Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  “Sure,” I say. “I can’t wait to shower.” God, I want to shower with him. Is that pathetic?

  He leans over and in a last moment of intimacy, whispers, “Give those breasts a nice sudsy rub for me, would you?”

  I feel myself flush, but more than that I feel my body tumble downward, like the bottom of the plane has fallen out. I want him all over again. The man is a lust-manufacturing machine.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him. For a second I look into his eyes. He looks…sad. I pull my gaze away, disconcerted. Independent Adriana, stop feeling so much.

  When the plane stops he pulls out his cell and flips the airplane mode off, not that I’m looking. A billion messages flood the screen and I look away, but not before I see that the first one is from Estée. Who the fuck is Estée? I hate her already.

  He tucks it into a pocket before it can do any more damage. By now I’ve got my backpack in hand and I’m ready to step out into the aisle. I turn to him. “Well, it was nice…meeting…you.” I extend a hand like a fool. He takes it then leans in, kissing me full on the lips. Bastard. I melt.

  “It was nice meeting you too, Adriana,” he says. “May your stay in Paris be splendid.”

  “Thank you.”

  As I turn away to step in front of an overly eager teenager, tears well up in my eyes. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I’m not supposed to feel feelings. I’m supposed to turn into stone. A cold, hard, rock, that’s what I should be.

  But I do feel, and the truth is that I miss him already.

  It’s not til I’m fully charging up the ramp that I realize that I still have to pick up my luggage from the carousel. I can only hope that Conlon brought carry-on and nothing more. I don’t want to see him again.

  God, I’m such a liar.

  Of course want to see him again. I want to throw him down onto the carousel and do unspeakable things to that glorious body of his. That’s why I need to run away.

  Get your luggage, find your ride, flee like the wind.

  Amid the bouncing of my escaping body, I pull out my cell phone and turn it on. I’ve got some kind of travel plan that lets me text overseas and damn it, I’ve got to slow down to send Jen a note.

  “Plane adventure. Now official member of mile high club. More later.”

  I shoot it off, wondering how ballistic she’ll go when she reads it. The thought makes me smile a little, at least.

  Conlon

  I watched her leave. Watched her beautiful ass make its way down the aisle, though I had to do some serious neck twisting to accomplish the feat.

  She wanted to get away from me, I know. To make a clean break. I thought I wanted it too, but the moment she disappeared from view a realization clobbered me in the chest.

  I’m not ready to stop looking at her yet.

  Okay, I’m not quite so superficial as all that. I’m not ready to stop listening to her speak, either. I want more…more of her dreams, her aspirations. I want more of her youthful exuberance. Adriana is a grown woman, but that doesn’t mean she’s lost her idealism, and it’s that very thing that makes her so exciting.

  I lost mine when I was a child. My life since then has been spent attempting to fix my broken brother and others like him, all the while denying my own brokenness in order to prop myself up and prove my importance in this world.

  Adriana makes me—or should I say made me, since I’ll probably never see her again—feel important without ever saying it. With a look, she made me soften. With another look she made me harden—but only in the best possible way. It’s not a bad thing to make me as erect as she did.

  Then there’s the matter of the memoir. We never spoke of it again, not after our adventure in the loo. I suppose she thinks I’ve taken back my offer, and under normal circumstances she’d be right. I’m not keen on fucking a woman then having to work with her; it’s a mistake I’ve made more than once.

  But the memoir wouldn’t seem like work, at least not with her. An excuse to sit with her on a Parisian patio under a late day sun would be a blessing. It would offer me an excuse to both reveal something of myself to a sympathetic ear and to stare at a beautiful woman. Possibly more.

  I pull my carry-on suitcase out of the overhead compartment and head towards the exit. I’m going to find her, damn it. And when I do, I’m going to ask her to be mine.

  My writer, that is.

  And possibly even my lover. Adriana has graduated from SILF to a WILD:

  A woman I’d like to date.

  I’ve never had one of those in my life.

