Page 151 of Pretty Little Thing

“Do you think you’ll go back to the club?” Trix asks. “Find a new Dom?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it.”

I try and picture it. Me strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross with some other man standing behind me. Bent over and submitting to him instead. His hands on my body and his voice in my ear. His lips…

It’s not the same.

How in the world could anyone ever compare to Mr. Snow?

A lump forms in my throat.

I pull my napkin off my lap. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

I stand up and walk away, slowly zigzagging around the tables toward the ladies’ room. It’s empty, thankfully, and I retreat into the first stall I see before my eyes spill over.

No. No, Nora. You can’t do this to yourself.

I swallow them back down and dab my eyelids with my sleeve.

Clive lied to you. It’s complicated, but simple. It’s hard to fathom now, but someday, you’ll find love again. You see it all the time. You built a living based on that very fact. There’s always another open space in your little, black book for the next guy. No harm done. World not over.

And you’re not alone. You have Trix and Melanie. And Robbie. Maybe even Lenny the massage therapist if you promise not to make insane house calls.

You are Nora Payne.

Fucking act like it.

I stand up tall and check myself in the mirror before heading back. Our usual server stands near a table just outside the restrooms, gathering a round of empty glasses and setting them on his tray.

“Excuse me,” I say, prompting him to turn toward me. “Could we have a few waters delivered to our table, please?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring them right out, Ms. Payne,” he says with a nod.

“Thank you...” I pause. “I’m sorry, I’ve been winking at you for like a year and I don’t even know your name.”

His lips curl. “It’s Roger.”

My jaw drops as I place his voice. He hits me with a sinister wink and spins away, epically balancing his tray of empties as he rushes off toward the back.

I close my mouth. “Well, that’s a twist,” I mutter to myself.

“Nora!”

I stop in my tracks a foot away from our table. “Clive?”

I spin around as he rushes toward me through the restaurant. People turn in the chairs, muttering among themselves and recoiling as he runs by.

“Clive, what are you doing here?” I ask as he stops in front of me. “And what is that smell?”

“I had to see you,” he says. “And… bus.”

“Bus?”

“The horrible, awful bus I took to get back here from New York.”

My lips twitch. “You just now got back here?”

He nods. “I spent all day and all night thinking about what I could possibly say to you to make you forgive me.”

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