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I pull the door shut behind me and quickly traverse the front steps of his building. Waving down the first taxi I see, I slide into the backseat and provide the driver with my address.
It was a decent romp, but definitely not good enough to break my rule of fucking the same guy more than once.
That’s not a mistake I plan to ever make again…
RICHARD
“You know, carbs don’t count in Italy,” Stephan insists between bites of a nearly dressing-less salad.
“They absolutely do. You’re in marital bliss. Your wife can’t divorce you on grounds of calorie intake. Enjoy bread once in a while!”
He takes a long drink of his unsweetened iced tea. “She absolutely can. Why else am I eating rabbit food and drinking colored water? I hit the gym four times a week! Meanwhile, you’re in the best shape of your life at thirty-six and still able to eat like you’re a teenager. But you’re sad as fuck. When are you going to settle down and tie the knot again?”
“You’re on marriage number three, why the fuck would I take advice from you?” Despite my marriage ending amicably, I have no desire to remarry anytime soon. Why the hell is everyone so adamant that I getmarried again?
“Fair enough but you should take a trip to Italy sometime. A big plate of al dente pasta will turn that frown upside down. Fuck, I’d go with you if the ol’ ball and chain wouldn’t care.”
“Penelope didn’t care when you went to Spain for two weeks,” I counter.
Stephan sits back in his chair and wipes his mouth. “That was work. I want to eat my way through Italy. Like I said, calories don’t count there. What I wouldn’t give for authentic pesto.”
“Just fucking eat it! There are dozens of Italian restaurants around town. I’m sure you could find a decent one.”
“No,” he sighs, shaking his head. “It’s not the same. Most of them make the pasta from scratch. Trust me, take a trip and you’ll see. Maybe even find yourself a hot Italian wife to bring back here.”
I bark a laugh. “You just want me to get married so someone will make you pasta.”
“Do you blame me? Look at this shit! Between the smoothies and the salads…” He groans. “Fuck it. Put me on the first flight to Naples.”
Stephan and I finish our lunch and head back to the office. I can't get the idea out of my head. I have six weeks of vacation saved and I don’t have any large projects coming up, so there’s no reason I can’t leave for a few weeks. If the food is as good as he says, it would be a fun solo trip to explore somewhere I’ve never visited and eat entirely too much pasta.
Once at my desk, I pull up a travel website and search through packages. To get the full experience, I should go for at least two weeks. Hell, I could bring my laptop and stay for the full six if I have access to work when I’m needed. The advertising firm I work for is flexible but one of our biggest clients has a new campaign launching late next year that I’ll need to get started on. So long as I don’t have to design for any other large clients, I can manage it.
I search potential dates, only finding packages out of my price range. My best guess is it’s tourist season. After a few minutes, I find one that includes hotel and flight that’s nearly half the price of the others. Only downside is it’s a last minute deal, leaving in three days. My passport and vaccinations are up to date, so I can swing it.
Fuck, no, this is crazy! I can’t just up and leave for Italy!
Stephan knocks on my open door before entering. I glance up from my computer as he slides into the chair across from my desk, propping his ankle on the opposite knee. “I just got the Thompson account. Any tips?”
I blow out an exaggerated breath. “No, they contract us for some of their big clients because their design department fucking sucks. You’ll have to deal with an account executive as well as Thompson. It’s a fucking nightmare.”
“How’d you get out of it? Don’t they usually request you?” he asks with a frown.
“I told Kendra I’d quit if I had to work with them again,” I reply, attempting to hide a smirk. Thompson tried to poach me, offering to pay me double what I get here. Ideclined, but it gave me ammo for never having to work with them again.
Stephan grumbles, “Well, now I’m fucking stuck with them.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and you’ll get to work with the nice older woman who doesn’t care what the hell you produce, as long as the end client is in love with it.” I shrug, my eyes briefly wandering to my screen. “So… I was thinking. Exactly how good is the linguini in Italy?”
“Are you finally going to take that vacation? You’ve only taken four days off in the past twelve years! Please tell me you’re thinking about it? If not overseas, fucking somewhere. You need a break.” He may be more excited about this than I am, but he’s right. I could use a vacation.
“Hypothetically, I could leave in three days.”
Stephan pulls out his wallet, grabs his credit card, and slaps it on the desk. “Book it.”
“What?” I chuckle.
“Fucking book it. The two of us. Let’s fucking go.”
