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

by Carina Wilder

  A shudder of sadness overtakes me, but only for a second. Sadness that this second in time will never repeat itself. That this splendid feeling will wane. It’s the first time in a long time that it’s hit me: Conlon and I will have to say good-bye, and soon.

  No. I will not feel sad for something that hasn’t occurred yet. I will embrace the sensation of perfection that this day is giving me. I wrap my arms around him and pull his broad chest into mine as he thrusts deep inside me over and over again, his breath hard in my ear.

  “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to go back to New York.” I mouth the words silently, afraid to say them out loud. Afraid of what it would do to our remaining days. But I needed to say it, somehow. I needed to let the words free.

  He explodes inside me, his cock pulsing hot seed into my core, and his rigid body relaxes onto mine. His lips are on my neck, kissing me gently.

  “You didn’t come,” he says quietly. It’s true; it’s the first time we’ve made love and I haven’t.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m sure I can count on you to have another go later.”

  He pushes himself up on his muscular arms and smiles down at me, his dark hair framing his gorgeous face so that he looks funnily young and innocent. “Count on it,” he says. “I want to have you in every corner of this place. We have hours here yet.”

  “Good,” I reply. It’s all I can muster. I want to say so much more, but I know it would be a terrible idea. I know it would complicate things, and no doubt ruin this spectacular day of ours.

  We lie on that bench for several minutes before he rises to his feet, pulling his pants back up. I reach for my purse and extract the pair of clean panties, pulling them on.

  “Clever minx, flying free like that,” he says admiringly. “I’ve never been so fucking aroused in all my life.”

  “Me neither,” I confess.

  We spend the next few hours wandering. Conlon takes me rowing in a white wooden boat on the lake in the late afternoon, before guiding me to a large open area near the castle itself. There, someone has miraculously set up a small table, complete with white tablecloth and candlelight meal of trout and some mysterious pasta dish, as well as a bottle of expensive-looking champagne. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to propose to me.

  In the near distance, the moon reflects in a still pool, which springs to life as we’re sitting there. One of Versailles’ many fountains, turned on for our pleasure.

  “What’s all this?” I ask.

  “Just a little something I whipped up,” he replies. “Nothing special.”

  “Nothing special?”

  “Nothing like as special as you.” He takes my hand and pulls it to his lips. “There’s more,” he adds. “I should probably tell you that we’ll be sleeping in the King’s bed tonight.”

  “Really?” I ask, baffled.

  He nods. “Paid a little extra for that. Technically, they’re not using his mattress. It’s pretty old. Still…”

  I laugh. “You’re spoiling me. Ruining me. You realize this has already been the greatest day of my entire life.” Then it hits me. “Does this actually mean you’re not going to get up and leave me at three in the morning?”

  He nods his head, his eyes locked on mine. “I won’t leave. I promise.”

  Overhead, fireworks explode in a massive display of colour and splendour, almost like they were timed to coincide with those words from Conlon’s lips. I want to look up, to take the sight in. But it’s this sight, the one of the man I adore, that I want to remember in ten, twenty years. His gorgeous face, smiling at me.

  In this moment, Conlon looks as happy as I feel.

  Twenty-Eight

  Conlon

  Monday Morning.

  She’s so fucking beautiful. The glow from the rising sun is hitting her face, highlighting those perfect cheekbones, those big, expressive green eyes. She’s just woken up, but she looks better than ever. More alive, more luscious, and if it’s possible, even closer to perfection than before.

  “What’s on your incredible agenda for today?” she asks, stretching her arms over her head as she eyes a painting of Louis XIV on the other side of the enormous bedchamber.

  I want to tell her that my plan is to spend the day in bed with her; today and every day for the rest of my life. I want to ask her to stay with me, in France.

  I want to tell her that I love her.

  That’s what I want to say.

  But I won’t. Of course I won’t. I’m an unmitigated disaster. I’m an idiot. I’m a man who flees from love.

  “I’m afraid I need to get back to Paris and make some phone calls,” I reply. “I have some business to look after that’s been neglected.”

  “Oh?” she asks. “I suppose I have kept you from work these last few days.”

  “Yes, you’ve been quite a distraction.” I smile before looking down at my watch. Panic is already setting in. I need to get out of here, need to distance myself from her. But there’s still the matter of getting Adriana back to Paris. “I’ve booked us a car,” I tell her. “To drive us in before rush hour.”

  “So early? I thought we could at least have breakfast together.”

  I hesitate. “Tempting,” I say, walking over to her side of the bed to lay a kiss on her forehead. “But the calls I need to make are international ones, and I should look after them as early as possible. Time difference and all.”

  “Okay.” She looks so disappointed that I want to tell her everything will be all right.

  But the truth is, it probably won’t. The truth is that I’ve fallen too hard, and it’s left me confused and terrified.

  The truth is that I love her, and I’m about to run away.

  Twenty-Nine

  Adriana

  By nine a.m. I’m back in my rental flat, and I’ve said good-bye to Conlon after our magical outing. He hardly spoke on the way back to town, hardly looked at me. It doesn’t take women’s intuition to know that something’s very wrong. Something has made him retreat back into that shell of his.