  Adriana

  After twenty minutes spent in the baggage area, I’ve retrieved the green monster. It’s rolling next to me like an elephant on steroids, threatening to take out anyone who gets in my way. There have been no Conlon sightings, which is good, right? He’s a seasoned traveler; he obviously knows how to pack light and no doubt he’s already in a taxi, speeding through Parisian streets. So I’m free. He’s gone from the man whose dick was inside me to a legend in the blink of an eye. Something to tell people about when I’m sixty and slightly drunk. “Yes, dearie. I had intercourse with a billionaire on an intercontinental flight. Those were the days.”

  I head out to the Arrivals area, scanning the place for a sign with my name on it. A dozen men dressed in black jackets hold up white sheets that say things like “Mr. Smith,” on them. But nothing with my name on it, not yet.

  I’m running around in circles hunting for my mysterious invisible driver when I see Conlon. The tall, dark, handsome god who makes me drool, coming towards me, a giant smile on his face.

  What the hell is he still doing here? He should have left ages ago. It looks almost like he’s been waiting for me. Oh, wow. He’s actually stuck around in hopes of seeing me again.

  He’s about thirty feet away when a tall woman in ridiculous stilettos runs over to him in a series of prancy little steps, shouting his name. She’s made up like a movie star, her hair perfectly coiffed. And because I’m a lunatic masochist, I can’t help myself. I inch forwards and hide myself behind a round pillar to try and hear what she’s saying to him. I poke my head around to watch, because, again, I am a fucking masochist.

  His expression has already altered from big smile to big stress. It seems that he wasn’t expecting to see high-heeled mystery bitchface hateful lady who’s just ruined my life.

  “Conlon, chéri,” she says, giving him a kiss on each cheek before hugging him tight to her plentiful breast.

  “Monique,” he replies, glancing around as if he’s checking to see if I’m still here. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he looks guilty. “I didn’t realize you’d be…”

  “Of course I am here,” she says, only she doesn’t pronounce the H, so it sounds like she’s saying she’s an ear. “You must be so tired. Come, let’s get you home to bed.”

  Oh, fuck a duck. I spin around and press my back to the column. He’s…married? Living with someone? Or just fucking someone?

  My heart is racing, and I’m not sure whether to feel sick, sad, or angry. There’s absolutely no scenario in which any of what’s happening makes him a decent, stand-up guy. Unless the French vixen is his sister, which seems pretty darn unlikely.

  Must run away. I can’t deal with him—or her—seeing my face. I’m not exactly a master poker player; I’m pretty sure my current expression is “You bastard” combined with “Holy balls” and a little “I hate you” thrown in for good measure. I gave myself to him after a year of celibacy because he convinced me that he was a good guy. I thought he was decent. Thought he was nice. Thought he was single, at the very least.

  I grab the green monster and haul ass away from the column, trying my best to flee. And that’s when I hear them.

  The dreaded syllables.

  “Adriana.”

  I freeze in my tracks. Damn that voice. That sexy, underwear-soaking voice of his has become a toxin. Should I turn? Will he see the emotion written all over my face?

  Of course he will.
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  I start walking again, but not before a hand has grabbed my arm, and hard. I stop again and turn only my face towards him, keeping my eyes averted like I’m trying to avoid looking at Medusa or the lost ark.

  “What?” I hiss. I’m a freaking cat now, and he’s stroking my fur the wrong way.

  “Adriana, listen—”

  “It was nice meeting you, Conlon,” I say through gritted teeth. “I have to go.”

  He lets up on my arm and I wrench myself free, even though I don’t entirely want to. What I want is to hear him explain what he is, who she is. I want to know that what I felt up there in the sky wasn’t fake.

  I want to know that Conlon Davies is real.

  Eleven

  Adriana

  I’m lurching towards the exit that leads out to the taxi stand when I spot a strange person holding a sign that reads:

  Adriana Stevenson

  S.L.T.A.

  It takes me far too long to register that he’s there for me and that S.L.T.A. must stand for Single Ladies’ Travel Agency; I’ve almost walked right by him before I stop.

  “Are you here for me?” I ask.

