite spots in London . . .
No. I catch myself. Even if my time were my own, I still couldn’t. That’s not what this trip is about. I didn’t bring her along for some fucking romantic getaway.
Still, I feel a little bad about ditching her to fend for herself. I should have at least fed her before leaving.
Oh, for God’s sake. She’s a grown woman. I made sure she knew to charge anything she needed to the room, ensuring she could take care of herself, and beyond that, she’s more than smart enough to figure it out on her own.
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Aspen?” one of the brokers asks.
I shake myself out of my thoughts. “My apologies. I guess I’m not completely awake yet. Can you repeat that?”
I manage to focus on business for the rest of the meeting and the tour afterward. Which is just as well, because the location is absolutely stunning with a view of the bustling city beyond the iron gates where a tower once stood.
In a taxi bound for my second appointment, I pull out my phone and dial Frank, the head of Aspen Hotels’ legal department. It’s a phone call I’ve been meaning to make for days. If nothing else, I can at least address the problem that started this whole shitstorm.
“It’s Dominic,” I say. “A man named Austin asked one of our employees to infect Aspen’s computer systems with a virus. He was working for Genesis Software. I need you to get in touch with Genesis about this. Tell them to back off—preferably fire this Austin guy too, but I’ll take what I can get—or else we’ll press charges for attempted sabotage.”
A pause. Which is impressive; it takes a lot to rattle Frank. “I’ll take care of it right away, sir. In case this escalates, do we have evidence?”
“Yes. In the top left drawer of my desk, you’ll find a flash drive containing the virus and a folder marked Genesis.”
“And who was the employee he approached?”
I hesitate. Do I want to subject Presley to interrogation? She didn’t actually do anything, at least based on what she divulged, and at this point, I think I believe her when she says she never intended to. Just because this whole incident has scared me straight, so to speak—reminding me how important it is not to let anyone get too involved in my personal life, it doesn’t mean she deserves to get tangled up in legal repercussions.
Finally, I say, “I’d like to keep her out of this.”
“I see,” he says slowly, in a tone that means he doesn’t.
“If we do end up taking Genesis to court, I’ll talk to her about testifying, of course. But for now, call it an anonymous tip. I don’t want to punish employees for reporting trouble.”
“All right. Anything else you need?”
“That’s all, thank you.” I hang up.
A few minutes later my cell rings again, and I glance down as the taxi pulls to a stop. It’s Frank. That was fast. Frowning, I climb out of the car and into a light drizzle of rain.
“Yes?” I head under the awning of a nearby building, my phone pressed to my ear.
“Sir, I thought you’d want to be made aware—Austin Champlain isn’t an employee whose employment would be easily terminated. He’s the son of Genesis Software’s owner.”
“I see.”
No wonder the kid had balls—he’s got a huge stake in making sure Genesis doesn’t fail.
I step inside the glass-and-chrome building, shaking the rain droplets from my briefcase. “That doesn’t change things on our end, although I guess the suggestion that they fire him won’t be met well.”
“No, sir, I don’t see how it would. But I’ll make the call and keep you posted.”
“I appreciate that, Frank. I’m in London all week, so make sure you call my cell, and leave a voice mail in case the time difference gets in our way.”
“Absolutely. Enjoy your trip,” he says before clicking off.
• • •
My day continues how it began—in a whirlwind of sales meetings and on-location visits, until twilight falls and it’s too dark to keep looking at properties.
The last group of agents insist upon treating me to dinner at their favorite restaurant, Dalloway, which I happen to know is one of the most expensive places in London. It’s obvious that they’re trying to butter me up, but why not? It might be a chance to get a better deal out of them.
Unfortunately, Roger and his wife won’t arrive in London until later tonight, which means I don’t have an excuse to bring Presley, though part of me still wants to. But we head out right after leaving the last property—an undeveloped strip of land far outside of the city center.
“I hope we’ve made you feel welcome,” says the jowly man seated next to me, whose name I can’t remember for the life of me.