  Unsurprisingly, the dreaded text shows up on my phone at precisely ten a.m. I suppose I’ve been waiting for it ever since I woke up this morning, only to see him staring at his watch with a bead of sweat trailing down his forehead. That was a man in panic mode, and I knew it.

  “Adriana,” he writes, “I’m afraid I’ve been called away on business to Thailand. Leaving today. Will be back in a week or so. C.”

  The coldness of the text hits me like a blow to the chest. There’s no indication that we’ll ever see each other again. No “I’ll miss you,” no “Thanks for the amazing day/night/two weeks together.” There’s no indication that he’s anything more to me than a work colleague.

  Some part of me knew that Conlon Davies would eventually run away. I just didn’t know it would happen so soon.

  What’s insane is that as much as I want to be angry at him, I can’t. The truth is that I don’t blame him, because I had the same instinct yesterday. In the gardens of Versailles, I was frightened of my own happiness. Frightened of what it meant, of how hard things could come crashing down. A part of me wanted to run away, too, and avoid the pain to come.

  Conlon has done something good for us both, I suppose; he’s ripped the bandage off instead of allowing either of us to suffer the drawn-out agony that would linger over our hearts for the next week if he stayed in Paris. The day of my departure would creep slowly closer, and all the while, in small ways, we’d try to push one another away. I don’t want that any more than he does. I suppose it’s for the best that the last memory I’ll have of him is an incredible day and night together.

  There’s a part of me that wants to book a ticket home to New York this afternoon. To flee from the feeling of emptiness that’s deepening by the minute. But I’m not going to do it. Katherine was right; freedom is what you want it to be. In my case, freedom came in the form of a beautiful man who was unable to give his heart fully to me. A man
who gave me everything that he could, until he had nothing left to give.

  A few years ago, or even a few weeks ago, Conlon’s text would have done a number on my ego. But I tell myself that I won’t let that happen, not this time. Nope. I’m going to be positive. I’m going to be grateful for the time I had with him.

  Maybe when I do go home, it’ll be with an understanding that some day, I want a man who will make me feel like Conlon Davies does. But without the fear. Without the complications. The bar has been set very high. He’s helped teach me how to open up, how to stand up for myself. How to be a proud, independent woman who doesn’t put up with shit.

  With that in mind, I text him back:

  “I hope you have a good trip. A.”

  There, done. Professional, concise and to the point. I genuinely hope things go well for him. I hope he has a nice life.

  The problem is that as I hit send, it hits me like a bullet.

  I’m hopelessly in love with him.

  Thirty

  Adriana

  Wednesday

  Conlon’s been gone for a few days now.

  Sometimes, when I’m wandering around Paris, I wonder how I would have perceived this city if I’d never met him. Would it be more or less beautiful?

  That’s an easy one.

  Less.

  I always knew I’d lose him in the end, so I’m sort of doing okay. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.

  Almost every second I was with him was wonderful. Every time we kissed, magic. Maybe it was the knowledge that our relationship would end as quickly as it began that made us so hungry and eager for one another. At least I can say with certainty that we didn’t waste opportunities to be together.

  I do have one regret, though.

  I wish I’d seen his home. I wish he’d let me in enough to see where he retreats to when he leaves me at three in the morning. But I’m sure he had his reasons for keeping me away. The same reasons that drove him to another continent to escape.

  I miss him, I’ll admit. I miss his voice, his scent, his laugh. I miss his touch. But I’m determined not to walk the streets like a forlorn ghost. I’m here for a few more days, and I’m going to make it worth my while.

  First on my agenda is to teach myself not to look at my phone every few minutes. I haven’t heard from Conlon since his departure on Monday when he sent me another quick text to check in. It’s okay; I haven’t texted him, either. We aren’t married; we’re not in a long-term relationship. He owes me nothing.

  Katherine once told me that I shouldn’t worry about the things I can’t control, so I’m going to focus on steering myself around Paris. For the next couple of days, I’ll wander, explore and enjoy my freedom. I’ll miss Conlon, but that’s all right. What’s that old expression? Better to have loved and lost…? Je ne regrette rien. I regret nothing of our time together. I don’t regret reviving my fragile heart. I don’t mind that we only had a few days together.

  I refuse to spend a single minute in self-pity mode.

  When I arrived in Paris I marvelled at its beauty, and it’s still beautiful in spite of my heartache. This city is a tapestry of love stories, of broken hearts and broken dreams. That’s part of what’s so wonderful about it; you can feel its bittersweet music in the stones that make up the buildings, in the street lights, in the heart-shaped graffiti scrawled hurriedly here and there by two people who once cared about each other.

  Who knows if they’re still together?

  What matters is that they loved each other in Paris.

  Sometimes I walk along the Seine, watching the slow-moving boats. Watching the city that I’ve grown to love proceed at its leisurely pace, its beauty engulfing me like a warm, reassuring hug.

  When I come to a spot where I can see the Eiffel Tower standing in the distance before me, that’s when I feel a pang of something like sadness. We were supposed to see it together, and the truth is that I don’t want to venture there without Conlon. I wanted it to be our experience. For some reason I’ve always thought of the Tower as one of the most romantic spots in Paris, and I’d feel pathetic to take it on alone.

