Page 20 of Curvy Girl for Santa

The sound of my name on her lips—once a caress, now a dagger. I swallow hard. "How long?"

"I don't know." Her voice wavers. "But we’ve still got an event to handle. You need to get on stage."

My mind races, desperate for the right words to fix this. But there are none. I've shattered something precious, and no amount of wealth can buy it back.

So I do the only thing I can and head onto stage. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let my fuck-up ruin’s Anastasia’s event.

nine

?. . .?

Ryan

As soon as I can,I exit the stage. I scan the bustling crowd, searching for a glimpse of auburn curls and emerald eyes. My heart pounds as I push through the throng of revelers, desperate to find her. But Anastasia is gone, vanished like smoke.

"Damn it," I growl, raking a hand through my hair. How could I have let her slip away? The memory of her hurt expression haunts me. I need to explain, to make things right.

But she clearly wants space. I should respect that. I'm not used to being denied what I want, but Anastasia isn't some corporate acquisition to be pursued relentlessly. She's...different. Special.

Still, I can't just let her go. Not without a fight.

Back in my hotel suite, I pace like a caged animal. My tech empire has given me nearly unlimited resources. It would be child's play to track her down.

Is it wrong to use those means? To invade her privacy?

"You're doing it to apologize," I mutter. "To fix things."

My fingers fly over my laptop keys. Within minutes, I have her address and phone number.

I memorize the information, chest tight. Now I can reach her. But should I?

The right thing would be to leave her alone. But the thought of never seeing Anastasia again makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

I've never felt this powerless. This conflicted.

My fingers hover over the phone screen, heart pounding. I type out a message, delete it, try again. Nothing feels right. How do you compress regret, longing, and desperation into a text?

Finally, I settle on something simple:

Anastasia, it's Ryan. Can we talk? Please.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message whooshes away, leaving me breathless with anticipation.

Seconds tick by. Minutes. No response.

"Fuck," I mutter, pacing the length of my suite. Each step is agony, my mind replaying her face—those striking green eyes filled with hurt, her soft lips trembling.

I want to taste those lips again. To run my hands through her auburn waves, to feel her curves pressed against me.

But I've ruined it all.

"You're a goddamn idiot, Caldwell," I snarl at my reflection. "You had her in your arms and you let her go."

My phone remains stubbornly silent. No buzz. No chime. Nothing.

I check it again, willing a response to appear. Still nothing.

The urge to throw it against the wall is overwhelming. Instead, I grip it tighter, knuckles white.

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