Throwing my phone on the mattress, I stand on my heels. Or try to.
I won’t hide and reminisce about my ex. That’s what sad, insecure women because they can’t handle being alone. I might be depressed, but I sure as hell will not wallow in here like some loser.
My makeup needs a touchup. I stumble into the bathroom and grasp the tube lined up on the sink. I smear rose over my lips.
Where’s my purse?
I search before finding it near my feet. Must’ve dropped. I pick it up, my vision tipping madly when I straighten. The keycard. I seize that, too. What about my cell? It’s still blinking on the comforter, Blake flashing across the screen.
Fuck it.
Somehow I’m in the hallway, and it doesn’t matter I don’t recall the walk. Who cares?
I can’t remember where the elevator is, but I find it by sticking close to the wall. My fingers punch a random destination. Too many buttons to choose from.
The doors open to the slick hotel lobby. It’s packed with tech bros in flannels. My name tag hangs on my neck, but most of them won’t believe I belong here. Tech is a man’s world. Every day, they remind me I am not welcome. Hence the drinking.
I squeeze through a coterie of craft beer sipping bros and head for the bar. I’m so wasted, I can’t read the chalkboard for the beers on draft. But I sit on a stool and communicate by grunting, which seems appropriate considering this is an event with lots of socially challenged people.
I wave at the bartender. "Hit me."
"This isn’t blackjack. It’s a bar," he says, judgment heavy in his tone. "And you’re already trashed."
"So what? I’m not causing trouble." And there’s nothing to do besides drink.
"Sorry."
"At least give me a reason to sit here."
Sighing, he fills a glass with club soda and garnishes it with a lime. I frown at my cup, which somehow bursts with flavor despite its plainness. Halfway through the seltzer, the light fog surrounding my brain clears because a bro takes the seat beside me. There’s plenty of open space, but he took the stool next to mine.
"Manhattan. Straight up." The man flags the bartender, and then he faces me, chin propped on his elbow. "I thought I’d find you here."
Oh shit. Bile floods my mouth as his velvet voice washes over me. My fingers white-knuckle the tumbler.
Blake wears an electric green V-neck and black skinny jeans. He couldn't resist hipster fashion, but he didn’t grow a man bun. Blake's face is round and boyish. His eyes are the same deep blue, full of mischief. His hair almost brushes his shoulders. He looks like an extra in a rock band music video. It’s as dark as coffee grounds and the same shade I recall. My heart hurts at the little differences in his appearance. He’s thinner, harder, leaner.
"What are you doing here?"
"You hung up on me," he accuses.
I assumed looking at him would hurt less if I were drunk. I was wrong. "Calling you was a mistake."
He slaps a bill on the table as the bartender slides over his cocktail, which he drinks with surprising speed. "Your timing was perfect. I’m single. So are you."
I choke on my water. "Not happening."
The alcohol wetting his lips is like an invitation. "You didn’t hear me out."
"Don’t have to. This isn’t headed anywhere good."
Waves of heat roll from his body as he invades my space. "We never have to see each other again. It’s one night."
Is that all he wants from me?
"Anything more would be a disaster," he adds.
"I wasn’t suggesting I wanted more, you prick."
His eyes shine with glee. "You said you needed me."
Once, I did. My boyfriend was the center of my universe, and there was nothing to sustain me when everything collapsed. I trusted him. That was a huge blunder. I won't repeat it, but sleeping with him is a Band-Aid. It's what I want, but I’ll feel worse the next morning.
He smiles. It tugs at my chest.
"Not interested."
I slide from the stool and push through a wave of drunk assholes playing beer pong. My heart races like I've finished a hard run.
"Emilia!" he calls. "Wait!"
A pain shoots through me as he dives into the elevator with me. "Blake, I made a goddamn mistake."
He punches the button that forces us to halt between floors. "Hold on for a second."
"For what? Everything's been discussed." My throat tightens, suddenly thick. "You’ve no idea what the last year’s been like."
"Cry me a river. You dumped me for the dumbest fucking reason." Anger ripples across his face. "You don’t get to act high and mighty."
I bite my lip to keep myself from shouting the truth. "Whatever."
He grabs my shoulder, our first contact in twelve punishing months. "We don’t have to like each other to have crazy-hot sex."
My blood sings as he caresses my skin. Every cell responds. I don’t fight him when he takes my hand and turns his body into mine.
It feels too familiar.
His need blazes through his commanding touch, and then it scorches through his mouth. His lips crash against mine, and I respond with weeks of pent-up desire. My fingers dive into his mane, and his stubble scrapes my cheek. He holds me against the wall, searing me in places that have been ignored for ages.
It’s been so long, but if I don’t stop now, I’ll wake up in my ex’s bed. The man who ruined me will move on, but I’ll be stuck in the same dead-end position. Only I’ll be filled with self-loathing.
I break from his kiss and push him away. "I can’t do this."
Hands still wrapped around me, he digs into my hips. "Come on."
"No." I stagger back, ripping from his grasp. "You’re not good for me."
"Is that why you drunk dialed me?" Blake snorts with derisive laughter, slamming his fist into the button. "Whatever, Em."
"I’m sorry, okay?"
"No, I am. I wasted fifteen minutes trying to get in your pants." Blake rakes his hair, looking anywhere but me. "I could’ve spent them playing Candy Crush."
"That game was popular maybe five years ago." The elevator resumes its ascent, and I catch myself on the mirror. "Shit."
Blake watches me regain my balance, smirking. "It would’ve been a better use of my time than talking to you."
Dick.
The door chimes, opening to the third floor. "I’ll take the stairs the rest of the way. Have a nice life."
Blake seizes my arm. "Don’t be a fucking idiot. You’ll crack your head open."
"I’m fine."
"You can’t even walk straight, you lush. I’ll go." Blake releases me, voice deepening with anger. "I did everything right by you."
He didn’t. He just doesn’t know it.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you Christine LaPorte for your prompt and thorough editing. I’m indebted to my cover designer, Kevin, for his amazing work. Thank you!
Thank you, Melissa. Without your crazy adventures in South America, I would’ve never written The Secret Arrangement. There is more truth to this book than anyone will ever realize or care.
To my writer buddies, C, K, and J, thank you. I owe you so much.
To my readers, thank you so much! I am eternally grateful for being gifted with people who’ve supported me since the beginning.
I love y’all!
Also by Vanessa Waltz
Romantic Comedy
The Mechanic (Fair Oaks #1)
The Detective (Fair Oaks #2)
Royal Romance
Dirty Prince
Contemporary Romance
The Cinderella Arrangement
The Roommate Arrangement
The Secret Arrangement
Vittorio Crime Family
High Stakes (Vittorio Crime Family #1)
Double Blind (Vittorio Crime Family #2)
End Game (Vittorio Crime Family #3)
His Witn
ess (Vittorio Crime Family #4)
Cravotta Crime Family
Married to the Bad Boy (Cravotta Crime Family #1)
Knocked Up by the Bad Boy (Cravotta Crime Family #2)
Tied Down (Cravotta Crime Family #2.5)
Property of the Bad Boy (Cravotta Crime Family #3)
Owned by the Bad Boy (Cravotta Crime Family #4)
Bad Boy Empire
Hitman’s Bride
His Secret Baby
About the Author
Vanessa Waltz is a full-time romance author and a part-time beer connoisseur. She lives on the west coast and spends her days hunched over her laptop sandwiched between two cats. When she isn’t dreaming up new storylines, she’s hitting up the finest craft breweries Seattle has to offer.
Vanessa is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
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For more information, follow her here:
www.vanessawaltzbooks.com
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The Secret Arrangement Page 52