  “Adriana,” the man says in an accent that can only be French, giving emphasis to the A at the end of my name and rolling the R like it’s a cherry stem that he’s twisting into a knot with his tongue. Looking into his eyes, I notice his face for the first time. He’s quite young; maybe twenty-three. His hair is light brown and a little curly, his eyes brown with flecks of green. There’s a permanent smile in his expression that’s infectious, though God knows I have no desire to smile right now.

  “Yes, that’s me. Adriana,” I say, trying my best to imitate his pronunciation.

  “Then I am here for you. My name is Claude.” The name comes out “Clode” and reminds me of chode, though he doesn’t deserve the comparison. He’s very cute, and were it not for the fact that I’ve just had my heart punched by one ridiculously attractive man, I might even be excited by the fact that I’ll be spending the next half hour with him.

  “Nice to meet you, Ch—I mean Claude,” I muster.

  “Katherine sent me to take you to your apartment,” he tells me, reaching for the green monster to wheel it out to his car. “She wanted to make sure you get there safe and sound. Sain et sauf, as we say in French.”

  “I figured,” I say, entirely unsure that I want to get into another enclosed space with a man.

  “My car is in the garage across the way,” he says, gesturing with his chin towards the large structure ahead and across several lanes of slow-moving airport traffic.

  “Okay,” I say, too tired, or hurt, or something, to make conversation like a normal human.

  He turns to look at me. “You took a red-eye flight, no?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  I finally get why they call it that; it’s not because you end up tired. It’s because you meet a man and he crushes your soul, all in the space of a few hours. You end up crying and naturally, your eyes go red. Next time I’m booking a white-eye, damn it.

  “I can tell, Adriana. You look tired. But don’t worry; soon you will be in your new home, able to take a nice hot bath,” he tells me.

  “A hot bath won’t wash away the…” I begin, then stop. Sleep deprivation has made me stupid and killed my inner censor.

  “Traveling can be tiring,” he says, and I’m thankful that he’s a rambler. I don’t want to talk about myself, about why I’m here. The truth is that I don’t even know anymore. I’ve already had more adventure than I was planning on, and I haven’t even seen the Eiffel Tower yet.

  We get to the car and Claude loads my suitcase and carry-on in, then opens the back door for me. I climb in and close the door, leaning my forehead on the glass to cool off. Memories of Conlon flood my mind. His scent, his smile, even the taste of him.

  Then come the memories of that woman who met him at the airport, and I want to be sick.

  “You’re staying in a very nice part of the city,” Claude tells me as he pulls out of the lot after paying the parking fee. “The cinquième—uh, fifth arrondissement, near Notre Dame. Katherine set you up well with a lovely apartment.”

  “Do you know her well?” I ask. I’d sooner talk about the woman in charge of the travel business than my own stupid self.

  “Yes, very well. She’s a lovely lady,” he says, his tone more admiring than that of a casual acquaintance, and I wonder if perhaps Katherine has a story to tell. “She said to tell you she’d like to meet you later for a glass of wine, if you’re not too tired. She will send you a note.”

  “Oh?” Something inside my chest whirs to life. The idea of a glass of wine in Paris puts a temporary bandaid over my broken ego. I remind myself again that this is just the beginning of the trip. Conlon was the hors d’oeuvre, but there’s no reason he needs to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

  Right. Forget him, I tell myself. Forget the bastard. There’s wine to drink. Sights to see.

  Men to not fuck.

  The drive lasts about half an hour, maybe more, and during the moments when I manage to banish the British bastard from my thoughts, I have to admit that it’s beautiful. Paris’s buildings are evolving from modern to ancient as we near the city’s core, its signature black slate rooftops romantic reminders of poor artists living in attics, dying of consumption, eating stale croissants for nourishment. It sounds like the best life I can imagine and I see why so many writers found their homes here. This city is a muse that envelops one’s mind and soul.

  A vibration in my purse brings me out of my dream-state. Damn, I never filled Jen in on the details, and since my text they’ve changed significantly. I’ll get back to her later, when I’ve had a chance to lie down and get my brain working again; better to let her revel in the hope that I’m actually having a good time.