  But maybe that’s exactly why I should. Maybe it’s the true test of Independent Adriana.

  Thursday

  I’ve heard from Conlon via text, asking how I am. I told him that I’m fine, that Paris is nice. I didn’t tell him that I miss him, how I wish he were here.

  I’m trying to make this easier for us both.

  Today I’m walking to the Arc de Triomphe. By all accounts it’s a beautiful landmark, and I’ve avoided heading out to see it until now, for some reason. My walk takes me the length of the Champs Elysées, a long, wide street lined with restaurants and shops. Nothing feels quite so Parisian as striding along the sidewalk in a sundress and flats, my small purse strapped over my shoulder. I’ve actually begun to feel like I belong here. Which is pretty unfortunate, given that I’m leaving in a few days.

  I’m striding past a small café when I hear a man’s voice calling my name.

  My heart leaps into my throat. For a second I think it’s Conlon; the timbre is similar, even the accent matches. But when I pivot on my heel to meet the gaze of the person who’s addressed me, I see Galen sitting under an umbrella at a small table, beer in hand. He waves to me with his prosthetic arm, a giant smile on his face.

  I step over to him, my heart quaking inside my chest. Oh, God, I’m going to have to talk about Conlon. And if I do that, I’ll give myself entirely away. I’ll break down and admit to his brother that I’m in love with him. I’ll ruin everything.

  “How are you?” he asks, gesturing me to take a seat.

  “I’m fine,” I reply. Still standing, my hands shaking slightly.

  “Sit, have a drink,” he says. “I’m all alone, what with Conlon still gone.”

  “Right. When’s he back?” I ask, trying like mad to make the question sound casual.

  “Actually, I think he was aiming to be back today, but there’s been some sodding delay with the flight.”

  “Today?” I ask, heart ready to explode. “I thought he’d be gone a week, at least…”

  “No, he said he got everything looked after faster than expected. Told me he wanted to get back here quickly.”

  “Ah,” I reply stupidly. I’m sure it’s not so that he can see me; if so, he would have said so in his text.

  “You’re not going to sit,” he says. It’s not a question.

  I shake my head. “I should keep walking,” I reply, my eyes turning towards the giant arch at the end of the long boulevard.

  “Right, because the Arc de Triomphe may collapse before you get to it.”

  I meet his gaze. For once Galen has lost his smile. He’s studying my face intently, reminding me of his brother. Conlon was always good at reading my expressions. God, I’m thinking of him in past tense, like he’s dead.

  “What happened with you two?” he asks.

  Shit. Breakdown imminent. I may weep. Help me.

  I shrug. “Nothing. And everything. It doesn’t matter; he’s gone now.”

  “Correction: It does matter,” he says, rising to his feet. He comes around the table and puts an arm around my shoulders, guiding me towards the nearest chair. Slowly, but before I’ve realized he’s done it, he’s managed to get me to sit. “Adriana, what’s going on?”

  “I just…I didn’t expect to see you. I’ve spent the last few days trying to pretend nothing matters, that I don’t miss your brother. I’ve been trying to adjust to the fact that I’ll never see him again.”

  “Come now, how can you say that?”

  I shoot him a sideways glance. “I’m leaving in a couple of days, Galen. Going back to New York. Besides, even if I stayed here, your brother…” I bite my lip and stop myself from finishing the thought.

  “My brother is a fool,” he mutters. “He’s in love with you, and he knows it.” He turns away and looks into the distance. “Damn it, Conlon.” A moment later he’s looking into my
eyes again. “He’s terrified of turning into our father.”

  “What do you mean? He doesn’t drink a lot,” I reply. “I don’t think…”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Galen lets out a deep breath. “When our mother died, something happened. Our father sank into this sort of detached state, like he’d lost his soul. He seemed to stop caring for anything, including us. It’s why Conlon looked after me for so long. He became something of a surrogate father to me when our own father shut down.”

  “He looked after you,” I said. “He proved he was responsible. So I don’t get why he’s afraid of becoming something he’s not.”

  Galen sighs hard. “He never says it out loud, but he’s convinced that love turns a person into something else. When my father lost our mother, it broke him. Conlon is terrified of that dependency, you see. It’s why he’s never allowed himself to be open with anyone, really. Though I suspect that he’s opened up a little to you.”

  I nod my head. “He has, some,” I say. “Not entirely.”

  “You and he are very similar, I think,” says Galen. “Stubborn, proud, frustrating as hell.”

  “Hey!” I reply. For a second I resent being compared to Conlon, but the truth is that Galen’s right; I’m exactly what he’s describing. “Okay, fair enough.”

  “Neither of you will say how you really feel, because you feel like it gives the other one too much power over you. So you’ll go back to New York, and Conlon will stay here, a couple of sad people who could have been together if you’d just been a little less ridiculous.”

  “What do you propose? That I tell him I love him? I’ve already frightened him all the way to Thailand, Galen.”

  “So what’s the risk? You’ll scare him to Australia? What’s the worst that can happen?”