I stare at her as the horrifying scenarios play in slow motion through my mind. “I didn’t think of that.”
“What happened to playing hard to get?”
“Oh, who cares.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “He made me come at dinner, I’m pretty sure there is no playing hard to get.”
Her eyes widen to saucer size. “You orgasmed at dinner?”
I wince. “Kind of.”
“How did you kind of come?”
I puff air into my cheeks as I realize how this is going to sound. “Dry-humped him while he sat on his chair.”
Rebecca’s eyes pop from her head and she slaps her hand over her mouth as I burst out laughing. “Look, I know how this sounds.”
“Do you? But do you really? You’re going to fall in love with him and he’ll lose interest because he hasn’t had to chase you . . . at all. And then you’ll be brokenhearted.”
I laugh. She’s so damn dramatic. “Or . . . we could just be having fun and using each other for sex, while spending time on a beach in the sun with some cocktails.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Look, we’ve had the talk, I know exactly where I stand with him. He’s not looking for a relationship and neither am I,” I reply. “I just . . . I want to enjoy myself for a while without worrying about the future.”
“Since when? Last time I knew, you were searching for Mr. Right to be the father of your children.”
“Will you stop?” I snap in exasperation. “Don’t read into this, I’m not. It’s a week in the sun.” I march over to the door and open it in a rush, gesture out the front at the blizzard conditions. “Snowy London isn’t that appealing over the Christmas holiday, Rebecca. I have a week off left, and look.” I point out at the snow. “What the hell am I going to do here in this?”
She stares at me.
“It’s one week and I’m not stupid.” I march up the stairs. “It’s Elliot Miles, for fuck’s sake, as if he could break my heart.”
“You’re delusional,” she calls after me.
“And you’re a drama queen,” I call back with a roll of my eyes. I flop onto my bed. Fuck’s sake.
I lie for a moment and feel sorry for myself—hate that she isn’t excited for me.
A broad smile crosses my face . . . To hell with her, because I am.
Right. I stare at the open suitcase on my bed: what else do I need for a romantic getaway with a sex god?
Hmm. I go through my list.
Passport
check.
Bikinis
check.
Sunscreen
check.
Date dresses
check.
Lingerie
check.
Shoes
check.
Books
check.
Laptop
check.
Sweater
check.
Toiletry bag
check.
Phone charger
check.
Contraceptive pills check.