I force my most winning smile. “Except for the jet lag, everything has been amazing.”
The others chuckle politely.
Damn, that joke wasn’t as funny out loud as it was in my head. I’m off my game.
While I’m more or less satisfied with how the day has gone, I’m still exhausted and very much in the mood for a pick-me-up. Something to relax me, something to help me work off this excess stress and my foul mood. And I know exactly want I want.
Struck by inspiration, I text Presley.
I’ll be done in one hour. Meet me at the hotel bar. Don’t wear any panties.
It’s bold of me—and who knows, she might not comply with my demand. In fact, she’d have every right not to. But something tells me the game Presley and I have been playing isn’t nearly done, and that she’ll be tripping over herself to please me. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
Just the prospect of what I have to look forward to puts me back in shape for the rest of dinner. When the waitress comes by to pick up our plates and asks if we’d like anything else, Jowly Man nudges me.
“How about it?” he asks. “A few cocktails, Dalloway’s famous desserts—all on our agency’s tab, of course. My personal favorite is the blood orange cake with chocolate mousse.”
“As delicious as that sounds . . .” I stand up with an apologetic dip of my head. “I should actually get going. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
And a much more tempting dessert waiting for me at the hotel.
Chapter Eight
Presley
So far, my experience of London hasn’t made it past the view from the hotel room window. Although you really can’t call this a hotel room at all. First, it’s much larger than Bianca’s entire apartment.
There’s a formal entryway with crystal vases containing fresh-cut flowers, gleaming marble floors, then a formal sitting area with teal-colored velvet chairs and elegant paintings on the wall. The living room boasts a gray sectional sofa and a large flat-screen TV. A bar area is beyond that, with a wall of windows that overlook the city, and then a private bedroom with a massive adjoining bathroom. The bed is positively oversize, and the slate-colored carpeting is the plushest I’ve ever felt. This place is a dream. Bored, I’ve already filled my cell phone’s camera roll with pictures of its opulence.
I don’t know why Dominic’s wealth still surprises me; he is a billionaire, after all. But I guess I haven’t wrapped my head around that just yet.
Sighing, I sit perched on a tufted stool in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in
the bedroom, gazing out at the bustling city below. I’m not complaining. It’s a spectacular view. Our hotel stands tall, towering over the dense fog of the city. The skyline here is so different than that of Seattle. But even though the buildings are different sizes and shapes, the blue-gray hue of the city reminds me of home.
So far today, I’ve napped and eaten room service, twice, and surfed the channels on the TV—amused by the posh accents of the newscasters—and have been content, for the most part, to sit taking in the view. But it’s been hours since Dominic took off to do his business in the city, and I’m getting increasingly antsy as the minutes tick by.
I’m not used to napping during the middle of the day, nor am I used to having so much downtime to myself. Even before college, I’ve always operated at 110 percent, balancing my studies with work and a social life.
I never knew it would be so hard to actually relax. My only excuse is that there is quite literally nothing for me to do here but laze around.
If I’m going to be confined to the hotel, I may as well make the most of it. The freestanding bathtub is massive with all sorts of bubble bath concoctions to choose from. I select the one called Peachy Clean, listening to the satisfying glug-glug-glug as I pour it into the steaming water. One foot at a time, I submerge myself in the bath.
Holy shit. This is heaven.
I let my back slide against the warm ceramic, an involuntary sigh escaping my lips. As a twenty-something always on the brink of breaking the bank, I never have the luxury of taking a bath. My morning routine is simple—get up, take as fast a shower as I can, and get out. My showers aren’t even enjoyable, since I’m usually saving the hot water for Bianca, cognizant of my couch-surfing status. To make it worse, the pipes in her building are old and finicky. I’m lucky if there’s decent water pressure.
I sink deeper into the bubbles, willing this moment to last forever. I can barely remember the last time I took a bubble bath . . . God, I must have been only five or six years old. Our mother always bathed Michael and me together, probably because we were so inseparable at that age.