  Claude has been largely quiet, thank God. Despite his charm, he’s not at all the lecherous man I was told that all Parisian men would be. He seems able to read my body language and to understand that I don’t really want to talk. If I did, it would only end up being a torrent of regretful statements about the man on the plane who misled me cruelly, anyhow. Who the hell wants to hear about that?

  Stop thinking about him. He’s gone for good.

  When Claude finally pulls the car up to the curb he hops out, helps me with my bags then hands me a set of keys that look like they came through a time machine from 1850. “The small one is the key to the building, second is for your flat,” he says, gesturing to a door that looks like it’ll just take me through a wall into nothing. But when I insert the key into the lock and open it, I walk into a bright, wide marble stairwell. Natural light is flooding in from above. Somehow this building is a hidden gem in the middle of Paris, and my heart does a funny jump again.

  I’ve made it.

  “Apartment Two is upstairs,” he tells me. “Do you want me to carry your luggage?”

  “I’ll be fine with it,” I reply. “I could use the exercise.” Besides, if a good-looking young guy follows me up, I might end up asking him for rebound sex.

  Claude nods as though he understands. “Bonne chance, chérie.”

  “Merci,” I say, issuing a genuinely warm smile. I’ve grown to like this guy. There’s nothing manipulative or devious about him. He’s just a happy man.

  Maybe next time I have sex, it should be with someone like him.

  Twelve

  Conlon

  Fucking Monique.

  Curse her damned conniving ways. Curse her for ruining my chances with Adriana.

  Evil, cunning, clever Monique.

  “Come, chéri,” she says, taking my hand and guiding me through the airport towards the taxi stand. When we get there she stops and turns my way, pressing herself a little too close to my very non-aroused frame. Well, let her press. I’m thinking if she picks up Adriana’s scent she’ll either back off or attack me like a cheetah going after its dinner.

  “You took a taxi here?” I ask, looking around
in vain for her car.

  “Mais oui,” she tells me. “You know I don’t like to drive, Conlon.”

  “Jesus, I could’ve taken a sodding taxi on my own. There was no need for you to come.”

  “I wanted to,” she says, issuing me a pout that would make a three-year-old bow in admiration as she strokes a finger down the centre of my chest. “Tell me, who was that woman?”

  Fuck, she’s playing with the seam of my shirt now. Doing that sexy teasing thing that women do, trying to show me how badly she’d like to take off my clothes. Only it’s not working. My cock is a damp sponge down there, rejecting her every move with its refusal to harden.

  “What woman?” I ask, my irritated, tired eyes looking everywhere but at her. I know perfectly well that she’s talking about Adriana, but no way am I going to let her in on my emotional state right now.

  “The one you chased after. With no makeup and the big ugly suitcase.”

  “Just someone I met on the plane,” I say. “Translation: none of your business.”

  Her pout turns into a scowl. She wanted me to tell her that Adriana was unattractive, dull and smelly. I fight back the urge to let the words “I fucked her and it was magnificent” explode from my vocal cords.

  I’m saved by the cab driver, who ushers us into his back seat. Once we’re situated, Monique turns away and crosses her arms over her plentiful plastic chest. Of course she does, the petulant child.

  She shouldn’t have come. She thought she was doing me a favour, but she’s not. I suppose she also thought I’d crawl into bed with her as a reward for being so kind, but I won’t. I’ve been there before, one time, after a drink too many and too many months of celibacy. I swore that it would never happen again. She tastes like chemicals and I’m convinced that she’s made entirely of Satan’s leftovers.

  Monique works for me. Well, works is a term I use loosely. She is on my payroll. A sort of Parisian customer relations expert, she helps me sell my products, and that’s not all she sells. She’s good at her job, which is the only reason I keep her around. I’m fairly sure the only reason she sticks it out is in the hopes that she’ll eventually get me to propose marriage, milk me for millions—or billions—of euros, then take off. She’s not made of the strongest moral fibre.