Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Jesus, I barely manage to pull out before I fist my length and rub up and down, finishing myself off, spilling down the front of her body. I watch the water wash her clean.
Neither of us moves.
I peer up at her, hoping for a smile or some kind of lightness there, but her expression mirrors my own. Troubled and confused, if I had to guess.
“Let me finish cleaning you,” I say, looking away.
I feel guilty for manhandling her like that. What started as soothing, controlled, and simple . . . just got away from me. She does that. She draws that out of me.
I take care of her now, finishing with soap, rubbing her arms and legs. She’s quieter than ever. Passive and pliable. I cut the water and walk us out onto the heated tile floor. I wrap her up in a big towel, getting another for her hair.
She watches me in the mirror while I wring out her strands. I move, and she tracks me, lazy, sated, more at ease now than she was when I found her out in the hallway. It breaks my heart to think of her crying out there all alone.
“Do you feel like talking about it now?” I ask, my voice low.
She shakes her head, and I kiss her shoulder.
“All right. I’m going to order us some food. I’m starving. Let me get you some clothes to change into.”
In my closet, I find a soft T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants for her. I smile thinking of how she’ll look in them. Amazing, obviously, but cute too.
“You can tighten the drawstring,” I say when I hand them over to her. “They should work.”
She smiles and nods. “Thanks.”
She retrieves her things from the bathroom—her damp bikini and cover-up—and then she goes out into the living room to change into my clothes. I order room service, using the phone on my bedside table, likely overdoing it with strawberry and chocolate milkshakes, pizza, french fries—anything that seems delicious and might offer her some comfort.
When I’m done, I walk into the living room. “I should have asked you what toppings you want on your piz—”
My sentence dies once I realize Casey isn’t here, changing like I thought. I look around, searching briefly. The hallway bathroom is empty, and the light is off. The balcony is deserted too.
Holding out hope, I search the suite one more time, only to find my T-shirt and pants sitting neatly on the coffee table. Casey is gone.
Back in my bedroom, I go to check my phone—only realizing as I’m picking it up that Casey doesn’t have my number.
There is a text waiting for me, though. From Vivienne.
Chapter Eighteen
CASEY
I’m not going to fall for a man in less than a week. I’m just . . . not going to accept that as my fate. How pathetic. How . . . wacky! I should be on one of those TLC shows called Overnight Fiancée or something equally cringeworthy. Those people are absolute loony tunes, and now I’m one of them.
It’s why I booked it out of Phillip’s suite just now. There is not going to be some cheesy dinner scene where we argue over the playlist, and he teases me about my love of Weezer and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Where we tuck into some pizza, and he goes “Oops, you have some sauce just there” and points to my lip and then leans in to kiss it off with a laugh and a giggle.
No to all of that.
Can you imagine what would happen if I were to admit to Phillip how I’m starting to feel about him?
Oh my god, he’d think. The poor girl fell in love with me. Not poor as in sad, but poor as in lacking sufficient funds. LOL.
This way is much better. He proved to be the distraction I needed, because now as I lie in bed back in my quiet suite, I’m not wallowing in self-pity about my job and bleak life prospects anymore; I’m laughing at myself for being dumb enough to actually develop feelings for Phillip.
I had literally one one-night stand, and look at me! I want him to propose! I want him to whisk me off and solve all my problems! I want him to be my Prince Charming!
Oh my god. It dawns on me suddenly like an anvil dropping straight onto my noggin. Maybe that’s what this is really about. Maybe I’m a gold digger, and I never even realized it until now. The sex with Phillip is only mind blowing because of how many zeros are in his bank account. That must be it. I don’t want him; I want what he can provide me. I’m after a Birkin. A Bentley. An all-expenses-paid trip to Bora Bora.
This theory makes me feel better for all of ten seconds, at which point I ask myself the obvious question, Would I still want Phillip if he were as destitute as me?