Page 7 of Done with You

“Married or in a relationship?” she asked, sliding her gaze down to his left hand to see if he was being a dick and had just slipped off his wedding band. There was no tan line, though. And wedding rings mean very little in the way of attachment these days.

He shook his head. “You?”

“No.”

The way his smile caused his cheeks to apple, pulled her attention to a small, puffy scar on the right side of his face. It was probably only an inch in length and fell in a vertical line from the outer right corner of his eye, maybe three and half inches below it. It didn’t take away from his beauty, though. If anything, it added to it.

“Then … I guess you don’t have a room?” She bit her bottom lip for half a second, then averted her gaze up to one of the televisions over the bar and popped a chili prawn into her mouth, removing the tail and placing it on the side of her plate.

“Don’t, but I could,” he said without any inflection of excitement in his tone. He was playing this just as cool as she was.

“You don’t have work in the morning?”

“No.”

“Days off?”

He paused for just half a second, then said, “Yeah.”

He didn’t ask her if she worked tomorrow morning.

She did. She didn’t have a client until eleven, but regardless, if she was at home, she’d still be up at six o’clock. Then she’d do twenty minutes on the rowing machine, twenty minutes on the elliptical, and twenty minutes of weight and strength training, followed by a shower.

Then she’d make her breakfast smoothie, which she’d take with her to work. It took her exactly twenty-two minutes to drive to work where she listened to a podcast and drank her smoothie. By the time she got there, she was ready for her Earl Grey tea, her morning poop, and her first client. Whether her client arrived at nine, ten, or eleven, she was in her office, with her butt in her chair by eight-fifty without fail. If her client was later in the morning, she filled the first few hours with emails, notes, and other menial tasks.

She couldn’t afford an assistant, yet, so the administrative stuff still fell into her lap. Which she didn’t exactly hate, given how much of a control freak she was about things, anyway.

But if she set the alarm on her phone for five o’clock, she could slip out of bed with this tall, handsome stranger with the big arms, deep dimples, and nice smile, and get home in time for her routine to be undisturbed. She probably wouldn’t fall asleep with him, though. So she could have some fun, then leave, getting back to her own bed for a few hours with her thousand thread-count cotton, luxurious down comforter with the lilac duvet cover, and her lavender sachet under her pillows.

“Should I, uh … go get us a room then?” Caden rasped.

She squeezed her legs together beneath the bar, took a sip of her Shirley Temple, and smiled over the straw before giving him one small head bob.

“Be right back.”

He slid off his stool, leaving his coat, but taking his wallet, keys, and phone.

A tremor of excitement traveled through her.

She hadn’t done anything like this in a long time.

And not with someone as handsome or … mysterious as Caden.

This was completely out of character for her.

Well, for Oona anyway. When she was Luna, she allowed herself to do things a little differently. She embraced the freedom that a fake name gave her. She could do things she would never normally do. Like accompanying a total stranger up to a hotel room for sex.

But if she had to choose one thing, pole and burlesque had given her more than anything else—besides incredible upper body strength—it was empowerment. Russell had stripped her of so much, that, by the time she left him, she didn’t even know who she was anymore. Didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. And pole gave that back to her. She was able to cultivate a new identity, embrace her body and all the curves and jiggly bits, and feel more beautiful and graceful than she ever had before.

And even though uptight, rigid, overly-organized, and extremely type-A Oona would never dream of following a stranger to his hotel room for meaningless sex, Luna was excited and here for it.

The freedom that her alter-ego allowed her was something so liberating, and addictive, that she had to remind herself on more than one occasion that she was actually Dr. Oona Young, not Luna Love, and that being Luna Love was fun for a short time. But Oona Young was who she was and who paid the bills and kept Luna Love strutting in her six-inch plastic heels and brand-new corsets.

Opening her purse, she checked if she had condoms. Yes, she had an IUD, but that didn’t prevent STIs. In one of the inside pouches, she found a strip of five condoms. Phew. She checked their expiration dates. They were still good. Double phew!

After the pole and burlesque show ended, she wiped off all her makeup and put on fresh deodorant. She had baby wipes in her purse, as well, so a quick duck off to the bathroom to freshen up wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Pedro?” she asked, grabbing the bartender’s attention.

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