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Having no idea where she is or how I’m ever going to track her down is making me crazy. I want her more desperately than I’d like to admit.
I think about the conversations we’d have, the ordinary things we’d do, like drinking coffee together or getting dressed up to go out for dinner. I’d take her to my favorite restaurant. Dancing, if she wanted to. Then I’d take her to bed and feast on her luscious body. And this time, I wouldn’t let her go.
Most men would be losing sleep over their company tanking, not a random stranger they slept with on a work trip.
Except she feels nothing like a stranger.
I’ve never been in love before.
Not once.
Lust, sure, but it always fades out almost before it begins. Before morning, I’m always cured.
No one has ever gotten under my skin like Tex has. I’ve never fucking pined for a woman like a goddamn puppy.
There has to be some way to find her.
It’s true that not all the Houston companies list their newer employees. Fuck it, I’ll hire a private investigator if I have to. It can’t be that hard.
Maybe if I track her down and spend another night with her—or a week—I’ll get her out of my system. Nothing is ever as good in reality as it is in your head.
Except with her, it would be.
I took something from her, something she’d been saving. Hell, no girl who looks like that gets to the age of 23 and is still a virgin unless she’s made a conscious decision to hold out. She would have had guys throwing themselves at her since puberty.
But she waited. For what? Why?
Why me?
I mean, yes, our chemistry was off the charts, but was she really okay with losing her virginity to a complete stranger and then never seeing me again?
For some reason, I really can’t handle that.
I need to know she’s okay.
And if I don’t find out soon, I’ll end up losing my fucking mind as well as my company.
11
I walk down Bleeker Street and see the sign for the bar where I’m meeting Emma. Stepping inside, excitement swells in my chest.
I’m in freaking New York. I made it.
Okay, I haven’t made it made it yet but I’m here and I can feel it in my bones that I’m one step closer.
The bar is swanky, with big gleaming windows embossed with the bar’s logo, wooden beams, walls of exposed brick and lots of shiny chrome. I see Emma at a table by the window and she waves.
“I ordered us two Pinot Grigios,” she says as I slide into the plush leather booth. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Perfect.” It was my drink of choice in Hawaii, in fact, that gave me the exact amount of liquid courage I needed to flirt with McDreamy Dirty-Talking Big Dick Armani.
God, I miss him.
It’s been over a month now since I enjoyed my dirty deeds done dirt cheap with the hot stranger.
Of course I’ve regretted, late at night, our decision—my decision, more accurately—to give each other fake names. And lie to him about where I was from.
But mostly I’m glad I did. Of course I am. I don’t have time for anything more than a perfect one-night stand, which will remain preserved in my memory as a shining pillar of sunsets and pleasure. The worst thing I could do would be to drag it out into the harsh light of reality. I’ll remember him as he was that one tropical night.
